Further Under the Duvet Read Online Free Page A

I put on my white robe and took up position on a lovely padded lounger yoke in the health suite and stared out dreamily at the ever-changing light on the mountains, as I waited to be called for my treatments. It’s all so beautiful that at busy times the area can get a little crowded with towel-based baggsying of loungers that is positively Germanic.
    The health suite also has a steam-room, a sauna and a roomy jacuzzi with more stunning views. However, because high expectations are simply resentments under construction, let me make a couple of things clear: there is no pool and no gym. Purists might recoil in horror but, frankly, I was delighted. Whenever I go to a spa I bring my trainers (after first blowing off the cobwebs) and
even as I’m packing them
, I know they won’t see the inside of the gym. Nevertheless I’m always bothered by a vague, naggy guilt for the duration of my stay, so a gym-free spa was a giddy relief. The general manager explained that the Delphi ethos is to persuade people to try something different from their usual regime. Instead of forty-five minutes on an incline on the treadmill, they might try a two-hour hill walk – on a real hill.
    I nodded in agreement as all this was explained to me, but I was thinking:
They’ll never get me out there, think of the hair
. Instead there was a great choice of indoor activities – meditation, t’ai chi, Pilates, relaxation and yoga (hey, it’s just like Parrot Cay!) – and I decided to do Pilates. Lying on thefloor, in a beautiful peaceful room, doing tiny quarter-inch movements, seemed easy-peasy. Until the next morning when I found it so hard to get out of bed I thought I’d had a stroke in the night which had paralysed me. I wasn’t making that mistake again so next day I went for the relaxation class because I thought it would be the usual lying on the floor imagining myself bathed in beautiful gold light. Instead we were taught new breathing techniques – prana something or other – which involved snorting like a horse over and over. The three of us in the class were high-pitched and giggly with mortification and as I left I decided I would never do a relaxation class again: it was way too stressful.
    Meanwhile Himself was having the time of his life, having Snickers-eating, near-death experiences twice a day. His brushes with mortality included abseiling, rock-climbing and surfing, although he could also have tried high ropes, kayaking, water-skiing and all kinds of other terrible, terrible stuff.
    The funny thing was that although I’d fully intended not getting dressed from the moment I arrived to the moment I left, the place worked its magic. It was just too beautiful not to get out and about. Local highlights include Killary, Ireland’s only fjord, but instead I went to Doolough, a nearby lake overlooked by jagged peaks with an icing-sugar coating of snow along the top. It was like experiencing the Himalayas, without any pesky inoculations or jet lag, and so breathtakingly wonderful that I didn’t even mind the consequent hair shame which, let’s make no bones about it, was
extreme
.
    First published in
Cara,
February 2004
.

Fabulous, Darling
Marian visits The Shows for
Marie Claire
11.15 a.m. Horticultural Hall, Victoria: Paul Smith
    Amere half-hour late and we’re off! Foghorns blare, lighthouse bells ring, the walls look like a starry night at sea – very atmospheric and exciting. Almost as exciting as my front-row seat – friends had made a special visit to my flat to admire my Row A ticket. Also to help with my wardrobe angst. Dreading gimlet-eyed fashion scorn, the look I finally decided on is ‘Inconspicuous but with a Marc Jacobs bag’. It seems to be working. Well, at least I haven’t noticed anyone mocking openly.
    ‘Paul’s collection (those in the know never say designers’ surnames, I’m told, and I’m keen to fit in) is Nautical but Nice and there are sailor stripes, anchor motifs and double-breasted Captain