Ashley Does Champneys

Took Ashley Cole (Sore) on a mini-break to Champneys Henlow Grange health spa. It was a 40th celebration for the sister of my best friend. I've known them both since I was 12, where did the fucking time go and how come I'm still broke!

What with the sore on my mouth, and a sleep deficit (due to watching The Soprano double bill the night before) I was surely looking forward to some R and R. Although as I was reminded several times, it was not about me.

I asked Shazby before we left if we were gonna be on some starvation rations, because I would have brought some supplies with me. But thankfully the food was just healthy and well-cooked, three courses, no rabbit food. Plus we had a bottle of champagne I'd smuggled in for Beany before dinner, and some contraband chocolates too.

It's only when you try to relax, that you realise how wound up you really are. As I lay on the table being massaged by Zara (lovely therapist who recommended Elemis products and politely reserved judgement on Champneys ones), my mind raced, thinking of a million different ways of how I would write this up for my blog. In the end, I just tried to focus on the part of the body she was massaging, and kept repeating it in my head to get my mind to stop it ticking over, "leg, leg, leg, thigh, thigh, thigh, cellulite, cellulite, cellulite".

The whole place was an oasis of tranquility. Especially the smokers lounge where the birthday woman encountered another guest smoking the old waccy baccy. Yes. She was smoking a spliff out the window like an old lag in Holloway Prison. At a fucking chi-chi spa. When Beany incredulously called the woman out, as all the other people sat ignoring her in that quaint British way, she said: "I smoke it every day. I can't do wivout it." No decorum.

On Saturday morning Shazby and I decided to go for the burn. We were up at 7.30am for a group Powerwalk. Unfortunately we got there in true black people style, late. They had already set off. Hence we were running to catch them up as they sped off down the road. Once we'd caught up, the walking pace was quite fast. Try as we might Shazby and I could not beat this white-haired old lady that was leading the pack. This woman must have had a bionic hip replacement op because she was walking at some Lindsay Wagner (Bionic Woman for my 80s babies) pace and we never got close to her. My fitness kick ain't looking too good right now. Thankfully she gave the hour long gym circuit workout a miss. I don't think my ego could have taken another beating.

The instructor Marcus was dry like crackers, but he knew his stuff and took us through a challenging workout which left us turned out like a pimp's new trick. Shazby retired but I regrouped with Marcus for the Rocky Balboa finish, a one mile run. Adrien! We had a great time, the birthday girl had fun, and saw her 40th in in some style. Well, I don't know if a mud treatments stylish but it was very relaxing.

Arrived back in London all refreshed and looking shiny and new. So of course I decided it would be a great idea to go to Club D-Illusions, rave until 6am and promptly lose that sheen. I guess I wanted to show it off. In the dark. I was wounded for the next two days.

Is that a fucking spot?