Massage is a precious thing. And being the kind of person who holds tension, I’d probably by now be shaped like the hunchback of Notre Dame if I didn’t get a good, serious un-knotting every now and then. Sadly, very few people – and relatively few massage therapists – are very good at it. I used to be pretty good at it myself once (I am – among other things – a trained remedial- and sports-massage therapist); but now prefer to be on the other side of the table, as it were.
Joyce, of course, was the greatest massage therapist in the world until she hung up her thumbs and moved on to greater things. But I think we’re lucky enough to have found the next best thing in Chicago … and the best bit is: she comes round to the apartment! This is the kind of utter, utter luxury that makes me ashamed I ever whinge about life.
Anyway: I’ve just been done. Tony’s on the slab now. Think I’ll take my newly-liquid shoulders next door and watch the sunset from the living-room window.