Slippery When Wet

Last week: I went to Carolus Thermen

Question: Why don't German women shave?
Answer:   Himalayan peeling salt

This was one of the many things I discovered on my first visit to the Carolus Thermen spa in Aachen last week, where I went for a blissful afternoon of relaxation with my friend Rachel. With the Android 80 album launch to prepare for, an abundance of translations to work on and a looming visit from the new CEO at the office, the last couple of weeks have been somewhat stressful. Last Thursday I was even quite happy to spend an hour in the dentist's chair just for the opportunity to relax and have a breather. Sunday's spa trip was the ideal way to round off this kind of high pressure period.

Carolus Thermen is one of the few thermal baths within easy driving distance that I had not yet visited and I was keen to discover how a German spa would compare with the Belgian ones where I have already grown to love whiling away my limited free time. On first impression, Carolus was very similar to the Thermes de Spa to the point that I would wager that the large indoor pool and outdoor bathing areas were designed by the same architect.

Not unlike their Scandinavian neighbours, the Germans prefer their spa experience au naturel and before entering the sauna and hammam area, bathing suits are discarded and replaced by birthday suits. This didn't phase me too much: I am fairly comfortable being naked in an environment where everybody is in the same boat and, while you may get the odd Kelly Brookalike, the majority of fellow spa-goers come in all shapes and sizes, so it's difficult to feel overly self-conscious. Add to that the fact that I was over 60 kilometres away from home, in a different country and unlikely to bump into someone with whom I share a photocopier, I was happy to whip off my speedos and get back to nature.

An 'A' Level German certificate obtained the wrong side of the Millennium can only get you so far and I struggled to interpret much of the signage adorning the walls. I contemplated the words "Sexuelle Handlungen" mentioned on a sign at the entrance to the nudist area...Could this notice be the equivalent of the notorious 70s poster that we all loved to giggle at back in the days of school swimming trips, bearing the warning "No Petting"? Clearly not. Everywhere I looked, couples varying vastly in degrees of age and attractiveness were draped over one another, dewy-eyed and salivating. One pair who were treading a fine line between innocent canoodling and out and out fornication, were approached by a member of staff and asked to turn things down a notch or two. I made a mental note to lay off the dive-bombing.

27 € for 3,5 hours made the afternoon fairly expensive compared to other baths I have frequented. But the sauna/hammam area seemed to go that extra mile than elsewhere. Surrounded by mosaic tiles creating a North African vibe, the central pool area was an oasis of tranquillity with soothing underwater music and a ceiling emulating a night sky complete with twinkling stars. Aaah.

According to Rachel, one of the plus points of the Carolus Thermen is that there are no creepy guys on the prowl. She couldn't have been more wrong. Immersed in the healing waters, listening to the inoffensive harp soundtrack and lapping up every minute, I suddenly became aware of another presence, a little too close for comfort. Invading my space was a hairy, oily early 50s guy with greasy slicked back locks and the kind of eyes that met in the middle of his face, making him look not so dissimilar to a Mandrill monkey. Uncomfortable, I exited the pool, aware of him following my every move, his eyes undressing me. Wait a minute...I was already naked...how does that work? Putting the incident behind me, I plunged into the hot bath in a different room and began to wind down again. Seconds later, my hirsute friend was bathing right beside me, a slimy grin dissecting his face. Time for a hammam.

The collection of 'baby' hammams is a novel idea. At differing temperatures, each individual bath has enough space for just two people, potentially slightly weird if you were to share one with an unclothed stranger, although perhaps not a bad idea for a first date, allowing you to dispense with social niceties and get the uncomfortable moment of seeing one another naked for the first time over and done with. I enjoyed a few minutes alone in a moderately heated cubicle and, as I was about to open the door to leave, who should come sliding in, but Mr Nice 'n' Sleazy. I hurried passed him, my skin literally crawling. This was going beyond stalking.


Nena: 99 matted hairs

It took some persistence, but I finally managed to shake off Mr Nice 'n' Sleazy and enjoy the rest of what Carolus Thermen had to offer, including the cold plunge and ice cube room (brrrr). Before entering the hottest hammam, we had the option of applying Himalayan Peeling Salt to our skin. Apparently, this pink grainy substance is rubbed all over the body and, combined with a few minutes in the hammam, can help eliminate toxins and balance your body's pH levels. The only toxic presence that I needed to eliminate was Mr Nice 'n' Sleazy, so I was more than willing to give it a go. Within seconds of application, I was wincing, my poor legs stinging and red raw. In typical paranoid British style, I had insisted on shaving before being seen bare limbed in public. We may disapprove of our furry German sisters, but maybe there is method in their madness after all.

Feeling a little peckish on the way home, Rachel suggested stopping off at one of her favourite restaurants, a fabulously authentic Turkish eatery in Aachen city centre. She recommended the Mercimek Corbasi - Lentil soup - which was a truly delicious and hearty treat. And as if things couldn't get any better, in sidled Mr Nice 'n' Sleazy who sat opposite, looking over as he munched on a kebab.

Would I try this again?: If I ever see Mr Nice 'n' Sleazy again, I'm calling the police.

Goodbye Saturday Night

Last week: I watched Strictly Come Dancing.

After over a decade of a TV-free household, a few months ago we decided to take the plunge and introduce the goggle box back into our lives. The abstention has had positive effects and I'm pleased to say that we haven't yet slipped into the bad habit of keeping it switched on at all times as background noise and we still pretentiously lounge around reading high-brow culture magazines and listening to Bill Evans. On the other hand, it seems that my propensity for watching mindless entertainment is stronger than ever and I've been caught more than once by my husband, feet up, biscuit semi-immersed in Earl Grey, glued to One Tree Hill, Dawson's Creek or one of the many throwaway made-for-TV movies that they tend to show on the Vitaya channel.

With the BBC absent from my home, one of the biggest cultural phenomena of the noughties (did I really just use that word?) has managed to pass me by. In 2004, BBC 1 launched Strictly Come Dancing - a modern reworking of classic family favourite Come Dancing - and the Saturday Nights of much of the UK female population have never been the same since. Nights out on the town have been abandoned in favour of sequins and cumerbunds and women around the country can be seen huddled together on sofas sharing a bottle of wine and holding up scorecards as they watch popular newsreaders, radio djs, tennis players and even politicians attempt to perform a flawless quickstep on live TV. For many of my girlie friends it has become an annual ritual and no matter how much I try to feign disinterest, I feel like I'm missing out.

With my SCD (did I really just use its acronym?) addicted sister-in-law visiting last week coninciding with the beginning of a new series, it was the perfect opportunity to have my first taste of the ritzy dance contest (and my first taste of one of the bottles of gin that she was armed with). Presented by cheesy comic genius Bruce Forsyth and yet another typical BBC interchangeable leggy blonde, Tess Daly, the first leg of the competition took place over two programmes aired on Friday and Saturday night when 14 alleged "celebrities" (who the hell is Dan Lobb?) were out to prove what they've got in the booty shaking department. Several weeks earlier they had been paired up with professional dancers who had been teaching them the necessary moves to prevent them from making a holy show of themselves in front of the whole nation and their ensuing early elimination. On this first edition, contestants were required to perform either a waltz or cha-cha-cha, after which, the camera panned to a panel of "expert" judges holding aloft scorecards bearing marks from 1-10 and offering up their various critiques.

Let's face facts, some contestants have a clear advantage over others whose only purpose is to be sent to the lions and face public ridicule in an effort to send TV ratings through the roof. Holly Valance has wiggled
her touche in more than one MTV-destined pop video, so it wasn't much of a suprise that she scored highly and looked smoking hot performing a rather sultry cha-cha-cha. And no more was it suprising that Edwina Currie had as much grace as a cart horse, although I wasn't expecting or hoping that she would show her pants. I would say stick to politics, Edwina, but then again...

The highly likeable Jason Donovan was the star of the show, displaying an admirable sense of competitiveness which probably explains why he's got where he is today (as it's clearly not through any singing talent). Others with an A for effort included Anita Dobson, camper than Christmas astrologist Russell Grant, and Mcfly Drummer Harry Judd. Flying the trollop flag for Greater Manchester and, despite her inflatable chest, soap actress Chelsee Healey, managed to put in a rather elegant display of the waltz. Bulky frame aside, boxing gold medallist Audley Harrison looked sleek and borderline debonair during his performance and, although I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating biscuits, I don't particularly envy his partner who runs the risk of his size 17 feet treading on her dainty little tootsies every time they hit the dancefloor.

TV can't get much worse than the vision of Italian super slapper Nancy dell'Olio catching a stiletto in a feather boa and almost going for a ball of chalk (for those of you unfamiliar with my Northern colloquial lingo, read 'arse over tit'). But even Nancy was outshone in the two left feet stakes. Botoxed to the eyeballs 60s chanteuse, Lulu, looked like she'd hit the dancefloor after one too many WKDs, flailing her arms about and stumbling into her Strictly (did I really just use its abbreviation?) dance partner, making him wish that he'd gone through with his audition for The Chippendales. But I'm sure she made her grandchildren proud.

Would I try this again? It's already series linked.

Puttin' On the Ritz

Last week: I had my first tap dance lesson.

St Helens Theatre Royal, 1980 give or take a year or two. My first ever stage performance. I had been attending ballet classes for some time but my enthusiasm was, alas, outweighed by my inaptitude (I think the dance teacher's exact words were 'baby elephant') and I was kindly coaxed in the direction of tap dance which was a little less delicate than the fairy princess stuff I had in mind (it was never going to work - I had flat feet and a skinhead for God's sake). Little Wooden Head from Pinocchio was the soundtrack to our loosely choreographed routine and weren't we all adorable in our pointy triangular cloth hats flitting across the stage? I even caused a ripple of delight through the audience when my little hat fell to the ground. Racked with decades of guilt, I now feel compelled to confess that I did this deliberately so that all eyes would centre on me (sorry Mum).

Forward 30 years or so to last week when I found myself on my bike heading over to the Ecole Martine Wolff for my first ever real tap dancing lesson. My two friends Vanessa and Maria were meeting me there and feelings wavered between high excitement and maybe just a little apprehension.

On paper, I should have everything going for me as a budding tap dancer: Tap dancing has it's roots in English Lancashire Clog Dancing which was performed by cotton mill workers and miners to emulate the sounds of the machinery. With Lancashire being very much my neck of the woods, I can vividly picture my charcoal-faced ancestors shaking a leg in the working men's clubs in between copious pints of ale after clocking off from a hard day down the pit. I've certainly inherited their taste for ale so why not their affinity for tap dancing? Tap is also widely considered as a form of music and its percussive element often draws comparison with drumming. My Dad and brother are both hugely talented drummers, so if genetics have treated me with the same kindness, I could well be the next Ginger Rogers in the making.

Not about to prematurely invest in expensive tap shoes, I was unsure what footwear would be the most appropriate. Vanessa had dropped by the class the week before for a trial session wearing flip-flops and advised me that this perhaps wasn't the best idea. There was another girl in attendance sporting 14-hole Dr Martin boots, so I didn't feel quite so bad in a pair of simple suedette slip-ons with a leather sole and low heel. Unfortunately, this was not the wisest choice either and I spent much of the lesson with my feet in an unnatural position, in an attempt to prevent the shoes from sliding off, which impeded me from producing the kind of nifty footwork that I had in mind.

Our teacher was delightful. She first taught us some basic warm-up moves with patience and encouragement. Unsuprisingly, I was the first student to be singled out for making more than a bit of a hash of the shuffle, but she paid individual attention to everybody until we all got it right. In just one hour we mastered Step, Touch, Stamp, Toe, Ball, Dig, Brush, Backbrush, Shuffle and Heel and then we put all these steps together to form a mini routine that we were then instructed to rehearse before our next lesson. The music was all in 8 time and most of it, right up my street: you don't get much groovier than Mancini's Pink Panther Theme and I'm always a sucker for Nina Simone's husky vocals and jazzy baroque piano, although I could have managed ok without any Michael Buble (but I guess there's no show without Punch).

Would I try it again?: I have signed up for 10 sessions and bought some rather snazzy tap shoes.

Some Useful Links:

• Don't try this at home: Vance's Fantastic Tap Dance Dictionary
• The Portable Tap Floor: Every pocket should have one

Happy Days are Here Again

Last week: I saw Kitty Daisy & Lewis

The 50s are back. It's official. And I ain't complaining. In fact, I am embracing it wholeheartedly. I've always had visions of myself in a full circle floral print skirt on the back of a Harley D with my arms clinging to Arthur Fonzarelli's snake hips and I've been wondering for some time where you can buy those longline bras and corsets that create that cinched-waist bombshell look so well portrayed by Mad Men's Christina Hendricks.

Musically speaking, the 50s have never been big on my radar. But thanks to a recent invitation to dj in a Rock 'n' Roll/ Blues bar, I have broadened my horizons somewhat. One of my current iPod favourites is Shindig magazine-endorsed: Keb Darge and Little Edith's Legendary Wild Rockers, a compilation of rare surf/rockabilly numbers from the late 50s/early 60s which will have you reaching for the Brylcreem before you can say ramalamadingdong. I urge you to get your hands on a copy and lend it your shell-like asap.

Retro revival has been done to death over the past few years with Amy Winehouse paving the way for (or creating a monster?) anybody with a radio mic and a twinset, so I was in no hurry to listen to Kentish Town's family combo Kitty, Daisy & Lewis when I first read about their back-to-roots/Apple Mac is devil philosophy. A recommendation by friends followed by an invitation to a live gig persuaded me otherwise and, with some of their music available on 78rpm vinyl format, the siblings would more than likely strongly disapprove of my hurriedly (illegally) downloaded MP3s. After just a few listens, I was hooked. Their latest full-length offering 'Smoking in Heaven' (perhaps if it wasn't so retro, a more appropriatle title would be 'Smoking on a Heated Terrace Just Outside the Gates of Heaven') covers a wide spectrum of 40s/50s rockabilly, ska and blues sounds with rich vocals and vintage production quality.

Last week, the gig itself was quite an event to behold. Far better attended than I anticipated, Brussels' classy venue the Ancienne Belgique opened its doors to a crowd dressed up to the nines in authentic 50s chic. We had rolled up straight from the office, so didn't quite look the part, although I was secretly pleased I had spent my lunch hour at Toni and Guy having a short, round fringe cut in (alas, a little more Dave Hill from Slade than Bettie Page, however).

In my world, either you have beautiful straight, thick hair that perfectly skims the top of your arse, OR, you can blow a mean harmonica. OR neither. Kitty and Daisy BOTH have locks to die for and the ability to play more instruments than you can shake a shitty stick at. Together with brother Lewis, they exchange guitars, harmonicas and drums as if they were on a production line with each sibling's vocals complimenting the other's. It's a real family affair: Mister Kitty, Daisy & Lewis strums away at an electric guitar slightly set back from his offspring. Meanwhile, Mum joins in on upright bass. The double bass is a favourite of mine; a kind of mysterious creature; it evokes an air of the smouldering hot guy that's way out of your league, skulking in the shadows of a smokey underground club looking effortlessly sultry. The music as a whole fires us all up; unsure whether to skank or dosey doe, we just can't keep those hips still. One highlight was when legendary trumpetist Eddie 'Tan Tan' Thornton took to the stage, a worthy replacement for Rico Rodriguez who plays on the album version of 'Tomorrow'.

In the post-gig frenzy, my friends managed to get their merchandise autographed by Kitty (or was it Daisy?) while I found Lewis so cheeky cockney charming that I agreed to have my photo taken with him (!). The Durham family siblings were definitely not at the back of the queue when swarthy good lucks were being handed out and their trademark toothy gap that you could drive a bus between is, well, just simply the ginchiest, baby.


Watch out for that Number 59 to Ixelles, Lewis



The evening was rounded off rather pleasantly with a final beer and a little more rug cutting to the sounds of Thierry Steady Go, Brussels finest in retro djs.


In case you don't look the part, learn to speak some classic 50s lingo and you'll fit in like a glove: http://www.daddy-o.us/slang.htm

Would I try it again?: Only in a more intimate venue where there's room for me to indulge in some more serious shape-making.

You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile

This week: I tried a new dentist.

Barry White, dogs and bagpipes. Three of my deeply ingrained phobias. But these three combined, pale into insignificance when it comes to phobia number four: the dentist. Like many phobias, my terror of the dentist stems from traumatic childhood experiences. As I type, I am literally shuddering in my own skin with the recollection of the variety of atrocities that I have endured in that dreaded chair throughout my 38 years.

At one point in my early years, I had a really lovely dentist. Mr Goldup was gentle and smiley and I always left his surgery laden with lollipops and cartoon stickers proclaiming the benefits of flossing in between your peggies (just a slight contradiction, now I come to think of it). My phobia set in after this teddy bear of a man left for pastures new and we changed surgeries. With the bedside manner of Harold Shipman, Mr Lomax took visible pleasure in administering various forms of torture regardless of my tender years. Unfortunately for me, I was blessed with too many teeth and the task of extracting them was bestowed upon Adolf Lomax, who went about this with the delicacy of King Kong doing his afternoon shopping at Villeroy and Boch. I would have been in less pain if he'd attached them to a HGV going 150km/hour. And this was in the days of general anaesthetic.

I spent the 4 or 5 years leading up to puberty looking like a James Bond villain, thanks to the wonders of modern orthodontics. Every six weeks or so, I got half a day off school to take a bus trip to Liverpool and visit a lavish Georgian terrace on Rodney Street with an enormous front door painted in beautiful eggshell blue. This spectacular building housed the orthodontic practice of Mr Birkenhead, whose soft wavy hair and winning smile cleverly disguised Lucifer himself. With a CV boasting a wealth of Nazi war crimes, Mr Birkenhead refused to lay down his tools until my bloodcurdling screams could be heard from the Wirral. Each new brace was screwed on tighter than a duck's arse in winter. And then I hopped on the bus again, straight back to school to be greeted by my classmates with the inventive new nickname 'Metal Mickey'.



84 Rodney Street: The Gates of Hell

 It will come as no surprise that I have failed miserably in terms of dental welfare, when left to my own devices. During my adult life, appointments have been very few and far between and putting any kind of trust in someone yielding a drill is something that is just quite simply beyond me. I have only visited a dentist under duress and when confronted with the prospect of imminent agony. After a recent throbbing tooth episode, I reluctantly made an appointment at a surgery close to home where my friend Antoinette is the dental assistant. And when the pain subsided. I phoned up and cancelled, telling a big pack of lies about an imaginary emergency meeting at work (yeah, right, like I'm that important). Antoinette saw through this ruse and with some gentle badgering, finally managed to coax me there earlier this week, with my husband holding my hand and my face like a robber's dog.

On entering the corridor leading to the surgery, when we attempted to switch on the lights; nothing happened. Everything was pitch black. Who in their right mind would enter a dental surgery in the dark? I refused point blank. I would rather stand in Harrod's window naked on Christmas Eve. With the lights finally on, Antoinette comfortingly put her arm around me and said, "Don't worry, Bri's here and I'm here, what else do you need?". "My Mum", I muttered sulkily. Pathetic. With a capital P.

The new dentist, fully aware of my fears, was approachable, mild-mannered and reassuring. He listened to my concerns, some irrational, some genuine, and discussed honestly but sensitively the treatment he deemed necessary for the preservation of my toothy grin. Most importantly, he didn't come anywhere near me with that nasty implement with the hook on the end that most dentists like to poke into your gums. I left armed with a special toothpaste that I later found out tastes of soap and mouthwash that creates a kind of rabid dog effect. All in all, I felt less anxious and prepared to make the required effort to keep all 28 of my pearly whites in place well into my old age.

Would I try it again?: I have an appointment booked for 22 September, but something tells me that I could be called to an emergency meeting...

A Strange Kettle of Fish

Last week: I had a Fish Pedicure

A French girl I once met declared that I had the ugliest feet she had seen in her life. Better than the ugliest face, you cheeky bint.

Most people have suffered from problem feet at one time or another. Without going into too much detail - in case you happen to be eating your breakfast whilst reading this - the heat brings out all manner of complaints when it comes to my plates of meat. And let's face it, you only have one pair, so it's absolutely vital to take care of them. It's only since the discovery of Camper and Crocs that I can walk around comfortably, without being half crippled in the summer months. And before you turn your nose up at my peculiar fashion sense, check out the Crocs website; they don't just stock models that you'd only wear to a day out in your local morgue.

I endeavour to look after and treat my feet as much as possible. I've rarely been tempted to squeeze my size 7s into dainty stilettos and, although I can't really afford extravagant pedicures, I occasionally indulge in the odd self-pampering session. My Body Shop loyalty card ensures that I am kept in healthy supplies of Peppermint Foot Lotion and I am the proud owner of rows of little bottles of varnish covering every shade of the spectrum (I don't recommend yellow). I even have some of those squidgy toe separator things, although my main application of them involves me amusing myself by walking around the house pretending I have webbed feet.

On Saturday, three of my girlie friends and I headed into town to try out the latest pampering fad to hit Belgium: the Fish Pedicure. The hour long treat entailed a 25 minute fish pedicure followed by an essential oil foot massage with a glass of champagne thrown in to boot. It was all very Sex and The City, if you think whiter than white towelling slippers rather than Jimmy Choos.

This curious procedure involves rolling up your trouser legs and immersing your feet into a tank full of water and small, wriggly fish called Garra Rufa all the way from Turkey. In no time at all, your new friends set about attacking the problem areas of your feet by nibbling away any hard, dead cells, leaving you with hooves smoother than a Luther Vandross album.

Beforehand, I had pondered the logic behind this. Is there any kind of training involved? Do these fish make minimum wage? On further research I discovered that these little creatures make a beeline for the dead skin on your feet as they see it as a rather tasty source of protein, no motivation necessary. Personally I'd prefer a nice juicy chicken breast, but, whatever floats your boat.

On my first encounter with the Garra Rufa, I succumbed to incontrollable fits of giggles which were received slightly disapprovingly by our hostesses at the Aquaderm Spa. But it was just a knee-jerk reaction - the sensation was so uncomfortably ticklish that I couldn't help myself. I had to concentrate on relaxing my body and focus on my breathing rhythm and, once I had mastered this, it was actually rather pleasant. I guess it was not unlike massaging your feet with an electric toothbrush, not that this is something I put into practice on a regular basis.

Maria claimed that the fish were only interested in her left foot and, as she took her turn before me in the same tank, I also wondered why they were still hungry enough to feast on my bunions and verrucas, the greedy little blighters. No wonder they have doubled in size since they first arrived on Belgian soil, as the girls at the spa explained.

 

Maria stars in "My Left Foot".


As we sauntered out of the spa heading for the nearest ice-cream parlour, we all agreed that the difference to our previously weathered feet was remarkable and that the fish had executed their task extremely well. Our tootsies felt almost as good as Fergie's after an afternoon with John Bryan. And for a mere €22,50, we felt we had got our money's worth (although, they could have served us the remainder of the bottle of champagne).

Would I try this again?: I'm thinking about investing in a tank built into the floor, about two metres away from the telly.

Everybody Needs Good Neighbours

Moving from an isolated house to an apartment has taken some adjustment, but I think we've pretty much managed to adapt without much hassle. We don't play music so loud, keep our voices down if we roll home in the small hours and try not to parade around scantily clad when it's daylight. Our relationship with most of the neighbours has yet to extend far beyond the usual pleasantries of "Hello" and "How Are You?", but we've had a few conversations with Nathalie and Luc from downstairs, bumping into them at a local bar and having a beer together, discussing their recent holiday in Thailand when taking out the rubbish, etc.

This morning I got to know Luc a little bit better.

As I left the building and entered the courtyard, ready to hop on my bike and head off to the station, there was Luc in his ground floor bedroom - lights on, curtains open, windows impeccably polished -wearing nothing but a smile. In the altogether. Full frontal. In his best birthday suit. Now, I'm no prude and ordinarily this wouldn't overly concern me, but by sheer misfortune we had complete eye contact during this nanosecond of an unfortuante incident. So not only have I seen him naked, he knows that I have seen him naked, I know that he knows that I've seen him naked and he knows that I know that he knows that I've seen him naked, if you catch my drift.

Mortifying.

It could only be worse if he'd waved and said "Fancy a slice of toast?".

Forgive me for not including any photographic evidence to illustrate today's delightful experience.