Interlude – Spa Is A Horrible Word

So it’s my last day of being thirty three: a year since the fancy restaurant, special occasion dinner when Quarter Pounder (remember him?) had practically nothing to say to each other and the worst birthday ever.

But then, thirty three was a worse year for Jesus.

I’m off to the dimly lit, pan pipe bathed spa at White’s Hotel Wexford in a half hour for some thermo suite indulgence and a back massage. It’s far from spa treats I was reared. Big Leinster match later so an excuse not to go shopping with My Lady and ElsaDaughter who very kindly took me away on this weekend to celebrate another year of facial lines and an extra layer of cellulite.

On that note, I’ll go put my swimsuit on and hope nobody’s eyes are offended by the sight of me in it.

Happy Saturday y’all. 💋

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