Previously I was shocked to find a man massaging my shoulders as I had a manicure in my local nail bar. It felt rude to ask him to stop, mostly because it was quite nice, but also because I thought maybe that was part of the deal. Apparently not. He stopped suddenly, said did I want a massage, 10, 20 or 30 minute? I said no, thanks, but it was everso nice. British politeness never fails me, even in massage incidents. I tried not to take offence when he went straight to the sink to wash his hands, clearly not enamoured of my slightly sweaty skin. Hey, I didn’t ask for it! Anyhow, having got over this by now, I actually asked for a massage today after my manicure and nearly started world war 3 between the heavy handed massage guy and the manicurist as they argued who would have the pleasure. Really? It’s not worth it, not for the tip, anyway. I am regretting it now. I was pummelled consistently in the same place on my shoulders and my arms felt like they were being rung out such that they were squeezed – maybe an antidote to bingo wings? I particularly liked the classy part where she plonked down a timer, like the one I have in my kitchen, to make sure she didn’t go over the 10 minutes. Once I’d baked, she then proceeded to knead my forehead and stretch it like some kind of amateur face lift. Who needs botox with that manoeuvre? I am a victim in the beauty wars.