On hearing that the Sanctuary Spa in Covent Garden will be closing its doors for the last time this May, it got me thinking about a few things.  I've been going to this spa since I was 21, roughly about once a year.  When I first started going, everybody always used the pools, jacuzzis, sauna and steam rooms completely naked.  We all seemed completely at ease with this, in fact, I don't remember anyone batting an eyelid.  About 10 years ago, I noticed that more women were wearing swimsuits until I realised a few years back that I was now the only naked one.  Not wishing to commit a faux pas, I asked the staff if this was still ok and they replied 'perfectly', in fact, it says in their brochure that people are welcome to continue this tradition.  Oh shit, I should mention at this point that this is a female only spa!  Anyway, the question it raised in my mind is, what the fuck is going on here?  Why is it, that whilst we live in a time where nudity is all around, celebrities flashing legs, cleavage, side boob, back boob, upside down boob, shaved crotch and whatnot, we have become coy about being naked amongst other women in a place where no one is really looking?  Could it in part be that we have become so self-conscious of not looking perfect, because hey, we won't stop being reminded by a media who is just waiting to scrutinize every single part of us.  Girls, I can guarantee you that if you have body issues, a naked spa is exactly the place you should be hanging out, to see up close, that no one in real life has an airbrushed body.  In reality, those kinds of bodies are extremely rare and usually only exist on paper with staples down the middle.

I am always slightly taken aback about the things you can miss about the  people you have loved who are no longer with you and even more so, by the things that can trigger the yearning.   Whilst watching the tango scene from Scent of a Woman, I was looking at Al Pacino and all I could see was my father dancing with me.  It is one of the sadder aspects of being human that we can never truly realise how precious some things are, until we can no longer have them.  One last dance Dad.  Please?

I know that everyone's always banging on about the good old days, always harking on about the nanny state and moaning about health and safety everything and political correctness having gone way too far. I've been known on occasion to do it myself but here's the thing.  I can remember a few things which weren't so fab.  When I was about 14, around 1976, a couple of occasions at school.  A pal of mine gave a bit of a smart alecky answer, the older teached walked straight up to him, grabbed his hair at the back of the head and proceeded to bang it about 5 times on the desk.  Shocked but not much of an eyelid battered.  Should have.  Another, round about the same time and similar circumstances, different teacher, different pupil.  A rather quiet and unassuming teacher grabbed the pupil by the shoulders, yanked him out of his chair and completely beat the living shit out of him.  We were petrified.  He actually broke a couple of his ribs.  I remember his dad coming into the school but nothing was done.  Things carried on as normal.  Good old days eh?

In defence of naturally thin people, people with small appetites and peoples eating habits generally, stop with the damaging comments.  Why is it that, whilst nowadays, only someone with the tact of a rhino would say to a large person 'fuck me, you sure can put food away' or 'you are seriously fucking fat', is it ok to attack a thin person with comments like 'you must be anorexic' and 'shit, do you even eat?'?  Where is the acceptance of all the different body types that we were promised, ever going to truly be amongst us?

I had a dream last night.  I can't remember the content and it isn't even relevant, what is, is the ending.  The husband was standing in front of me, uttering my favourite line of all time, 'what have we got and what can I eat?'.  Oh my fucking god.  Am I to have no respite?  Even in my slumber, am I forever to be responsible for peoples food consumption?

I joined Weight Watchers today.  For about the tenth time.  For about ten minutes.  I made all these promises to myself before I walked in.  The same promises that I make whenever I start a new diet.  I am not going to let it rule my life.  I am just going to use it as a guideline.  I am not going to get obsessive about it.  I filled out the form.  I met the leader.  I peeled off my layers, though stopped short of stripping down to my undies and going to the loo as others were doing and am sure I too have done in the past.  I stepped on the scales.  I politely answered 'roughly' when asked if the number was what I expected when what I really wanted to scream was 'No, I am completely flummoxed, I've been walking around thinking I am the size of Kate Moss and that is what brought me here'.  I looked over the 'aids' on offer, roughly translated as 'highly processed snacks which taste like shit' which sustain you for a nanosecond.  I paid my fee, stood my ground about only wanting to pay for today as opposed to 5 years in advance.  Then I sat down.  And read the 'plan'.  Let's not kid ourselves here, a diet is what it is.  Why can't we just call things what they actually are any more?  I tried to drown out the too familiar drone around me.  People talking about weight tips, using 'diet coconut yogurt to make curry and you'd never know', how 'this is the fifteenth time I've joined but it really works', the leader's voice talking to the new recruits about the new plan which is 'so much easier and successful than all the previous ones'.  Then inside me.  One word.  Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!  Before I knew what I was doing, I stood up and walked straight out.  Palpitating.  Fully expecting a pair of hands to grab me by the shoulders and shout  'and just where do you think you're going missy?'.  I can't do it anymore.  I just can't.  I know for many people, these sorts of clubs are fantastic, but for me, they just hit that rebellious button in my head with the 'I won't be told' sign with a sledgehammer.  This is not the way forward for me.  I don't know what is but know for sure that this isn't it.  As I was sitting on that chair, I could think of only two things.  At roughly this time last year, at Slimming World, a friend that had just rejoined, said there was an awful sense of familiarity and she said it with an awful sense of forboding.  And secondly.  That fucking brilliant line from Little Britain.  'Oh man, she fat cos she looooooove de cake'! 

So I've finally done it.  Since Christmas morning, I've continually walked past it, picked it up, inhaled its gorgeous scent and thought one thing.  Soon.  Today was the day.  I finally lit my extortionately priced Diptyque Feu de Bois candle.  The one that is meant to smell of a burning log fire.  The brand that anyone worth their achingly middle class salt has dotted around their abode because they are the only candles that actually still smell when they burn.  I waited for the aroma to fill the house.  I waited to figure out if the hype was true.  It did smell.  Of...............well, candle.  The husband walked in and said it definately smelt smoky but think he was trying to justify the £30 price tag he paid.  You'd never think I once worked in advertising.  I am so their wet dream.

Somebody that I once knew, passed away recently.  Bob Foster.  He was a friend of my brother's and he was around 54 years old.  He was part of a friendship group that I was fortunate to be a part of in my late teens.   I last saw him about 15 years ago and never really thought about him that much, other than in passing and with fondness, but his death has filled me with sadness.  I have lost several people over the years, the worst bereavements being both my parents but this was one of the first of my peers and certainly the first of that group.  It doesn't compare but it is different.  Our lives are constantly filled with people coming in and out, some stay and some we never see again but while they are still around, there is always the possibility and acceptance that we may one day bump into them.  I will never see Bob again and if I feel this, then his close friends are feeling it tenfold.  This is surely the most difficult part of the grieving process.  The Bob that I knew was a funny and sweet guy but he exists now, only in my memory. I will never see him again and I will never get a chance to say 'hey, haven't seen you in a while'.