What’s the point of having children at all if you can’t run away and leave them for a spa day with your mates and a civilised night out once every eight years or so eh? Or failing that, a spa day and the cocktail equivalent of a high speed train crash in Nottingham city centre with your two best mates and a lust for life, so that’s exactly what I have just recovered from. Here’s how that shit went down….
Anatomy of a mums’ spa break* (*and inevitable piss up)
Volunteer to do the driving there and back. Have a child be sick in your car the night before you leave, because nothing says “ready to relax” quite like scrubbing vomit from floor mats in the dark in the middle of storm pissing Doris does it.
Pick up friends. Apologise for the smell. Drive one hundred miles with the windows down. Approach the turning for the spa, merrily sail on past, drive additional six miles up and down dual carriageway and arrive at the spa just in time to miss the yoga class you fancied.
Proceed to have A LOVELY TIME despite wearing swimwear and alarming the other guests with skin the horrifying shade of “Scottish Blue”.
Get carried away during the inclusive spa lunch buffet and put away a fine bottle of sauvignon blanc, later contributing to an accidental nap in the ‘slumber room’. Enjoyable. Realise you’ve just PAID to have a kip next to a load of strangers. Gently judge yourself.
Post spa, drive a few laps of Nottingham city centre before locating the parallel dimension hidden from Google maps where the parking for your AirBnB flat is. Procure mathematics doctorate and possibly Rain Man in order to remember the fifty thousand different entry codes you will need for the stairwell door, the shutter doors, the entry doors from the underground car park, the lift, the thirty sets of internal double doors and finally the combination lock on the actual door of the flat. Reward success by swiftly knocking back two bottles of prosecco and inhaling some crisps. 10.30pm – take joyful group selfie, then concede it’s probably best to put on ALL THE MAKE UP immediately so as not to scare anyone else.
Dinner is for wimps. 11.30pm, dressed to kill and it’s about time to leave the flat in search of the good times. Schoolish excitement at actually going out this late. Enjoy two cocktails in nice bar, which appears to be emptying and about to close. Cheerfully ask bouncers on the way out to recommend where to go next; refuse to feel crushed after a brief glance up and down prompts the response:
“Home, love. Burger, cab then home.”
Undeterred, drink and dance in somewhere so comically shite that no-one bats an eyelid when a chap behind you is sick on the floor and then carries on dancing. Wear straws from your drinks like a microphone headset whilst pretending to be Madonna (standard). Lose a shoe on the sticky floor, cut your foot on someone’s shattered pint glass. Carry on dancing because AINT NOBODY GOT MOVES LIKE THIS BITCH! Recall vaguely the following day said ‘dancing’ possibly also involved the bit where Madonna simulates shagging a crucifix during Like a Prayer, which probably explains why not a single person chats us up.
Later: Chips. Dirty, filthy chips. I really love chips, and now, EVERYONE IN NOTTINGHAM also knows this. So that’s nice.
What is also clear is that nobody should ever be seen under kebab shop lighting, or subsequently post the pictures taken there on a publicly available internet blog if they ever wish to appear enigmatic or attractive ever again.
Definitely do not swap all the doormats round in the corridor of the AirBnB flat as you ricochet off the walls whilst attempting to find the right door because that would be completely childish and probably wake up all the neighbours, especially if one of your party is crying loudly with hysterical pissed laughter and you still cant get the bloody combination lock to work. Fall asleep gently spooning your best mate.
Get it completely the wrong way round and do the relaxing spa day BEFORE the raging night of violent drinking, thus necessitating a long drive home with a hangover, and eventual actual parenting the next day. Remember, woefully too late to do anything about it that your car still smells of child sick, only this seems much more of a problem today.
Concede that you are much too old for this shit, and ensure to immediately book another similar trip with the same friends before you’ve even reached your own house. It’s been a long dark winter, but there’s daylight hours ahead, and there no tonic quite like the feeling you get from knowing all the words to bad rap songs from the early noughties to cement your place in the world.
You can find me in da chipshop. #WINNING
For anyone looking to replicate this FANTASTIC sequence of events, I can highly recommend the spa we went to, Eden Hall. I wish they would pay me to say that, but let’s face it, I’m just not that sort of blog. It’s lovely though, I’d definitely go back.
We also stayed in this lovely apartment on AirBnB in Nottingham, which is a minute’s walk from the city centre, assuming you’ve not just drunk your own body weight in fizzy wine and can’t really stand up without zigzagging, in which case it takes a bit longer.
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