No sleeps

Japanese Salt Steam Room. Xtin's No. 1 with a bullet.
It had a block of rose quartz in the centre which widdled a little jet of water
and the steam was salt & jasmine & mint and it was hot as the ass of Beelzebub. 

Holy shit, spa day was abso-freaking-lutely fantastic.

I thought, actually, that it was all going to be a bit of a giggle and Madame O and Pluvialis and I would prance about the faux-bamboo wonderland of tacky bathroom fit-outs and incense. But it wasn't. I mean, it was. We laughed together. But spa day didn't need any ironic giggly scare-quotes to improve it. It was hand-to-god flat-out superb. I lay in little circular cave-rooms minutely tiled with tiny blue mosaics filled with steam so dense you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Every now and then the door would open and a foggy figure would let in some cool air and the magical steam-gods would compensate with cloud upon cloud of scented steam venting out of the floor until your joints were soft like hot sugar and your lungs were kneaded into springy, buoyant piles of pink alveoli dough. There was steam with jasmine and salt, steam with eucalyptus and menthol, steam with flowers, steam without, a lion spitting piles of crushed iced into a basin, a wood-lined sauna woodily fragrant like a pizza oven for people, hot benches leaving gentle train-tracks on your back as you lie there watching the curl in your hair go sproing.

We swam in the pool with the little one-person jacuzzi bites out of the side. We had lunch in our waffle robes and napped on the waterbeds and the swing-chairs and the mossy green suedette couches and the reclining chairs made by a committee of eighteen of the smartest chiropractors history has ever known. I made that part about the chiropractors up.

I am so supernaturally relaxed I might vibrate out of the visible spectrum like the Mayans.