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Crunching, snapping, grinding, squeezing, crushing, pulverising pressure was my first ever Christmas pressie from Boo. Then she went and ordered me a back massage. She does love me. I think.

I normally frequent beauty establishments where you are consistently referred to as 'love', prices are handwritten on florescent cardboard stars sellotaped round the edge of mirrors, and throughout your stay there is a scraggy, flea ridden stray cat rubbing its way in and out of your ankles.
My massage was at Saks. It's neurotically tidy, there are an abundance of perfectly coiffed gay stylists and strangers keep asking me how I feel. I always find this Disney-eque interest in my well being terribly unnerving. Such places make me feel inept, oafish and have me constantly checking my back for a 'kick me' sign. How I escape such establishments with any dinner money is a bloody miracle. And everyone smells gorgeous. Which only serves to heighten my insecurity regarding the ammonia based nappy stink which I now most proudly exude.

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