Most of us are a better version of ourselves on holiday. We dress better, eat better, cook better, sleep better, do more exercise and pay better attention to our loved ones. There’s always time to make the bed, recycle the garbage, invite friends around for dinner and have long phone conversations.
Lucky people spend their holidays in ideal environments; swanning around in kaftans by the beach or rugging up and hitting the ski fields, inhaling fresh country air or taking in the sites of somewhere exotic. No wonder holidays feel like the version of life that we wish we had, surrounded by the things and people and activities we love best.
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All my life I’ve been a massage slut.
Instead of pledging fidelity to one practitioner or technique, I’ve been a total tramp. One day I’d be getting my gear off for a Balinese hot rocker (in Ubud, everybody must get stoned), and the next I’d be baring my Chinese acupoints like no-one’s business.
I blame my addiction on once having lived near the massage epicentre of Nimbin where the oils are always essential and the “body work” is usually accompanied by quartz healing feathers powered by reincarnated dolphin vibrations.
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