Thursday 1st March - Gentle Jog followed by violently Bruising Sports Massage

Little thursday run around the park, 40 mins of gradual pace, low impact, low pain, nice. Then 60mins of teeth gritting agony.

When asked by Jane 'What would I like for Xmas'? I suggested a massage (half tongue in cheek!!), so on Xmas day when I received an hours massage I had only myself to blame.

It turned out to be slightly more massage than I had bargained for (and I'm not talking about a massage with a happy ending for you perv's that are asking that question to yourselves..)

Never have I been so rough housed by a masseuse. I can't remember her name such was the broad nature of her accent but I established that she was definitely Eastern European (probably called Helga to help paint the picture for you), had been trained in many types of massage but specialised and most likely had deep tissue pain based massage as her favourite.

Maybe Helga liked young (well, young and 33 yr young) blond boys, maybe Helga liked to demonstrate her immense physical strength, whatever it was, Helga took a shine to my naked little body lying nervously under the towel on the massage bed, and proceeded to knead me like I was a cross between a ragdoll and bread dough asking for, or in knead of some tough love.

Janeywife hadn't held back either - my massage was booked in at a Men only spa tucked away in a mews behind Berkley Square, called Gentleman's Tonic.
The spa is a subterranean oak paneled juxtaposition, a throwback to colonial days of wet shaves and hot towels, whilst still equipped with all the necessities for the average metro sexual man, specifically barbers chairs meets back, crack and sack waxing and of course, the massage benches.

Little gave away the forthcoming torture I was about to endure. It wasn't as if the door locked, the walls were padded or the bench had manacles, however in hindsight maybe the way Helga cracked all her knuckles before starting could have indicated the duress to come.

Within moments of me stripping butt naked and draping a towel over myself the pain arrived. Initially all went well, lots of lubricating cream, slathered on like some Greek wrestling preparation, and gently rubbed in.
Then, out of the blue Helga replaced man sized sausage fingers with a man sized elbow and a little more than half of her somewhat substantial weight.
Not that Helga was fat, or squat, more like tall and stacked, like a cross between a polish bull tosser and a former eastern block bulldozer.
Its rare that I'm made to involuntarily shout in pain, or groan like a man shot repeatedly, however Helga knew how to orchestrate a symphony consisting of little else than grunts, groans with a yelping percussion section.

Helga's elbows pinned me to the bench and proceeded to tear any shred of tension (alleged tension - I felt fine before entering!) out of my back. I haven't shrugged my shoulders since as it makes my eyes well up with tears. I'm not sure I'll ever shrug again.

I said I was running in the marathon and would like some attention paid to my legs, however my massage agenda didn't match Helga's, instead she tried her damnedest to cripple my back and through some perverted logic, try and sell me into returning on a weekly basis to ensure that the tensions she'd erased (ripped out of me) would be relieved for good if I took her advice.

I'd have hoarsely laughed at this suggestion but through a combination of fear and a desperate need to be able to walk out of the spa, I thought it better to grunt my agreement in between salvos of elbow blows.

I did make it out of the door, however, I had as much enjoyment as I would have if I'd have been slamming my fingers in the drawer.

There is one easy resolution to avoid future oversights like this, don't flippantly answer wives questions about Xmas wishes unless you expect to get what you asked for.

Therefore, by default, I asked for the pain Helga inflicted last Thursday, and only have myself to pin the blame upon.