Rip and tuck

Well that’s just typical. After a decade long hunt for the perfect bikini wax, I have finally found it, in London, six days before I move away.

Up until now I’ve been going to a place in Acton for my monthly dose of humiliation. Not only are they fabulously cheap, but they throw in a whole host of thinly veiled insults and criticism – for free. Not only do I have to deal with the pain and mortification of the deed itself, but the beautician also tells me every

time I go in that I should get a tummy tuck. It’s not what you want to hear when you’re in a vulnerable position. She went on about it on so many visits that in the end I lied and told her I’d been to the doctor and he’d told me I wasn’t eligible.

The last two times I’ve been there I’ve had a new woman, but when she started telling me how awful the British are, and how badly they treated the Indians in the lead up to Indian independence, I decided not to return. It’s not that I don’t agree, on the contrary I’ll be the first to admit that the British were brutes, but I don’t want some woman taking it out on my privates 200 years later.