London roots

Now I'm back in Acton, I've returned to my old Acton High Street beauty salon.

I'm pretty sure I've blogged before about what a disheartening experience the bikini wax is in the UK, and how hard it is to find a good one. I fear I was rather spoilt in the Gulf, where pampering and customer service is unbeatable. I regularly walked out of salons not wanting to jump off a bridge - which was a novelty.  But it was back to earth with a bump today, as I returned to waxing - London style.

"Your thighs are fat", the beautician informed me, as I balanced half naked and vulnerable on her plastic table, "you should go on a diet". Oh thanks for that. I'd had a suspicion I had huge, whale blubber thunder thighs, but it's nice to have it confirmed.

It wasn't all bad, apparently my calves are "alright". She also told me my arms were "ok", but she said it with a look on her face that suggested that by 'ok' she mean't 'hideous'.

Of course I didn't take it lying down, (though in a literal sense, I did) - I got my own back by only giving a nine per cent tip - ha!