The pursuit of 'wellness' is tiring and quite possibly futile.

It is 9pm and I am sitting on the couch with my friend Ryan telling him about my day.


I had seen the evil Sapt and spent an hour lifting 4 kg weights, my face screwed up like a used tissue.

I had gone to a meditation class and in the morning I went to South Kensington where a pretend Geisha in a very mellow room (where playing was dirge-like electronica designed to be soothing) rubbed Nightingale faeces into my face. "It's an ancient treatment," I tell Ryan who is moving away from me in a sort of horror. "Geishas used it in ye olde times and now some posh day spa has revived this ancient art."

Ryan is practically in the next room. "I don't smell of s***," I tell him. "They purify the faeces before they smear it on your face."

He looks sceptical and allows himself a bit nearer to my (fragrant) face.

"You don't look any different," he says. I must look crushed.

He sighs,"Maybe tomorrow... you might look different tomorrow."

Labels: facial, futility, gym, meditation