Hot stoned massages… sorry I mean hot stone massages. Whatever they are called, I can’t escape them. As part of my job reviewing the spas of London for CNN I have been practically pelted with offers for hot stone massages.

I was, however, initially reluctant to experience them.

Would it be like what happened to maidens of medieval times, who when naughty would be taken to the village square and pelted with hot stones?
And if not, what if the stones were too hot and I ended up walking around with a stone sized burn on my back?

What if a hot stone(d) massage was beauty-therapist lingo for smoking marijuana whilst getting massage? There’s no way I’d be up for that.

Yes, I was deeply suspicious of this treatment. I lumped it in with other faddish treatments such as the Wimbledon massage (you are pelted with tennis balls), the 20 hand Re-fuel massage, where they call ten random people from the street to rub you down with petrol, or the Baste and Bake massage, where you are coated in oils and then put in an oven.

There was only one way to find out if this treatment was kosher. That was to try it for myself. Twice.

My first hot stone experience was at a spa in Knightsbridge.

I don’t remember much, as I fell asleep. Later when I returned to work, I felt sick so I had to be sent home. “They must have spiked the massage,” I mumbled unconvincingly.

Today I went to a spa in Mayfair determined to stay awake. “Turn off this trip-hop dirge and put on some Rollins Band!” I asked nicely. The spa didn’t have any Rollins “What about Slipknot. Do you have any of that?” I asked.
Unfortunately the closest they came to heavy was Moby.
I soldiered on. “Make the stones and the massage burny so I stay awake,” I said.

The stones used were basalt and came all the way from Australia, just like me. I wondered if maybe I had encountered it in the past – cut my foot on it down at the beach, or used it to bully other children. But when it came time for me to meet the stones I felt not even a speck of recognition.

The masseur (who I also failed to recognise, but that’s maybe because I didn’t know her) started by lining the table with hot stones that followed the line of my spine. I lay on them. They were nice. Sort of like a hard hot water bottle.

She then put a stone on my face – not a large one that broke my nose – more like a hot little pebble that one might find on their shoes.

Heavier stones were placed on each shoulder and I realised this may be an opportune time for the masseuse to rob me as I would be pinned down on the table and unable to give chase. Then I realised I was sans clothes and had naught to steal.

Stones were placed on my abdomen. I started to feel very….slllleeeppppy.
“PUT ON THE ROLLINS BAND!” I asked again, struggling to stay awake.

Then she started doing something to my leg – with the stone! She was rubbing the stone with vigour along my shin. Weird. Stop being so weird! But I didn’t say it because it felt quite nice actually. The pointy end of the stone was sort of sliding around of my bones with enough pressure to make me wince. I get it now. The hot stones were the tools, and the masseuse was a tradie and my body was the thing being repaired. Mmm, so that’s what its all about.

But just when I had it figured out – odd things started happening – vis a vis the stones.

She got a lot of little hot ones and placed them between each toe. Nice one, said my toes. She placed stones in the palm of each hand where they just sat while I channelled Virginia Woolf at her most unhappy. She did something to my ear lobes with another stone, a sort of rubbey, warmy thing. The ridge of a stone skidded along the top of my brows like a pebble on the water.

Ahhh hot stones! What benign, giving lumps of minerals they are. Who would have thought?