Cresswell Of Zanzibar.

We were given some outlandish white linen outfits before being ushered into the changing rooms.

At this stage of the honeymoon my beard was quite full and unkempt, and my skin had developed into a deep, leathery shade of terracotta.

When I emerged with my full, majestic, ankle length robe and sandals, I felt very powerful.

I had assumed some sort of biblical aura, needing only a staff and some indoctrinated followers to complete the look. Ok, and possibly some hair on the top of my head too. Perhaps I looked slightly more likely to be the French horn player with the Polyphonic Spree, but either way I felt fantastic, and nothing was going to piss on my fire.

Lisa looked radiantly beautiful. Wearing similar garb, her eyes were effervescent with transmissions from a golden heart; glowing with love, full of life, relaxed and happy.

It was a brilliantly surreal moment, and I felt weightless.

We wandered into a temple that flickered with a gentle sprinkling of candlelight, and I suddenly contemplated that we might be part of some bizarre religious sacrifice. 

I thought I recognised some of the low maintenance easy listening music as it softly dripped from the walls.

“I’m not sure this is authentic music”, suggested Lisa.

I had to admit there was an unrefined childlike simplicity about the recording. I tried to suppress my natural instincts, but couldn’t resist eventually humming along to an intriguing instrumental interpretation of “Do You Know The Way To San Jose”.

I desisted, however, when “Lady In Red” by Chris De Burgh appeared.

What a thoroughly disgusting song - wetter than Daryl Hannah at the end of the movie ‘Splash’.

We lay for a while in a toasty bath that had a medley of petals floating gently to and fro on the surface. My brain, often heavy with the remotest of irrelevant nagging thought, began to empty, and for the first time in a while I managed not to be consumed with worry.

Eventually, two politely smiling ladies wandered in, we got dried off, and jumped up side by side onto a pair of massage tables. 

The ‘deep muscle’ massage provided by these two tiny women was delivered with an unusually robust fortitude. I’d swear that my masseuse had the strength of an Olympian. It was entirely remarkable - a curious mix of being soothing and desperately painful, all at the same time. 

My head was poking downwards through a padded outlet in the table, and underneath me was a small pot of multi-coloured flowers, pleasantly arranged to relax the eyes whilst your neck and back were being squeezed, poked, slapped and prodded.

I closed my eyes, and my head started to spin.

I opened my eyes and imagined that I was lying on my back instead of my front, and for one split second I hallucinated that I was lying inside a coffin due to be cremated. 




'Superb', I thought.