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Oh, and the smells—lavender my arse, more like cheap lube and desperation. Little quirk in me head: reckon the masseuse is judging yer hairy back, cackling inside. Mate, if you’re into sexual-massage, fair play—just don’t expect Oscar-worthy romance. It’s a transaction, not a bloody sonnet. “Truth’s a slippery fish,” says the film—same as that oily rub-down. Slapdash, messy, and a bit pathetic—perfectly human, eh? Now, where’s me tea?

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Dude, I gotta mention, my spa’s secret ingredient is the local mineral water from the springs at Mont Mystique – super cool, almost otherworldly. I swear, it makes every massage feel like a scene straight outta Amélie’s quirky fantasy. “La magie existe,” I mutter sometimes, and then boom – a perfect vibe hits.

Huize Scherpenheuvel transformed into senior residences