Swing out, sister
Lucy Vickery
'ARE you here to check in, ladies?' The strict, shrill voice rang out around the reception area of The Sanctuary day spa in London's Covent Garden. My hardworking friend, Nicola, and I were there to spend an evening being tended to in tranquil surroundings. We were looking forward, as the publicity material puts it, to 'basking in peace on the massage table'. In general, the only basking I do is in reflected glory; and Nicola, with two boisterous children and a demanding job, doesn't get much peace.
The objective, then, was to attain a state of inner calm, but already I was bristling inwardly at 'ladies', a form of address that brings to mind either leotard-clad, middleaged women panting their way through 'bums and turns' classes, or members of Weight Watchers.
We followed the voice meekly into the restaurant area, where we were seated and given a complimentary plastic beaker of water and a welcome leaflet (which I read later only to discover that I had inadvertently broken several of the house rules). Things began to look up when, on completing the registration procedure, we collected our voluminous, white, fluffy towelling robes and set off to explore. I felt soothed and contained by my robe, and, as we wandered around the spa's cavernous interior, the outside world — and my unhealthy resentment — receded.
The Sanctuary's facilities include the magnificent koi carp lounge (where members can bask and indulge in relaxing pursuits), two swimming-pools, a whirlpool, and a sauna and steam room. In addition, a wide range of spa treatments are on offer, although the cost of these is not included in the .E40 eveningmembership fee. Because the spa area is so labyrinthine and multi-levelled, it is impossible for members to congregate in one place, and so it feels spacious and sparsely populated. Mobile phones are outlawed. Two elements that feature prominently in the spa's publicity material — the relaxation suite and the swing — deserve a special mention.
Evening membership (5 p.m. to 10 p.m.) entitles you to a 20-minute session in the relaxation suite. Before each session begins, members are presented with a series of questions about their medical history. In my opinion, there are too many medical questionnaires involved in a trip to The Sanctuary (two). Do you suffer from any of the following conditions, they ask: yes or no? This seems a little categorical. Where's the not-as-far-as-I-know box? And what is the purpose of all these questions? What would happen, exactly, if I was suffering, unknowingly, from one of those conditions and spent 20 minutes in the relaxation suite?
Such were my fears as a small group of us padded up a short, wooden staircase and boarded the suite. I say boarded, because, as we entered, I was struck by its resemblance to what I imagine an aircraft simulator to look like. The suite is low-slung (two people banged their heads on the way in), long and thin, and contains black, leatherette seats, two-by-two. 'Fasten your seatbelts,' quipped a fellow-passenger.
We were instructed to take our seats; a remote control was to our left, a pair of headphones to our right. On the press of a button, our seats whirred to the horizontal position and, suddenly, I was at the dentist's. As whale music wafted through the headphones, I took the plunge and pressed the leg-vibrator button: quite nice, actually; no shooting pains in the calves or any other alarming symptoms. Emboldened, I pressed the main 'Go' button. A ball-like thing began to roll up and down my spine. Occasionally, it would vibrate vigorously. I was beginning to enjoy myself; this was really quite pleasant. Whenever I felt the odd stab of pain, which is not unusual in the course of a massage, I felt free to yelp because my masseur was an inanimate object and thus impossible to offend. After a blissful 20 minutes, the massage came to an end, and I disembarked, relieved that all seemed well with my body.
Brochures for the spa show an attractive woman swinging in a relaxed and carefree fashion on a swing that dangles tantalisingly above the Atrium swimming-pool. According to the welcome leaflet, it has 'featured in many film and television dramas', and I felt I should have a go. Nicola thought so too. Getting on proved tricky. The swing hangs a fair distance from the slippery swimmingpool steps, and it required a confident and decisive move to mount successfully. I positioned myself and lunged forward, realising too late that the swing was too narrow to accommodate my bottom. By that point, I'd committed myself to the manoeuvre and. as I struggled to wedge my thighs between its edges, the swing looped awkwardly over the pool. One side was higher than the other, and I was in considerable discomfort, though I pretended not to be.
After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, the swing came to a standstill and it was time to get off. I was too far from the steps to dismount by that route, and I was afraid that if I attempted a graceful slither into the water, I'd crack the back of my head on the swing, thereby losing my dignity and causing a scene. A couple of fellow-guests leaned over the balustrade and watched. Beneath me, a lone naked swimmer circled. After some minutes, I decided to opt once again for the confident and decisive approach. I launched myself into the water, clinging simultaneously on to the swing's ropes. It took a few laps of the pool for the pain to die down.
Nonetheless, Nicola and I spent a delightful five hours lolling around, calmed by the stone, whitewashed walls, the smooth, tiled floors and the flattering, low fibre-optic lighting. I had a rejuvenating facial designed, my therapist explained, tautologically, 'to hydrate and moisturise'.
By the end of evening, we were in a pleasantly catatonic state. The changing-rooms changed all that. They are poky, noisy and crowded. My serene mood was shattered almost immediately when I whacked my head on the corner of an open locker door as I tried to press through the naked throng. There were a few women who were clearly dressed and ready to go but chose to linger. I felt — unreasonably, I am sure — that they had nothing better to do than to appraise the bodies of those around them and award mental marks out of ten. (Women are far harsher critics than men.) I found myself doing the towel-on-the-beach changing routine — teetering as I tried to step into my pants — which further undermined my serenity. On our way out, I was pleased to see a board showing an artist's impression of a new changing area — due to open in June this year — which looked as though it will have pleasing nooks and crannies in which the modest can lurk.
I generally avoid Covent Garden if I can: too many tempting shops, too many people, too many potential pickpockets. But The Sanctuary is only a short distance from the Tube station and there's a great deal to recommend it. The swing may be a touch dangerous and designed for those with virtually no bottom, and the relaxation suite may bring you face to face with your deepest fears, but the spa is an effective and affordable antidote to the horrors of urban living, and the staff are untainted by that demeanour of thinly veiled hatred that afflicts those who have worked for too long — and out of the wrong motives — in the service sector (i.e., most airline cabin staff). I have just a few words of advice: let some other fool try the swing and, for the moment at least, avoid the changingrooms: see if you can slip out in one of those nice towelling robes.
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