Iced plum

is allegedly what I flaunt on my pampered nails. No doubt, the fetching nomenclature bestowed by a man with a healthy disregard of that food group popularly known as ‘fruit’ (no pun intended). Either that or he must buy his plums from Uncle Jimmy (he of the finest ‘herb’ garden this side of Dadar TT).
The sight of 10 gorgeous, best of Bollywood ‘where’s my sunglasses?’, raani pink toes wiggling in the sunshine please me greatly. My mission, a pedicure, but gentle persuasion on my ailing rotator cuff has me surrendering to a suggestion of a neck massage. Suddenly, I’m wrestling with my equilibrium and shoulder straps to stay aloof under the most dissolutely wicked massage (if you haven’t known it, there’s little to beat the sinful experience of a sets of strong hands working their way down your back and up your sides, while another set of equally masterful hands liquefy your bones with a sultry, just the right side of appropriate, inching up your thigh, around the kneecap technique that can make a grown woman moan!!).
Where did they find these boys?? 90 minutes of pure bliss; pretty pink toes (coloured in by shockingly shaky hands. I’d like to think it was the devastating proximity to my aura, but the word ‘habit’ kept intruding), satiny skin and loose muscles; a steal, even with the penny in penury. Its time to reclaim my city. Tea at the Taj, I think.