This afternoon was the final straw - we had a chap in from the West Country. He was a far cry from the gorgeous, well-heeled city slickers of St. Paul's and Liverpool Street. It was horrible. He was dressed from head from to toe in what resembled a scarecrow's getup; a cigarette hung from his grey lips, and he evidently needed a bath and a strong athlete's foot spray. The wife had purchased him a Red Letter Spa Day for his fiftieth birthday, and I wish she'd purchased him a weekend break in a field. Nevertheless, it is the duty of the Golden Rain staff to make our customers feel pampered and special, even if they do exude the fruity aroma of a sweaty ferret in a pair of trainers.

The scarecrow walked over to the reception desk and grinned at all the spa girls. "Good afternoon sir," I said in my special spa girl accent. "You must be Mr. Shatfield."

"Aye, that's me!" he said, grinning a wide, gappy-toothed smile.

"Would you mind putting your cigarette out please sir," I said. "Smoking is not permitted in the Spa."

"Don't you worry me duck," he replied, hiccupping. "I'll just stub it out outside." He staggered into the rainy street, and once in the open air, stood on the treacherous, slippery pavement puffing furiously away on the last little stump.

Two of our regular clients - a rain drenched mother and daughter, walked into reception. They shook their colourful umbrellas out onto our new reception carpet. A spray of rainwater covered the chairs. The rotund, sturdy women with skin resembling alabaster, were draped in jewels, and clutched Prada handbags. Golden Rain receives many ladies who lunch and then polish off the day with a facial, reflexology or aromatherapy session. They are great for business and usually tip very well.

"We've come for our facials and hair appointments," said the mature lady.

"Ahh," I said. "You are Mrs..."

"Mrs. Blaker-Pepperpot."

"Charlotte will be looking after you today, " I explained. "If you'd just like to take a seat, she will be with you in a minute." The two ladies sat down in the squishy, leather armchairs, and watched as the door opened and in walked Mr. Shatfield. The Blaker-Pepperpot girls eyed him in horror as he blew them kisses on his way back to the reception desk.

"I'm looking for something Chinese," explained Mr. Shatfield.

"Chinese?" I said, quizzically. "If you want a Chinese, then you could try the Wong Chunger just up the road from here. I recommend the noodles and prawn balls."

"No," said Shatfield. "I'm looking for something Chinese to massage me. Chinese girls aren't just great with their chopsticks. They really know how to give a man a deep tissue massage."

"I'm afraid our Chinese lady is giving acupuncture right now."

"She can puncture me any day," he said with a glint in his eye. Mrs. Baker-Pepperpot tried not to notice, but couldn't help scanning him up and down with her beady brown eyes.

"Right sir," I continued, "I see that your wife has booked you in for an aromatherapy massage, a body wax and a facial at 2:00 today," I said, tapping my biro on the appointments book. I knew instantly that my treatment room supervisor, Anita Donothing, would make me look after Mr. Shatfield. Since I've only recently qualified, she always gives me the difficult customers.

"Yes, love," he said. "Which one of you lucky ladies will have the honour of massaging me?" Anita gave me the look of a woman who had eaten one too many cheese and pickle sandwiches. She busied herself in reception with a pair of rubber gloves and some window spray. Whenever a difficult situation arises, Anita always starts polishing or doing things to our Christmas display. Despite the fact that it's October, we already have an imitation Christmas tree in the window, which is festooned with bright baubles, and topped with flashing amber, pink and green fairy lights. Our reception area is covered in tinsel, and next month Ptolemy from the salon, will be dressing up as Santa and giving out discount holiday vouchers to potential customers. Ptolemy is divine. I've fancied him rotten for months. He has a floppy fringe and a dark, dangerous look about him. He's the James Bond of the hair salon in a pink overall. What he can do with a pair of electrolysis prongs is pure magic. Once you've been zapped by Ptolemy's prongs, your hairs won't grow back for ages. Anita thinks he likes boys, but I reckon he's just a bit confused.

"I will be looking after you today sir," I said, taking Mr. Shatfield's coat, which reeked of manure.

"Excellent, I like brunettes," he remarked, smirking, before cackling like a lecher. I gave him a sharp, don't mess with me or I'll tell the wife kind of stare.

"Brunette it is then," he said, winking at me.

Just then Charlotte came out of one of the treatment rooms. She is bright and efficient, with straight blonde hair tied back into a French plait. Charlotte arrived just in time to rescue the Blaker-Pepperpot girls. "If you'd just like to step this way," she said, "I'll take you through." The two women followed Charlotte into the treatment rooms. They looked back at Mr. Shatfield as they walked past. "Goodbye girls," he said, waving. "Have a nice time. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." They failed to respond, and stayed close to Charlotte.

Anita finished re-arranging the gold tinsel on the Christmas tree. "I think I've finished now," she said. "Shall I look after reception while you take Mr. Shatfield in for his massage?" Anita looked
at me as though everything were perfectly normal. Why is it that some people, whenever they are shirking from their duties in surreal circumstances, can act as if everything is just peachy. Anita is a dab hand at looking busy or taking over reception. I can't remember the last time she gave a massage.

"Yes, Anita, that's fine. You just do reception, take a break, and have a nice cup of tea." Anita scowled and then began sellotaping tinsel to the telephone. Some people!

"Which way to the treatment rooms?" enquired a keen Mr.Shatfield.

"It's this way," I said, grabbing some fluffy, brown towels from the cupboards. My heart sank at the thought of massaging this lecherous scarecrow. He also had to be waxed. No wonder his wife sent him to a spa. We get lots of married men in here. They come in looking very hairy and unkempt, and we send them back home looking buffed and coiffured. I fail to understand how this could improve a marriage. After all, it's still the same guy we're sending home.

We enter the dark, dimly lit aromatherapy den. "If you'd just like to take off your clothes and strip down to your underpants," I told Mr. Shatfield, "I'll get the essential oils together. You can put your clothes on the chair over in the corner."

"Right you are me duck," he said, and undressed. I mixed up my potions and dunked my hands into the oily liquid.

"I'm ready me duck!" he shouted. I turned around to see him in the dim light. He was posing on his side, with one leg raised in the air. It was horrible. He was wearing nothing but a pair of trunks bearing the inscription ‘Loch Ness Monster Lives Here' written in pink lettering across the front. His hairy stomach hung over the elasticated waistband. I felt queasy.

"I've taken my kit off. Now it's your turn," he said. I threw my oily, angst-ridden hands into the air. They slipped over the knob - doorknob that is, and I couldn't turn it. I panicked; my heart raced, and I felt a sense of absolute despair. When I finally did get out of the room, I ran along the corridor and found Anita sipping her tea in reception. "Anita!" I yelled. "Mr. Shatfield is a madman. He's just asked me to remove my clothes!"

Suddenly, there was a loud shriek. Two women ran into reception wearing nothing but brown towels. "A strange man in odd trunks has just burst into the ladies sauna and offered us a free massage!" one of them shouted, panting and out of breath. "Don't worry ladies," I reassured them. "It's just a new client who's got lost in our maze of corridors. If you'd just like to go into the lounge area, I will be with you in a minute. I'm sorry for any inconvenience."

Anita picked up the telephone and called Zebadie, one of the masseurs. Zebadie is built like a huge trucker, sports tattoos on both arms, and is the proud owner of a Doberman named Buck.

Thank heavens I have The Button Club's Blood Lust Ball At Hampton Court to look forward to on Friday night. I'm going as a vampire bride. Charlotte from the spa is applying my makeup and the lovely Ptolemy has agreed to dress my hair. I'm looking forward to meeting fellow revellers and The Button Club's members. I hear there is a few ghostly surprises in store for us on Friday night, so I hope you will join me in sinking your teeth into a night of Transylvanian festivities.

I'm just about to turn the Christmas tree lights off and head home. It's been another day of seaweed wraps and entertainment at the Golden Rain Spa. Goodnight. See you on Friday.