There are worse things to hear when you're lying on and under pure Irish linen next to your beloved husband on a kingsize bed in the room that the Mandarin Oriental (and several Sheiks I am led to believe) know as the Courtyard Queen on a Friday night after a lovely afternoon being pummelled and brushed and steamed and then a lovely meal where each course was better than the last. But, as I struggled to take in what David was saying, I was at a loss to know what in fact could be worse.
I turned to face him, his face hopeful and at the same time filled with trepidation. I had the fleeting thought that he'd been talking at length to Frank and Marjorie and pulled the sheet up to my chin. "What do you mean?" I said, shimmying further across the bed. Away from him. Such a shame really - he was so excited by the size of the plasma television in the room and kept booming "the people are almost life size!" as he channel hopped whilst I lay flat out in a steaming hot, Molton Brown scented bath that I was really quite hopeful of, y'know, a good night.
"Well, I've been umming and aahing about actually telling you because I know that it's quite possibly not what you want but then I thought that, once you saw it, you'd want it." he smiled at me winningly. My fleeting thoughts were now distinctly on the dark side, especially as he was wriggling around in the bed and a little down to his left as if.....reaching for something.
I can't tell you my relief when he came up with a sheaf of papers and not the whip/handcuffs/PVC tape/battery powered item/blindfold that I had imagined. After several large lungfuls of air I felt quite dizzy but relaxed enough to release my vice-like grip on the Irish linen (really, it was so lovely). It turns out that he's found a house in a village in East Sussex and is worried that because it's more rural than seaside I wouldn't be interested. "It's affordable even though it needs some work on it - I've taken the day off on Monday and thought we'd go down to view it?" It looks gorgeous, amazing even, and I'm sure that anyone passing our room might have mistaken my squeals of joy because the house has got a paddock and an attic room for Mac for something far raunchier.
Bea was right: I packed for glamour and got it - one slightly famous actor who was checking out as we were checking in and chilled champagne whilst perusing a menu that made me drool.
Janey was right: my inner sex kitten turned up on Saturday evening and successfully kept the football at bay too.
Marjorie was right, after a fashion: I got so intoxicated on the champagne (and lightheaded thanks to Marlia and her magic massage skills) that I fell A over T as I stepped regally out into the spa reception. David picked me up and practically carried me back to the room. Laughing.
Lydia was right: we just WERE, the two of us, despite frequent calls home to check on Mac and the dogs. Bea informed me that Mac was in danger of forgetting us altogether, he was having such a good time with his cousins and Matt assured us that all three dogs had nearly eaten the jumbo sized bag of Bakers that I'd only bought the day before.
Oh, and the room service was excellent!