Bare naked ladies

I went back to the Porchester Spa last night, London's oldest, which was built in 1929 in the Art Deco style and originally called The Turkish and Russian Vapour Baths. My first visit was a couple of years ago, when I went with an ex on couples' day. Before he was an ex, that is - not after. Going to a spa with an ex is not my idea of relaxation. Anyway. He didn't like it, but then he didn't really like much except being important and having lots of money, so I pushed the bad memories aside and returned, taking Em and Grania with me. In the ex's defence, I can see why he wasn't a fan. It's definitely grimy. Sanitary conditions are one of the mainstays of a good spa, and this one doesn't have 'em. But it's been going for eighty years and the gorgeous original tiling in the high-ceilinged relaxation lounge is hilariously juxtaposed with crappy green plastic sun loungers and a pretty unromantic steam room. You're given two big towels and a gingham sarong on entry, so you've always got something to sit on, and if you wear flipflops I don't really see the problem.

The definite difference between my first and second visit was that this time we were there on a ladies' only evening and boy, was there a lot of bush on show. There weren't nearly as many total wax jobs as you might expect, and in fact, many of the muffs were of impressive height and width, looking like a quarter of a large hair pizza had been laid down below the wearers' belly buttons. Emily even spotted one lady who seemed to have shaved a strip down the middle of her 'region', leaving a wide dark band on either edge. We discussed it and I decided that, given that she was of a certain age, she must be a victim of unfortunate selective pubic balding. As an image of our future, it wasn't particularly inspiring.

I'm quite a big fan of nudity, although to spare my friends the pain of looking at my birthday suit for four hours, I kept my bikini on last night. I did, however, appreciate the levelling effect of a bunch of women walking around starkers. In the time we were there, I only spotted one figure that I would have swapped, in its entirity, for my own. So many fantastic legs with rubbish boobs out there. Who knew? It was humbling and comforting and relaxing and, eventually, irrelevant, which is (of course) how it should be. I'm not sure, but the impression I get of men's changing rooms is that they are pretty nude-happy. Many grown women, on the other hand, still do that 'I'm-getting-changed-under-this-towel' thing that they do on a crowded beach. I don't know what we're all so repressed about, and I wish it wasn't the case. That said, tonight I'm off to eat seven courses at Marcus Wareing, and the chances of me wanting to show anyone my body in the immediate aftermath are, well, slimmer than I'll ever be. The boyban continues unchallenged.