Sometimes a little R&R at home is all you need …
When Jane Austen wrote “There is nothing like staying at home, for real comfort” in 1815, she’d probably never stayed in a swanky hotel, where uber-high thread count linens are changed daily and one petulant phone call procures an in-room masseur, manicurist, mojito and man-to-figure-out-the-remote. Tempting though “affordable luxury” getaway
offers may be, I figure if I can afford it, it ain’t luxury. And then there’s the hassle
of getting there, threatening to extract all the flavour, like gluten-free pasta, and the pleasure, like ethical fur. Instead, I opt to stay in, to luxuriate in stolen time on my ownio, untethered from email, Beyoncé on the Bose, bath run, bottle of €23.95 Marqués de Riscal Reserva breathing heavily on the naked countertop, Bob Fosse’s Cabaret in the DVD player, in which Liza Minnelli’s Sally Bowles asserts her supremacy over my husband’s film hero Jason Bourne. In my version of the 1990 adventure/comedy Home Alone, husband/dogs/relatives/staff/Facebook friends/LinkedIn colleagues all feck off to Paris, leaving me (and my discreet imaginary housekeeper) locked in, to fend for myself for a week. All meals are delivered by @beezlarder and I still manage to lose eight pounds. Something crazy happens to the wifi, and I’m unable to follow world events, newsfeed replaced by audiobooks I’d been meaning to read since September 15, 2008, the day Lehman Brothers fell. I spend the week in a fugue state, listening to Lyric FM, staring at my emerald, Sally Bowles-inspired nails, dreamily imagining what it might feel like to rake them across some muscular back, in Italy, in a luxury hotel room.
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