I have a bad back. But, rather than tackle the root cause with, say, gentle exercise or by spending fewer hours at my desk, I decided to do the sensible thing: I got a massage.

"I'm in a lot of discomfort," I said to the lady, whose pamphlet had promised "a journey to the very heart of relaxation".

"Then take off your top, roll back your jeans and lie down."

So I did. Not well enough, apparently, as I felt my trousers yanked aside to reveal what I could only assume was a truly spectacular display of buttock cleavage. The room filled with the sound of whales, apparently having a row over the ownership of some krill.

And then began the massage. First, the essential oils. I was dribbled with probably-lavender, possibly-geranium and ye-gods-this-one-smells-grim. Once I was safely incapacitated, her fingers went into my shoulder muscles. And in. And in. I half-expected her arm to burst through my stomach, like the creature in Alien, but with a manicure. Then, a new move, which I can only describe as a blubber pinch, followed by a twist of the love handles and a vigorous flub rub.

A pause. I was face-down, so I'm not entirely certain what happened next, but I'm fairly sure that as she leant over to do things to my lower spinal region, her boobs were resting on my head.

A waft of something that smelt like a synthetic shoe. The whale smackdown reached its briny climax. Then, "You can sit up now. Feeling a bit more comfortable?"

"Yes, thank you," I said. "That was lovely."