This Week Zoë and Train Man Brave Colonic Irrigation
Train Man’s just come out of the bathroom and I’ve asked him what colour his poo was. It’s probably the least romantic conversation we’ve ever had, but there are extenuating circumstances – we’re staying at a spa where talking about your faecal matter is the norm.
After last week’s partying, I thought it was time for a detox. I know it’s melodramatic, but since India we’ve been a little lardy. Even Train Man – the only man I know who looks good in skinny jeans. Or used to.
So we checked into The Sanctuary, a delicious haven on an almost private beach on Ko Phangan, and set about the two-day ‘pre-cleanse’ of eating tropical fruit and sumptuous salads.
On day three, the appropriately named spa manager, Moon, did a (clothed) demo on self-administered coffee colonics. I suddenly felt so guilty about what I’d badgered Train Man into that when Moon said the word “anus”, I started giggling nervously. I soon stopped when he handed us the rubber gloves.
Although the colonics weren’t enjoyable, eating nothing but clay shakes and herbal pills for four days was surprisingly easy given the serene surroundings. We’ve sunbathed by day and watched feel-good flicks with other cleansers by night.
And after Train Man watched The Devil Wears Prada with 20 women, I really owe him. Tomorrow we leave Poo Camp after a week and I’m pleased to say we’re feeling perky. Train Man’s eyes are sparkling and I haven’t been this slim since I was 13. And the best thing? I’m not even craving pudding.
So what was Train Man’s answer to my icky question? “Bright green, babe. Oh and I’m sure that Matchbox car I swallowed when I was three was in there.”
We’ll never speak of this again.
Miles travelled: 0.5 to the next beach / Terse sentences exchanged: 0!! / Poo Tube moments: 8
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