Sometimes, I feel like an ashole. You decide. My question for you is whether I do an honest online review or just leave it be.

On Saturday, I went for a massage, having woken up at 2 am in total depressive tears and not knowing what else to do. Post cortisteroid injection, my hips were still in agony - not just the right hip, but the entire hip area. A week on, I knew logically that it hadn't had time to settle yet and my muscles were likely guarding the sore hip, and that I had some way to go to buid strength, but emotionally, I was totally done in, spending a good 24 hours trying not to be in floods of tears and not quite suceeding.

Unfortunately, the remedial massuest I normally see was fully booked, so I had to look at every other establishment in town before finally arriving at a women who did massage out of her premises - not unusual around here. She was a good $30 cheaper than others as well, which I figured was because she was working from home. She had a collection of around twenty excellent, five star reviews, including from an ex colleague.

When I arrived, the house was a bit of a mess - the garden was full of weeds, there was a barking dog, and to be honest, I wasn't sure I had the right place. When she answered the door, she was a little dishevelled, and apologised for her sniffles - a bit of a head cold, she said. Taken aback, I asked her if she was contagious, and she said no, it was just a head cold. I am not very good with some social situations and didn't want to argue, and figured if I was face down on the massage table, and did a nasal rinse afterwards, I'd probably be okay. Besides, I was desperate for help, and in a world of pain.

To get to her massage room, you had to walk around the side of the house, where a large pile of garbage bags and old sofa cushions lay against the fence. Okay, I thought, don't be judgey. Not everyone maintains a Home Beautiful garden, and windchimes and flowers do not a good masseust make.

^{Me, in a hammock, trying not to cry.}

But it got kinda worse. When I lay on the table, I noticed a very dirty floor - lots of actual dirt and the legs of the table were lined with dust. When I'm face down on a massage table, I expect to see a bowl of flowers or at least a clean floor. Worst, her trainers were grubby a.f. There was also a sharp smell I couldn't quite place, but it sure as hell wasn't incense.

She put on Eddie Reader - not my taste, but okay - and got to work.

I was a little firm with her and felt bad when she started asking me personal questions, such as where I lived and so on. 'Please don't take offence', I said, 'but I don't really like talking when I get a massage'. Ugh, what a bitch. But I don't - I'm not here to share my life story, and I want to relax, which you can't do if you're talking. She was a little taken aback, and kept apologising - which she did every time she forgot and asked me a question over the next hour.

Now here's the good part - she was actually good. She quickly found my pain and got to work. However, she ran this super wierd commentary, pausing to ask if it was okay if I touched there or went deeper there, as if I hadn't already given her permission when I signed the disclaimer form. She kept apologising every time she slipped on a muscle (because of the oil). She also had this wierd way of talking about the whole process of finding my knots and pain as a battle, describing the knots as 'him' and the 'fight' to 'win' because she was a 'perfectionist', listing her work history, such as working with football clubs and so on.

'Oh, there he is. The evil thing. I will win' she said as she found an elusive knot in my shoulder. 'Aha!' she would say. 'I win! I gotcha, you slippery devil! See! I told you I was good! Sorry, I'm a perfectionist!'

I tried to close my eyes against the fetid floor, realising that smell was mouseshit because there were quite clearly black pellets on the tiles.

When I turned over, I put the small towel at the headrest over my face. I didn't want her coughing on me, but excused myself by saying I was light sensitive. Dammit, I was super trying to be polite and really didn't want to offend her. But she was driving me insane with her odd chatter and self-aggrandizement, including a very long one sided discussion on treating pro surfer Taj Burrows and how she doesn't care who you are, she'll treat you the same (fair enough) which sounded like I should reply to, but didn't, because of what I'd said about no fucking small talk. Eddie Reader kept singing, interjected by Spotify ads and the massuest saying how soothing she thought Eddie was.

Anyway, when it was finally over, I got dressed, trying not to look at the stained and dirty lino and the cobwebs and the dust, and keeping my distance from her, who seemed to think 'giving me privacy to get changed' was simply turning her back on me.

^{Showing you a hammock in a loose connection to 'relaxation' and 'massage'}

She showed me a couple of moves to stretch my shoulders, and then went to shake my hand. If I didn't feel like an asshole before, I certainly did now, pulling my hand away. 'Oh', she said. 'I'm so sorry'.

'No no', I said, almost gagging at the smell of mouseshit and wanting out of there now - 'I'm just hypersensitive, that's all'.

'I do hope you come back', she said, and I felt bad for her, thinking that no one could possibly want to come back to that fetid room, no matter how good her massage was.

Two days later, I'm feeling a lot better - her adminstrations were expert, her experience clear - but I'm worrying about what to do now. If I'd have read an honest google review about the state of those premises, I'd never had gone. She is a human being who's skilled at her job, and has some clear issues about cleanliness, but for fuck's sake, no one should endure a massage whilst inhaling the incense of mouse shit or gaze at dirt and cobwebs whilst trying to relax.

^{Advertising, early '90's. Hammock review: 5 stars.}

Do I give an honest review? I wouldn't write about her odd personality - that's highly subjective and I appreciate that she may just have that manner about her and that it's completely harmless, but the squalor, oh lord, the squalor! I have thought about writing her an email to tell her to clean up her act - literally - but what if she doesn't? Or do I just leave other people to stumble across her and discover for themselves?

With Love,

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