Socketorium

I sat down and eased back into the sumptuous leather lounge as, simultaneously, a large cocktail slipped into my hand as if by magic.

Small, perfectly manicured hands were working at the laces of my boots, drawing them from my tired feet and caressing them with gentle strokes. Powerful, pulsating perturbations began kneading the knotted and gnarled muscles of my back. I took a sip of the exotic cocktail, glancing down at my bag of dirty socks. They were gone.

As my scalp massage began, so did my pedicure and foot massage. Hang the Moslems' 72 virgins in heaven - I was there already. A vision of loveliness padded by, dressed in nothing but a pair of snow white silk socks... and a long, form-fitting white sheath dress that I recognised as a giant sock with perfectly edged openings for head and arms. Dimly, I realised that both male and female staff were similarly attired, though the men's... socks?... were slightly shorter.

All too soon, my socks were back beside me, washed and dried and depilled and paired together for convenience. My pedicure over, my hair neatly brushed, my boots back on and laced to a perfect pressure... I alighted from the magical massage of the leather lounge and made my way out to the merchandise store.

There were thousands upon thousands of socks on display in every style and colour imaginable, from short, sporty numbers to handwoven alpaca masterpieces that cost enough per pair to feed a family for a month. Feeling guilty, I bought three pairs of plain black cotton and stepped out into the bustling street.

I knew in my heart I would definitely be back for more of the Socketorium's pampering.