The Fag Hag’s body, having spent so many fun-packed years as an amusement park, is now officially a temple. I’ve spent the past week on a health retreat and become one of those terrible cunts who wield yoga mats and drone on about Omega 3 (didn’t Wesley Snipes star in that?).
For the first time I’ve been up at 6.30am without chemical assistance and in bed by 11pm without a cock waiting for me in the Egyptian cottons. I’ve been cobra-ing and sun saluting, chucking down sunflower seeds like they were prescription painkillers, and going for two-mile hikes in strange boot things that don’t have heels or satin bow details. I’ve renounced caffeine, and replaced it with Rooibus, who sadly is not an Aboriginal hooker but a tea. I’ve been pummeled, prodded, poked and steamed before having to run for my life. (Very like a date with Russell Brand then.)
Meanwhile, over on the East Side, whilst I was being detoxed, Barbara Obama was having a special boy scouts ceremony thingy. Determined not to miss the exact shade of Michelle’s Jimmy Choos, I went sprinting out of my yoga class to find a telly. I shed a tear like everyone else at the significant moments – George Bush senior getting it wrong in purple. Aretha threatening to break into Who’s Zooming Who. An Obama child recording it for posterity (thanks for the back up love, but I think we got it covered).
As I toasted the screen with a beetroot and ginger juice in Cadbury’s celebration, a fellow health retreat lady came rushing in. ‘I can’t believe I missed it,’ she wailed. ‘Why are you so upset?’ I asked. I mean, it’s hardly a DKNY sample sale after all. ‘Because when my children ask me “where were you when the first black president was sworn in?” I’ll have to say, “having a hydrating facial”.
Could have been worse. Could have been a colonic.