From my extensive reading of women's magazines, I know a full body clean-out takes time and effort, but as my usual limit is a couple of consecutive beer-free evenings, an overnight detox is at least a step in the right direction.
It's immediately clear that myhotel aren't at all fanatical about it either, as I'm offered a drink simply to help me check in. They won't catch me out that easily: I opt for tea, no sugar, and just a small biscuit. It's a lovely, intimate hotel: the small bar, populated as I arrive by well-heeled, possibly surgically altered, denizens of Chelsea, has a cosy feel even when the fire isn't burning.
Before arrival every guest is sent a small form to specify their preferences, from the basic - smoking or not - to the more attentive: what kind of DVDs do you want in your room? Ticking comedy gets me Austin Powers, and with two widescreen tellies at hand, an enormous bed and my girlfriend on the way, it strikes me that the best R&R might be found by simply kicking off my shoes and staying put upstairs.
But detox duty calls, and after a polite reminder call from reception I'm down in their Jinja room, set to be scrubbed and rubbed. I negotiate the usual hurdles faced by a man in such unfamiliar surroundings with a few blank looks - what products do I use, asks Pip, the therapist; does she mean soap? - and shout down the small voice inside that wonders if I am turning into a total wuss. Because, even if all sweet smells are equally alien to me, there really is something quite refreshing about being pasted with the particular concoctions they choose here.
Soon, I'm coated with ginger, lime and rock salt: it just needs a little tequila and I'd be bathing in margarita. A quick shower, and I'm being massaged with a coconutty, tangeriney moisturising cream. Does it feel good? Oh yes.
There then follows a slightly weird interlude, or as it's officially known, a relaxation exercise. I am to concentrate on points on my body as specified by Pip and imagine a light shining on it, or possibly out of it - I haven't heard properly and hope it won't matter. "Point number one: the crown of the head." I know I should know where the crown is, but I'm not quite sure. "Point number two: the third eye" - hello? - "located between the eyebrows." By point number 17 I feel we're too far gone to admit I'm not really getting it. Apart from a brief moment of excitement in the mid-30s as we work our way down to "the attraction centre, located a couple of finger widths beneath the navel", I'm finding it pretty difficult to concentrate on the job in hand. When it's over, I sneak a glance at Pip's notes, and find out we'd been doing the 61-point relaxation plan.
I get dressed, slightly nonplussed, but as I bounce back up to my room, there's no doubt I'm feeling pretty good, and not just because there's football on satellite TV. My girlfriend goes downstairs for the same treatment. Later, as part of the detox package, someone brings two glasses of juiced fruits and vegetables to the room for bedtime. Not to mention hot water bottles and muffins. Few people have been quite this nice to me for many years.
We're woken the next morning by the sound of an enormous breakfast being carried to the door: a delicious fry-up with pain au chocolat and toast and jam on the side. I'm tucking into bacon and eggs when there's another knock at the door. I open and realise guiltily that I've not had my morning detox drinks: one crushed veg and one citrus, ostensibly for my girlfriend, although she is sufficiently cleansed already and I end up drinking both.
On a strict calorie and coach potato equation, it's not looking good by 9.30, as I sit on the sofa polishing off some more toast in front of Austin Powers. It is, though, very relaxing. But there's still time for redemption, and it comes in the form of an hour with a personal trainer.
Down in myhotel's lovely library, its glass roof covered with a sprinkling of snow, I meet my belly's nemesis, trainer Paul. He diplomatically suggests that there is a limit to what we can achieve in one session, and that limit is not a six-pack. Once again, though, I'm pleasantly surprised: being in a small gym with someone telling you what to do is unintimidating, and I end up feeling well worked out rather than crocked. He also has the gift of knowing when to deliberately miscount my pressups when I'm otherwise struggling to reach the full quota.
A hot bath, and I'm regretfully checking out. It's been a very short stay in an environment - Chelsea, chic, and sweet-smelling - that I'd previously considered alien, but there's no doubt that it has grown on me. I'm feeling something I can't quite put my finger on for a moment, and then I realise what it is: simply, 10 times better.
Ways to go
Gwyn Topham stayed at myhotel chelsea. The detox package runs until the end of January, and costs £175 + 17.5% VAT per person, including breakfast, detox drinks, a half-hour workout and consultation with a personal trainer, and a ginger-salt & citrus body scrub and massage. Tel 020 7225 7540 to book.
