It's a lovely place, where guests are free to wander around all day long in their monogrammed Ragdale dressing-gowns (oops, sorry, robes), like the manicured inmates of a particularly hedonistic asylum.

We've all been looking forward to this trip for ages, and are so
thrilled to be finally on our way that the excitement has reached fever
pitch by the time we actually arrive; after checking in, we rush around
without pausing either to take anything in properly or - more
importantly - to relax, which is the whole point of coming.

"Slow down! We're supposed to be having a leisurely girls' day away from
ironing, work, children and husbands! We should be taking things easy!"
I call after them as they hurtle along the elegant corridors, charging
around like Smartie-fuelled toddlers at a birthday party.

I'm still trying to calm them down when we reach the thermal spa but
they're too busy laughing hysterically at the rude noises their thighs
make as they sit down in the steam room. Oh dear, I think, as they
jostle rowdily into the jasmine-scented meditation room. There's going
to be tears before bedtime at this rate.

Saturday

Mr Young and myself have coined a new word. Bulazy. It's what you are
when you are really busy but are just too lazy to get out of bed.

And there is loads to get done today: our friends Tracey and Garry are
getting married this afternoon, and so there's only this morning free to
do a big shop at Sainsbury's, take Archie the puppy for a walk, catch up
on some emails and sort out a big pile of ironing.

"I can't get up!" Mr Young groans, still lounging around in bed at nine
o'clock. "I've got a really bad attack of bulazia."

"Don't worry, darling," I say soothingly. "You stay there. I'll bring
you breakfast and your laptop. Then I'll go to Sainsbury's, take Archie
out and do the ironing. You just get up when you're ready."

"Really?" he says hopefully. The fool.

"No!" I shout. "Get up! Now!"

Easter Sunday

Snow! The world outside is white and silent when Mr Young gets up early
to let Archie out.

"Ahh! Bless! Did he like the snow?" I ask him when he brings me up a cup
of tea. "Did he build a snowman?"

"Yes," says Mr Young. "A little brown steaming one."

Later we go over to my parents' house for a big family lunch. My sister
has made a hot-water crust meat pie - Mr Young's favourite. He is very
partial to meat pie, and meat pie loves him right back - so much so that
given half a chance, it attaches itself to his middle and refuses to let
go. There is some pie left over after lunch, so my mother insists that
we bring it home. Later in the evening, I find Mr Young in front of the
fridge, mustard jar in one hand, plate of pie in the other. He is
gyrating energetically.

"What are you doing?" I ask him. "Is that your Pie Dance?"

"No," he says through a mouthful of pastry, "this is my Mustard And Pie
Dance. This-" he slows down his gyrations, "- is my Pie Dance."

You see? Never mind a spa day at Ragdale Hall. Just a slab of flour and
lard is enough to make them happy.