No, it is the Woolies in the UK which, like a retail outlet in a grim parallel universe, sells an assortment of tat with no common theme. Apart from everything being a bit on the crap side.

The next article is on a well known furniture chain on the brink. On and on I read: job losses, mortgage crisis, negative equity, my salary which has yet to be paid into my account and the urgent company meeting on Monday. The latter news flash obviously not appearing in the newspaper, but rather a nagging worry which keeps bubbling to the surface of my mind.

"... Stop being a miserable git... "

I close the newspaper and look outside the train window. A few last remnants of Autumn still colour the landscape, but the wicked witch of winter has clearly past though, swept up most of the leaves with her broomstick and left her cackling laughter resonating in the icy wind outside.

"What's wrong?" My girlfriend asks.
"Oh nothing, just trying not to think about the looming economic crisis."
"In the UK?"
"No, mine of course."

I get a look which I've received a few times this morning already which says, "Stop being a miserable git, we're on Hol-i-day!"

We are indeed now officially on holiday, and heading to a three-day Spa break in Bath, UK. This spontaneous idea came about after the third Friday night in a row of going to bed before 11pm.

We were tired, stressed, and tired of stress. We needed some pampering and I had stumbled across a luxury Spa hotel in Bath. By stumbled, I mean Google shoved it in my face once I tapped in the keywords, 'luxury' & 'spa'. And by luxury I mean a bit taxing on the ol' wallet.

But, as a wise man once said, "A cynic is someone who knows the cost of everything and the value of nothing."

Since this weekend is all about rejuvenation of both the body and mind, I cast the cynic outside my spiritual castle and let Prince Value in on his noble steed, "Guilty as sin".

"Tickets Please!" An irate sounding train conductor demands.

My girlfriend rustles in her bag and hands them over. He looks at them like they've just been ejected from my bowels and says: "Where is your reservation card? These are not valid without your reservation card."

After a period of frantic digging I look up and say, "We appear to have lost our reservation card."

"If you had read your terms and conditions," he sneers, "You will have seen that without a reservation card these tickets are not valid and you have to pay a penalty of forty three pounds."

"... my spiritual castle is still free from cynicism... "

I hand over my card; he snaps it up and shoves it into the mouth of his little evil pet slung over his shoulder. The pet burps out a receipt and they both limp away looking for more fools to punish.

Ne'er mind... my spiritual castle is still free from cynicism and I shrug off the incident and think about all the wonderful spa facilities waiting for us at the McDonalds Spa hotel.

As it turns out, you can over Spa. I know this because I am looking in the mirror at the red blotches covering my face. When someone commented that the sauna was at oven temperature I never thought about myself in terms of being covered in a layer of meat which was capable of being cooked.

I rub some cream into my face which feels like I've just popped my head into the furnace of hell and then blow my nose for the umpteenth time that morning. The constant changing of temperatures in the hotel spa has also given me a very bad cold.

We pack our bags and head off to reception to check out. The desk clerk looks at me and decides to forgo the traditional "Did you enjoy your stay" niceties and just smiles at me sympathetically.

I start to scan the significant list of 'chargeables' and am surprised that the ice-cream I ordered to the room cost £11.

"Eleven pounds for an ice-cream?" I sniff.

"Yes sir, all room service orders come with a £5 tray charge."

"Let me guess," I say, "I should have read the terms and conditions."

I hand her my card and give her a weary smile which makes my face hurt.

Boy, it's great to feel rejuvenated.