This time I am at the health-spa having my cuticles attended to and procuring a pedicure for Jetta.

'Also,' says the garrulous beautician as she works. 'You will never guess. We are favoured by a visit from celebrity today.'

'Unglaublich,' I say without much interest. 'Some dreary town councillor or rising star of the banking industry, no doubt,' I say with a wink at Jetta.

'No, no,' says the busybody as she plies her trade, 'This is a big American rock star who wears iconic black clothing and trademark dark glasses. His name is Roy...Orbital? Orbheissen? Rasmussen? Something of that nature.'

It takes a second or two for the penny to drop. 'Black clothes and dark glasses you say. I implore you to think carefully. Could the man's name conceivably be Roy Orbison? This is a matter of extreme urgency to me.'

'Yes! That was it exactly! Fancy, he is in the next room waiting for me to give him a sea-weed wrap.'

I rise from the chair. 'I find I have to go out for a moment. You will please remain here and attend to Jetta. I have decided you will give her a shell-wax. I will be locking the door after I leave to ensure your compliance.'



I adjourn smartly to the next cubicle. Roy Orbison is lying on a massage table naked save for a strategically-placed towel. Some soothing unguent has been applied to his face and slices of cucumber have been placed over his trademark dark glasses.

'Good day,' I say. 'Are you relaxed.'

'I am highly relaxed but expect to be more so following my seaweed wrap,' says Roy.

'Regrettably I find we have run out of seaweed following a maritime disaster in which various contaminants were released destroying the world supply of sargasso for generations to come,' I say smoothly. 'Instead I urge you to try our new cling-film wrap. The health-giving properties of this miracle substance cannot be overstated.'

'Cling-film?' Roy cannot see me but tries to peer round the cucumber slices occluding his glasses. 'Don't I know your voice?'

'I am an eminent doctor and am to be trusted implicitly.'

'Ah,' says Roy. 'Then you may commence.'

'Speaking as a doctor, that is a wise decision.'

I start from the feet and work my way up. It is strange for him to be naked as I wrap him but I suppose it would be too suspicious were I to ask him to put his trademark black clothes back on. I am like an Egyptian priest enshrouding his Pharaoh. Soon, Roy Orbison is wrapped up in Clingfilm. I let out a soft mew of content and mutely acknowledge that all things work for the best in this world.

'You are completely wrapped in cling-film,' I tell him. 'To get the full benefits you must remain so for several hours or until someone comes and finds us. To keep you company I will stay in the room and breathe heavily.'

'That is kind of you.'

There follows several hours of almost unbearable bliss. Presently a masseuse comes and looks at us quizzically.

'We are closing now. Have you seen Frieda?'

'Yes, I locked her in the room next door.'

'Ah. Why is that man in clingfilm?'

'Medical reasons.'


I permit the woman to unwrap Roy as it is not in my nature to do so.

'You know,' I say, 'If you were to remain wrapped in cling-film forever I estimate it could extend your lifespan by a thousand years.'

'I will bear that in mind,' says Roy.

And it wouldn't do my health any harm either, I almost add!

More tales of Roy in Clingfilm