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Going South: The colonic

December 7th 2012 / Imogen Edwards-Jones


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"All I want for Christmas," says Imogen Edwards-Jones, "is a colonic." Our Going South columnist reveals all - literally

This is an odd thing to do for Christmas I grant you, but then again the beauty industry is a contrary minx who often likes to punch her great big powder puff in the face of the common herd and mince off in the other direction.

For just as the rest of us discovered the all-over St Tropez and Tango-ed ourselves senseless like we lived in Magaluf, those in-the-know went all pale and Anne Hathaway interesting. One minute it’s eyebrows and the next it’s not. The same thing happened with lips and tits and the seriously confused ended up with more cup-sizes than Victoria Beckham.

So while the rest of you sink the ciders, release the waistbands and mutter ‘ho ho ho’ while reaching for another mince pie, those in-the-know are slipping into a backless gown, breathing in and out as bravely as they can, while someone (namely Victoria at EF Medispa, 193 Kings Road, Chelsea) slips a tube up their rectum.

Personally I blame Princess Diana. She takes the rap for a lot of fashion’s greatest disasters – bright blue eyeliner, flicky-flicky shy hair and colonic irrigation. No one had heard of a colonic until she came along. It had only been the preserve of the langlaufing Austrian with a spanky botty fetish and not much to do in the log cabin on a weekend. But ever since Di ditched the velvet Sloane band plus transparent skirt, and emerged in shimmering swan-like splendour, anyone who’s anyone’s had a pipe up their bum.

Victoria is incredibly nice about what must be one of the world’s least appealing jobs. She even manages to sound like she is interested in the results without coming across like that irritating gerbil woman who used to collect crap for a living on Channel 4. She patiently takes down my medical details and talks me through the tubes and pipes, and calms me down enough to get my pants off.

Anyway. Here I am, back-less, pant-less and piped, lying on my back discussing the contents of my gut, while Victoria gently massages my stomach, flushing out my system with water so clean and purified and decontaminated we should all be so lucky to have a sip. “The last thing we need to do is give you any bad bacteria or anything unpleasant,” she explains while pointing out that I have more ‘sludge’ in one side of my body than the other. “Do you eat late?” she asks. I nod. “That explains it.”

The next half an hour is not probably something anyone really wants to read, discuss or witness; safe to say that it was successful and I move swiftly, very swiftly, to the next stage – which is sitting on the loo for a few minutes to get rid of the remainder of the water and the ‘etc’... I am clearly in there for a while because as I emerge Victoria looks concerned.

“You were in there a long time,” she states.
“Oh, I am sorry,” I reply. “There was a very good article in Vogue.”
“Right,” she says. “If you’d like to get your things.”
“It that it?”
She smiles.
“Will I need to run to the loo again?”
“No. Just don’t eat too much lunch.”

There is nothing like seeing your lunch, dinner, children’s supper snack and secret packet of crisps float by suspended in a yellow liquid to put you off shoving in five baguettes and a camembert on a Thursday afternoon. In fact, I have barely eaten since. So no wonder then I feel so slim, spritely and ready for a dance with John Travolta.

“How was it?” asked my husband over his newspaper as I came home last night.
“Quite good.” I smiled. “They got a lot out.”
“Not surprised,” he sniffed. “You’re full of it.”

Imogen had her colonic hydrotherapy at EF Medispa where your first session lasts 75 minutes, priced £125. Further sessions cost £90 for 60 minutes.

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