“This is a load of tosh,” I thought to myself until the doctor told me that my biological age was nine years younger than my actual age. Clearly cutting-edge science! And quite unbelievable given the actual state I was in. 

Being loofered and soaped in the hammam was lovely. The dinner in the palatial dining room with its gorgeous frescoes and Murano chandeliers lulled me into a false sense of security. There were three courses including a strawberry and chocolate dessert. This didn’t seem like detoxing! 

That’s because it wasn’t. My programme would start the next day.

Back in my room, my huge bed had been turned down but instead of a chocolate on my pillow, there was a container for a urine sample and a note to say that I was to get up early before breakfast to have something called a Bioelectrical Impedance Analysis: an assessment of my body composition. No one in their right mind wants this first thing, but here I was again with another full day of stuff being done to me. The second day was, in fact, dreadful. I got wrapped in mud and covered in cling film but I was cold and then had to stand against a wall in paper knickers while a beautiful young woman hosed the mud off me from a distance and then sprayed me with cold water. It felt prison-like.

Then there was the famous Fiuggi Thalassotherapy. There are three pools: one is dark brown and slimy as it is full of magnesium; a salt one; and a cold one. You float in them, like you do in the Dead Sea. Magnesium, I know, is good as a supplement – but getting into this oily water reminded me of the Richard Wilson art installation 20:50, formerly at the Saatchi Gallery and featuring black, shiny sump oil. 

As soon as I got into this pool, it began stinging in places you don’t really want to be stung, and I slithered about trying to get out. My face was red and burning. This is really not for someone with sensitive skin.

A massage with the lovely Rami helped calm my skin, but I still looked and felt pretty dreadful. Then, they hit me with the pièce de résistance: Ozone Therapy. Read the small print, Suzanne! What did I imagine Ozone Therapy was? I don’t know? Breathing in some fresh air? Oh no…

A doctor and nurse took out a load of my maroon-coloured blood, put in some ozone, then shook it around as if it were a cocktail. As it was “oxygenated”, it turned bright red, and was then transfused back into me. After that, they gave me a Regenerative Intravenous Infusion of vitamin stuff. 

I was on a drip wondering what the hell I had let myself in for. I complained bitterly to the doctor that if this was to be done to me, I didn’t want my own blood back, but that of a younger person – as certain rock stars are rumoured to have had. Seriously, that night I considered making a run for it. 

Then I passed out and slept for 10 hours, sounder than I have for the past couple of years, and I woke up thinking I was just going to give myself over to this process. Here I was, in these impossibly luxurious surroundings. The sky was blue, the huge pool meant you could swim from inside to outside, everything was timetabled and I didn’t have to think about food or shopping or what to do. So I went for a walk.