I know. It sounds like something out of a children’s story book. But it isn’t. Tilly isn’t the name of the Tuk Tuk. It is the name of the driver.

Now what sort of fully grown man with a watermelon where his stomach should be would call himself Tilly?

And what sort of fully grown man would wear a T shirt to match his Tuk Tuk?

That’s our Tilly.

And he has indeed become our Tilly. We met him on day one when we needed a ride in the pouring rain. He spoke good English, was very friendly and drove his Tuk Tuk as if it was a racing car. He gave us his card and told us to phone him whenever we needed picking up. We have done that faithfully for four days and he always seems to be with us in 10 minutes. It’s a great service, and he has definitely added a sense of excitement to our first few days. There is nothing he won’t overtake: cars, buses, trucks are all challenges. A long line of traffic simply means pulling out into the oncoming traffic and driving on the wrong side of the road until he has passed the lot. This maneuver is usually completed by him turning round to us and flashing a huge smile.

But he is, like every other Asian Tuk Tuk driver, always on the look out for a little something on the side. Not exactly a scam, but not far off it. It usually involves trying to get us to a shop or business that we have expressed no interest in, but which will give him a kick back for bringing in customers. It gets wearing but over the years we have become immune to it, and as any parent will advise you, we just say no.

But today we forgot that golden rule.

We had asked him to take us to the top rated spa on Trip Advisor to get an ayurvedic massage. He told us that he knew a much better place out in the country where tourists don’t go. We will pay less and get a much better massage. Plus it is in a beautiful setting with lovely gardens, he explained.

He got us at “pay less”.

But we should have known better.

He phoned ahead and booked two masseurs for us.

As we left the town of Galle the roads we travelled got smaller and smaller and less and less busy. Finally he turned on to a dirt track. As it wound through some beautiful countryside, the track got narrower and narrower, just wide enough for the Tuk Tuk to pass. We were getting nervous. Eventually we pulled into a large dirt area that appeared to be for parking. Behind it was what looked like a large farm shed. Several local men and women, dressed rather shabbily, sat around on even shabbier plastic chairs. They just stared at us.

Tilly told us to wait while he disappeared. The locals in their chairs continued to stare while obviously discussing us. There was no sign of Tilly. It was a little unnerving.

Finally, much to our relief, Tilly returned. With him was a small elderly man dressed in a sweat stained shirt and a dirty pair of trousers. Hardly spa attire. We went from unnerved to deeply concerned

He introduced himself in excellent English and shook our hands warmly. Pleasant, but in need of a washing machine. He invited us to look at his garden. So that might explain his grubby appearance. He must be the gardener.

We should have known better.

The tour of the garden took a good 20 minutes and was basically one long sales pitch for his business: plant based potions and lotions for whatever might ail you. We stopped at plant after plant while he described the plant and its medicinal properties at some great length. Just as we started nodding off, he would produce with a flourish a sample of the product from a small tray carefully hidden behind the plant and proceed with his sales pitch

The first plant was good for your skin. He rubbed some on the back of my right hand and said now look at the difference between your two hands.

I did.

The only difference I could see was that the thumbs were on different sides of my hands. I am fairly sure that is exactly how they were before he rubbed the cream on me.

The cream at the next plant would remove unwanted hair, he explained, while dabbing a large amount on Gordon’s leg. Gordon protested loudly that he didn’t want to lose hair. The man ignored him. Something which I have always found rather difficult to do, but he seemed to have no trouble with. A few minutes later he rubbed off the cream with a tissue and held out the tissue to show us. We spotted three lonely hairs sitting in the cream. Gordon protested again, but the loss of three hairs didn’t seem to me to be something to get upset about .

And then there was the plant that produced nature’s version of Viagra. This time he pulled out a small vial from behind the plant. Now, how was he going to demonstrate the efficiency of this product? My mind filled with rather unpleasant images. Fortunately he kept his hands to himself and merely made various, vaguely obscene, gestures to make his point

We moved on to elixirs that would keep us young. He asked us how young we thought he was.

Was this a trick question? You have already seen his photograph. What do you think? He looked pretty old to me. I thought I better be polite, so I said he was sixty.

“You flatter me” he said “I am 72. And you could look as good if you used some of my products”

I wanted to tell him to look at Gordon. He is 5 years older than you and looks 20 years younger. But I didn’t.

I should have, because our next stop was his shop.

A surprisingly impressive emporium where he clearly thought he was about to make a big sale. He seemed oblivious to the fact that I had shown no interest whatsoever in any of the products, and Gordon was still clearly unhappy with his partially naked leg.

I told him the only reason we were here was because Tilly had said he offered excellent massages.

We told him we wanted a one hour massage, preferably not by him, and asked how much it was. Despite Tilly’s promise that it would be a lot less expensive than the glamorous spa in town, the price happened to be exactly the same. Coincidence? I think not.

We should have known.

He lead us to the massage rooms which turned out to be a row of three stables. They might even still be used as such. Nothing had been done to them in the way of renovations. Concrete floors with a smattering of straw, and an old wooden door in an old wooden wall which only stood about 4 feet tall to allow the horses and the masseur to look out………and any passerby to look in. A massage table stood where the horse should have been. Thank God it didn’t have a saddle on it. I walked in carefully, making sure to avoid any manure. A moment later a large overweight man in his 40’s, unshaven and wearing old jeans and an even older shirt came in.. He looked as if he had come to muck out the stable, but apparently, he had come to give me a massage. He wasn’t any friendlier now than he was when I first saw him sitting in the parking lot. I wanted to leave but he was blocking the doorway.

Meanwhile Gordon was told he would have to wait 15 minutes as his masseur was still working. We weren’t told what he was working at. But once again Gordon wasn’t happy

It was, I have to say, an excellent massage, but it only lasted 40 minutes. The masseur then told me to hurry up and get dressed as Gordon was waiting. This was the masseur that Gordon had to wait 15 minutes for.

But by this time Gordon was simmering with anger. He was definitely in no mood to have a massage.

Tilly, who had been waiting for us, was completely unaware of what had happened and what was about to happen to him. At the sight of Tilly’s smiling face Gordon’s simmering anger went to a full boil. Dear readers, you only know Gordon as my charming husband. But he isn’t always that charming. When he goes to full boil, which he rarely does, get out of the kitchen, and stay very quiet. Tilly did neither of those thing.

He should have known better.

I doubt that he will bother us again with any more of his suggestions