My first glimpse into an inclusive, affordable approach to wellbeing came while working in Seoul, South Korea, for a newspaper – neither a city nor job renowned for work-life balance. I spent days, often nights, hunched over my keyboard, under nicotine-stained strip lights, so Sunday evenings at the jjimjilbang, or bath house, became sacred.
Like the locals, I’d routinely scorch my naked skin in torturously hot thermal baths, before plunging into an ice cold pool and bracing for a vigorous scrub-down by a shouty sexagenarian in leopard-print pants. Then, spread-eagled on the underfloor heating in standard issue pyjamas, my twitchy, caffeine-pumped limbs would eventually be soothed into slumber. All for less than £20.
Back in the UK, I not only missed this weekly cleansing, I felt the lack of community. Where in Korea three generations had bathed together, with young women tenderly sponging their grandmothers’ backs, a trip to the spa was a solo affair – for special occasions only. Instead of raucous laughter cutting through the eucalyptus-scented steam room, as neighbours divulged the latest gossip, there was hallowed silence.