I’m in Paris for the weekend. We walk past Notre Dame and along the Seine, under blue skies and sunshine, stepping into churches and bookshops; stopping for coffee and cocktails. At night, I sleep deeply. In the morning, we head down to the wallpapered basement of the hotel for a sauna and it feels like I’m sweating out the days and weeks that came before. I run on a wooden running machine – short bursts, until my heart pounds – and do some rowing. We lie on the floor on yoga mats and do breathwork together. A woman walks in and says we’ve filled the room with amazing energy. I feel light and springy as we walk through a now drizzly Paris, towards the hammam. There, we enter a scoldingly hot steam-room and I gulp down the thick steam, letting it fill my lungs. I’m addicted; it’s just what my body needs. I plunge in the pool and have my body scrubbed and exfoliated and massaged. We have white wine with lunch and talk deeply and laugh.