Clay Therapy: Oh da Camptown Laydees sing dis song: Doo-dah, Dooh-dah!

The world has changed beyond recognition in 60 years, and I really don't think my children are aware of just how very politically UN-correct life was in the 50s and 60s, - a time when my primary school teacher pointed at the red on the map of the world and talked to us about the British Empire and why it was different from any previous empire and would probably last for ever. 
Let me give you a little story.
Mr Rudge, the headmaster at my primary school, had lost friends in WW2 in the evacuation of Dunkirk, when thousands of British troops were killed or drowned simply because they couldn't swim a few hundred yards, from the beaches, to reach the flotilla of ships and small boats that had come from England to help rescue the soldiers of the failed "British Expeditionary Force."
This left a sizeable impression on Frank Rudge, who was determined that every child leaving Mount Stewart Junior School should be able to swim. This would mean constructing a swimming pool, an unheard of idea in the 50s, but he set about organising any kind of event that could raise money. 
When it came to the Talent Show, parents were cajoled into singing arias, reciting poetry or doing magic tricks. In 1954, few families had televisions, so it was not too difficult to fill the school hall with tickets at a sixpence or a shilling, and there was of course a raffle, to top up the takings.
I think it was Malcolm's mum who hit on the idea of getting the five of us in the top year (who were a bit of a gang) to do a turn on stage, and we were pushed into performing as the Mount Stewart N****r Minstrels. There was no question of this nomenclature being anything other than entirely appropriate for a group who wore candy-striped trousers, white ruffs around our necks and straw boaters on our heads. The budget did not stretch to stage make-up, so Malcolm's mum didn't hesitate to black us all up with Cherry Blossom shoe polish. Humphrey's mother later complained that she had a terrible job trying to get the bath clean afterwards.

60 years later I am reliving my childhood, as the photo reveals.

They call it Clay Therapy

For the final few days of my treatment I first lie on this bench and have a herbal bath in medicated buttermilk.  This is poured over me from long-spouted steel teapots, (the liquid is the colour of milky tea,) and the process continues for about 45 minutes.
The two therapists then dry me off and spread newspaper over the bench while they take a 5-minute tea-break.
When they return, they plaster me with black mud over almost my entire body and then leave me for half-an hour while the medication soaks into the pores - which, they assure me, have been opened wide by the buttermilk.
Well that's what they say!
I am not sure whether I am just being sold down the river, or whether I should reach for my banjo . . .Way down upon de Swanee Ribber . . . .