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No pain, no gain

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This week, I was gently fondled by a ginger chap who looked like James Blunt, wearing only boxer shorts.

Me, not him. He had very soft hands. My bedroom smells of hot rubber too.

It’s just possible that I may need to back-track slightly, just so this doesn’t sound at all weird.

Over the last few years, and especially the last few months, I’ve had some back problems. Apart from looking a little like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and spending my entire time thinking I probably shouldn’t slouch so much, this has recently converted itself into pretty extreme pain.

I won’t try and convince you I’m manly – pain isn’t good. That’s why it’s called “pain” and not “nice feeling like eating marshmallows on a sunny afternoon, whilst birds tweet gently”. It had become so debilitating, that trying to wash my feet in the shower made me look the winner of a gurning contest, with bonus squealing noises.

Reluctantly, I visited the doctor, who referred me to hospital to see a physiotherapist. To be honest, I wasn’t really expecting to be largely naked at 10am on a Friday - I normally wait until at least lunchtime. Luckily, my boxer shorts didn’t have “stud” written all over them, or anything like that.

The very nice ginger James Blunt asked me a lot of questions, and concluded that I needed to do some exercises and unspeakable things to cushions. Well, he didn’t say that exactly, but the diagram I was given did seem to imply I needed to get jiggy with a pillow. I also need to push my hips out a lot. That should go down well at work.

I also needed to get some kind of heat pack to go on my back whilst doing my over-friendly-with-a-pillow thing, so went on a hunt at the weekend. After only finding a lavender microwaveable heat pack (I’m not retired, and I didn’t want to spend £18 to smell like a grandma’s underwear drawer), I eventually purchased a hot water bottle.

The cycle is nearly complete – I am regressing to my childhood, when a hot-wotty-bot was an essential part of heading for bed, especially when it got cold enough in the house for the net curtains to freeze to the inside of the window. All I need now is a carton of that orangey stuff that you drank by piercing the lid with a sharp straw (you know the ones – tasted of plastic, mostly) and a packet of Football Crazies, and I can sit on the floor cross-legged and watch Swap Shop for a bit.

If I could sit on the floor cross-legged, that is. I suspect if I tried, it might involve screeching that would have next door’s cat hiding under the car. Right, it’s time to do the hip-thrusting thing again. I’ll close the curtains first this time. And put some clothes on. The WI group on a ramble looked rather startled last night...

Have a, painlessly, good weekend.

If you can.

This post first appeared in my 'Thank grumpy it's Friday' column in the North West Evening Mail on Friday 24th August 2012. This is the unedited version - you can view the printed/online version here: "Spine treatment takes me back", was the punningly clever title used by the NWEM, and it was cut down from 501 to 401 words, losing some of the cheekier bits. This is the long one. So to speak. Ahem.
(Yup -STILL listening to Marillion. This time it's the excellent "Friends" live album.)
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