I was jumped on by a large man last night. I was laying there, quite serenely when all of a sudden jump…………… crack ……… sigh.
This was my second trip to the Chiropractor, sorry, Joe as he would have me call him, of the week. I have quickly noticed that despite a lack of grease and nudey calendars, Chiropractors are from the same stock as mechanics. Each are armed with an array of tools meant to bamboozle, confuse and put the fear of sudden, catastrophic failure into out minds. They can both do the teeth sucking followed by a low, steady “hmmmm” and “you’ve done a good job on that ‘aven’t you?” Have I? How? What HAVE I done? Finally they’ll use an unheard of solution to fix an unfathomable problem at an extortionate price – and you, like I, will pay it.
I have no more an understanding of my own body as that of my Peugeot. I know that each has a habit on cold days of wanting nothing more than to be left alone to sulk and has no desire whatsoever to venture out into the wider world. I also know that for the most part they each run smoothly, taking whatever is put in to propel me through my daily duties. Where I start to have problems is when I’ve no idea what is wrong but it just won’t work! I can put the car down to it being French. This isn’t really from a distain for the nation itself. I’ve met a handful of French folk in my time and they’ve varied greatly. Some were slightly aloof but only borderline rude, then there are the absurd delights of the mad French scientist in my office. Despite his anti-royalist mutterings and that time he brough up his enjoyment of the concepts of torture, he really is good mileage for whiling away the hours at work. In fact thinking about it now he is well worth a blog of his own. I have successfully introduced him to the concept of bringing in or making cake for celebratory events – new jobs, birthdays, anniversaries etc, resulting in his valiant effort at a chocolate cake. Rich, though a tad dry. Plus sometimes in mid flow I can close my eyes and it’s like having Peter Sellers in full swing sat behind me. Still. This has no impact on the car. No these thoughts are just because, for no apparent reason and at the most inopportune moment she, for my car is Jess, just decides not to work.
In the same way my body has recently rejected me. Like the car, after years of abuse, it has decided that enough is enough and my back has developed somewhat of a discomforting stabby pain. It could just be the ill will of many a disgruntled character perhaps but, for now, I’m putting it down to sporting misadventure. Now I’ve never seen anyone about any strain or strife before. I always believed that doctors, physios, the lot adopt the one-fits-all solution manual that IT people have but in stead of “turn it off……then back on” it’s the instruction of stopping whatever it was when you noticed the pain, for an arbitrary six weeks. Playing hockey you say? No hockey for six weeks. Swimming was it? No swimming for six weeks. Eating a cornetto whilst thumbing Danielle Steele’s Big Girl, a tale of one sister overcoming the neglect of living in the other’s shadow? Well, you know the score. This time however it was a little more restrictive though and, well, I now find myself beneath the big jumpy man cracking my poor back.
Last night my housemate asked if it’d worked. The truth is, – I don’t know. He’s done stuff. I can tell stuff has most definitely been done. I just am not sure what. But I know, like the car, it is costing me a great deal of money in exchange for a little of peace of mind. Still, for now that has to be cheaper than a new back.
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