My 30s so far!

I have had so many people tell me “it’s downhill from here” this week it’s untrue. I had no fear about turning thirty. None.

It's no secret that I fully plan to grow older in a disgraceful way without fear of recourse or ramification. I have never really feared what people think of me – as can be seen by a number of temporary summer jobs (Sherriff of Nottingham/Guy of Gisborne, ‘Arry the Betfair Arrow) and misadventures (Full Monty!). But judging by the first three days I have to hold my hands up, I was arrogant and wrong. This also proves the point that there is a first time for everything.

Tuesday, day one was perhaps just a mild suggestion of things to come. Simply I managed to mid-thumb the alarm, so I woke up late, just leaving time to grab the obscenely sized cream cakes and actually get to work. A day of little work and long lunch was what the doctor ordered before a quiet birthday family meal. The calm before the storm perhaps.  An absent minded slip first thing though was the tip of the ice berg!

Wednesday was the day of celebrating with the guys. Plans made, rendezvous agreed. Ah the best laid schemes of mice and men.......Work came and went. There is an atmosphere you could cut with a knife at present that I was gleefully unaware of in my birthday stupor resulting in a chainsaw massacre of pointed looks and sharp remarks. Still, it didn’t matter, I was a drive home and shower from heading to the pub for a session with my eclectic group of mates. Tragically Le Car had other ideas. The middle of rush hour, the third of four lanes on a major road and clunk. Le clutch est mort Rodders. 45 minutes sat in accelerating live traffic before police assistance to push m’poor motor off the road followed by another hour and a quarter awaiting the RAC. Another trip to the same garage and a key swap meant three hours to get home in total. Fortunately my wonderful mates came to get me then fed me great company, good cake and sweet, sweet eliquor Jack Danienls.

Thursday managed to cap the lot! Having fought off the warming alcohol infused blanket of sleep i found myelf donned in a fetching medical dressing gown and sports shorts hiding my modesty and awaiting an Xray at the chiropractors. I say hide my modesty but to be honest the shorts were overkill on what was a very cold morning! I took up my position with childish glee, facing front then to the side for my portrait and profile shots. All that was missing was my convict number and a stripy top! All this to finally find out what’s been causing more than a little discomfort. My naive enjoyment of the whole process was given short shrift.

Whilst the words “hernia”, “broken” and “slipped” were kept well away the phrase “unusual for someone your age” and “degenerative” came as far more of a surprise. As always a flood of questions rushed into mind 30 minutes after leaving but it’s a little late. What does that mean? How serious is it? How can I stop it!?!! I managed to get myself into more of a tizz than Madonna in an African orphanage and I’d quickly forgotten my newly adopted assured approach to all things life and beyond this year. I contemplate asking my friend Google but refrain. My mind plays enough nasty tricks on me without giving it any additional ammunition. I know, I’m, a big drama queen but my only trips to hospitals involve visiting so this has got me a little messed up.

Now I sit writing my blog, attempting to drown out the creaking ceiling and pounding bed springs in the room above, things have settled within me. An afternoon chat with the Doc cleared enough things up thanks to calming phrases that it would’ve been good to hear at 8.30am. “It’s nothing unusual, just a little sooner rather than later” and “it may mean a few more trips and treatments before things are quite right”. Don't worry readers it really isn't something to get concerned about, just much ado about nothing.  I in fact cheered myself up with dinner out and a self-gift of a Derek and Clive CD! Brilliance in a flurry of C-Bombs, it can't help but to raise a smile!

Back, Crack - That's That.

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.