In my twenties I was so flexible I could wear six inch heels and still touch my toes; in fact I could get the palms of my hands flat on the floor. Now the daily debate is whether I can see my toes. But, like reading glasses and grey hairs, it’s the way things go, so there’s little point moaning. Except this week, I am moaning.
It’s not so much that I have back ache (we all get lower back pain now and again) but it’s the position of the ache that peeves me. I do not, technically, have back ache. I have arse ache. For some reason I have a general dull throb in my left buttock, interspersed with appalling shooting pains through my butt cheek and down my left leg which, if it weren’t so painful, would be funny. Most people get to rub their lower back, complain to a friend about a twinge, and get a sympathetic look in return. I can hardly go about clutching at my backside and shrieking with pain (although in private that’s exactly what I am doing).
Over a glass of wine one night (during which I could hardly stand to park my prickling posterior on the bar stool it hurt so much) my friend pointed out that her husband is a seriously good sports and remedial massage therapist. He thinks I have a trapped nerve, and that he can help, which he undoubtedly could. Trouble is, we are discussing my bottom and I just can’t imagine a scenario in which, instead of popping over for a glass of wine, I whip off my pants and leap onto their table. It’s just WRONG. I have no doubt that he is a pro who would be no more moved by a dodgy derriere than a knackered knee but I just can’t get to grips with this (pun intended). I’m clearly far more repressed than I thought.
Fireman has suggested he takes a close look and gives it a good hard rub but I’m guessing from the Albert Steptoe gurn on his face that he’ll be feeling a lot better than I will afterwards. Unsurprisingly, I decline.