I’d never been to a physio before today, hells bells it’s
all a bit previous isn’t it? I ambled in complaining of back pain and she had
me down to my underpants within ten minutes. You mustn’t blame the woman, I
can’t help being irresistible, but we could have exchanged pleasantries for a
little longer first. Soon she had me bending forward, bending back, stretching
here and there before lying me on the bed to work on my stiffness.
The sharpest pain was in my buttocks (there’s a joke there
somewhere but I’m too tired to work it out) so she turned me over and worked on
my right arse cheek. There’s something disconcerting about having a woman touch
your arse when you’ve barely said hello but she was grinding her elbow into it to
locate the pain’s epicentre. She kept grinding away, freeing up internal fibres
matted in my bottom she said, “ that’s what I do every morning changing Ernie’s
nappy” I snorted, she didn’t laugh. Next, as I remained face down, she pushed her
palms hard up and down my back, searching again for the source of pain. “Any
pain yet” she enquired. “No” I lied. There was pain alright but it was in my
testicles as she pushed so hard on my coccyx that my rollocks were getting
flattened against the bed beneath, but I wasn’t going to tell her, I was too
embarrassed, so the pain went on.
Eventually I returned to my feet, middle age spread tumbling
over my elasticated underpants, my meat and two veg trussed up like coconuts in
a hammock. Damn, why didn’t I wear something more flattering? I stretched some
more until, mercifully, she allowed me to put my feeble body back into a pair
of breeks and a t-shirt. “ Same time next week?” she said. “ Fine” I grunted.
I’ve now got seven days to find myself a decent pair of Y-fronts. Meantime, on to the gratuitous Olivia Newton-John video.
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