[Preface: I've always had a tendency to rise to the bait. It started with an anonymous comment on my last "proper" post coupled with the bit of banter that followed with the Chairman of The Board. Like finding an old friend on Facebook, I started rooting through this shack again and came across the following "draft" post that marks, more or less, the time I eased out of this particular corner of the blogosphere. Call it Karma, call it what you will - but when I read this I started grinning - and then felt a bit like Al Pacino.]
...until morale improves." As I flailed up and down Newquay pool last week, back aching and left thigh getting number with each stroke, these words, paired with a skull & crossbones and emblazoned on the back of our swim coach's t-shirt, coaxed a smile from me between gasps and gulps. That and the fecthing pair of pink fluorescent ankle socks that he was sporting.
I've been having a bit of back trouble recently. Actually, since Christmas. I'm rather fed up with it now. I endured a week of intense pain that had me crawling round the house on all fours - that's when I wasn't stuck in bed swallowing tablets and wired up to a TENS machine.
The last time I was in the sea was New Year's Day - a brand new board, a New Year and feeling hunky dory like only Mr. Dory can feel. A few days later, I'm bent double from a gentle stroll on Fistral beach - my body curved like a question mark figuring out if I can make it back to the car without biting through my lip.
It was all very odd. I've had some back bother before but nothing quite like this. I couldn't really come up with anything specific that might have inflicted damage. Sure, I'd slipped out of the attic getting down the Christmas decorations but it was my ribs that were left bruised and not my back. When the pain receded a few weeks later, I was very much relieved. Co-dydramol and half a bottle of red works well enough but that's hardly a marriage made in pharmaceutical heaven.
Physio was prescribed and physio type exercises of the highest quality were duly noted and practiced with moderate if not quite regimental diligence. I was instructed not to run, swim, surf, or do anything that might reasonably be described as vigorous exercise. It was age, it was posture, it was my dropped shoulder, it was wear and tear. It was obvious.
Then I noticed that I could stick a fork in my left thigh and really not feel much. It was as if I'd been to the dentist and he's slipped and stuck the needle in my leg. That had me wondering. I suggested to my most excellent GP that perhaps this merited some investigation. He agreed and in quick time I found myself sliding into that claustrophobic coffin of cacophony that is the modern MRI machine. I'll stop there.
There's only room for one Cornish seaside blog that starts off with surfdom and ends up in surgery and that's the ever readable, and really much more dramatic story that's unfolding over there. In the meantime, I've the post from the porn star in the pipeline.