It may be that these charlatany types are not quite so charlatany after all.
I have been back to the chiropractor.
She has poked me and prodded me and stuck more of the acupuncture needles in me. These left bruises which made me look like a Dalmatian dog last week, which didn’t hurt, apart from endlessly craning my neck trying to see them over my shoulder in the mirror. My shoulder and neck clicked and popped and scraped and ground, and I breathed deeply and gritted my teeth and thought how ridiculous was the eternal medical instruction to Just Relax.
This time, however, to my astonished surprise, there could have been no doubt that when I came out I was actually pain free, for what I think must be the first time in at least a year, apart from the occasions when I have been in the Mummy Drawer for a fistful of drugs.
It was bliss, although regrettably it did not last for very long. I had hardly been at home for an hour when the familiar ache started again, and it is still there now, although it seems somehow different. It seems to trace down to a single point in my shoulder, which I have been unsuccessfully trying to massage. This has led to some ridiculous and mildly embarrassing contortions which I think might have appeared somewhat unseemly on the taxi rank this evening.
The chiropractic lady thinks that there are two likely causes, one being driving a taxi and the other being writing on a computer.
If I stopped doing these things then my life would suddenly become very peculiar indeed, so I am not going to bother.
I am sure you will be pleased to hear that.
Both things would be fine if only I could do them with my head upright whilst I looked straight ahead, whilst at the same time keeping my hands resting on my knees.
You won’t be surprised to learn that I can’t.
Hence I imagine that I am unlikely to get better any time soon. Perhaps I should resort back to the drugs, which are certainly less hassle than the rather painful list of exercises she has given to me. I have been doing these as well, also on the taxi rank.
It will not be long before passing customers start describing me as That Wagging Weirdo Over There.
We have got a massage machine, which we purchased in Harrods many, many years ago, on our honeymoon actually, and which works very well if only you have the time to get it out, plug it in and then sit still and lean on it for twenty minutes, which I haven’t, usually, but I am resolved to unearth it and give it a go.
We will see how I get on.
In other news, it has been an uneventful day. I had my eyes firmly fixed on the Weather Gods and managed to haul my washing in, triumphantly, at the very moment before the heavens opened. Apart from that I have been busily engaged in composing a missive to the Transport Select Committee about the wickedness of Uber private hire cars, and describing, in indignant detail, what I think they ought to do about it.
This is occupying a very great deal of time, not least because it involves a compilation of taxi driver photographs of Uber cars doing naughty things. They have taken hundreds and hundreds of these, and I am trying to sift out the naughtiest, since I do not imagine the Select Committee will care about the Uber car which once stopped to pick up a passenger on double yellow lines, and similar rascally acts, at least, I hope they won’t, because we do things like that all the time.
I had not finished before I realised that I was late for work, and had to abandon the project in order to run about flapping and tripping over the dogs for fifteen minutes. There is still a week to go so it is not yet urgent.
I will get it done in the end.
I expect the Select Committee will be waiting with bated breath.
