Wednesday, July 04, 2012


Crippled. Crippled, I am, with back-gah.

They never say in the manual that bending down to pick up €1.90, for the bus trip into town, can result in a twinge so hostile that the air around oneself might turn cobalt.

They don't say that.

This was meant to be the good day, the one to bookend a series of days so full of efforts to improve one's station that it'd leave a man sleepless, restless, fretful, nervous.

It was meant to be a day of coffee, the couch and O Captain My Captain, but it's been sundered by shooting pains above the buttocks and the inability to stop third-personing oneself.

And repetition. The repetition. I'm like that terrible writer EL James that I keep scoffing so much about, though I've barely been able to read a sentence of her work.

This is not the good day, not the day of self indulgence I had greedily planned, but a Wednesday where I realise that the noise that old men make will happen to us all.


Green of Eye, Sharp of Claw said...

Hot bath. add Epsom salt. sit until skin is wrinkly and muscles relaxed.

Radge said...

I will be trying that tonight, after cursing the gods of back pain a thousand times.

Kath Lockett said...


Happens to be the way I start most days upon waking and deep heat is never far away....

Radge said...

Perfect noise for it.