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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

I had physio this morning, the scary physio appointment that we arranged last June, when December was a very very long way away, when the Festival was around the corner and nothing else after that existed because my brain doesn't stretch beyond the big upcoming excitements. In our last physio session, my physioterrorist (DYSWIDT?*) had all sorts of words of advice for me, all of which annoyed, irritated, offended and downright pissed me off, because I don't like having the truth gruffly blurted out to me. I must do my pilates exercises, else my back will fall out and I will die. I must lose weight, else my back will fall out and I will die. I must walk more, else my back will fall out and I will die.

What she didn't seem to understand was the fact that I'm a very lazy person, prone to lying around and thinking about the profoundities of life while snuggling up to a large labrador who loves nothing more than having her tummy rubbed. I'm the kind of person when faced with the decision of either going for a long walk or not going for a long walk will chose the second option. And importantly, due to the last physio appointment being before rather than after my second epidural, I was the kind of person to whom travelling on a bus or walking down a crowded street was the worst kind of torture imaginable, due to the pain and the spasms and the panic attacks.

I didn't like her, and I didn't want her stinking advice and what did she know and she didn't understand me and she could go to hell, I reasoned as I limped home last June, cursing her name and damning her and all her brethren to the lower fiery bowels of Satan. But you know what? She only went and had a point.

Post epidural, I started walking more. I started socialising and not being frightened of people. The festival came along and made me realise that being out and about was actually possible once more, and post festival I kept on truckin'. I stopped having to take so many tablets and the nausea and feelings of uneasiness also left. I joined Weight Watchers with some other like minded, fat peeps and stopped eating so much muck, and by jings, it's all gotten so much better.

So I glided through the door this morning, ready to spite down that wretched woman with all my success and progress, and you know what? She was happy for me. She declared me one of her "success stories". She was delighted about everything. We were doing some stretching things to see how my flexibility was going and she caught a glimpse of my tattoo, which I'd had done since the last time I saw her. And you know what? She didn't even flinch. Not a word or a comment or nuffink. WHAT'S THE POINT OF GETTING A TATTOO IF IT DOESN'T IRRITATE YOUR PHYSIO?!

She discharged me, saying I should carry on with my pilates for 30 minutes a day, four times a week, and that if I wanted to, I should call back in to see her some time to let her know how I'm getting on. Then she gave me a massive smile and wished me a happy Christmas.

Huh. Some people.

*Do you see what I did there?


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