back Back BACK

 My back hurts. It really hurts. It's painful to move in bed. It's sore getting out of a chair. A bath is nigh impossible. Tying my shoelaces requires gas and air. I've just written a novel in which the - defiantly non-autobiographical - protagonist has a bad back. Was it a prediction? Am I going to be subject to all the other indignities I piled on him: will I be accused of theft? Or discovered by window cleaners in a compromising position? 

Entirely likely. 

I'm not sure what is causing the bad back. Susan wonders if it might be my new office chair (which actually offers my lower back support for the first time) or our mattress (which we've had for a couple of years without any problems). Could it be my new walking boots? Or that I've been walking five miles in them every day since I got them. Or possibly that I favour my right hand entirely when writing (the pain belts the base of my spine but seems to be focused on my left side). 

I doubt very much it's any of those things. What it probably is is that when the day is done and it's time for me to relax after a hard day's typing, I lie down on my left side on the couch, typing into the laptop on the small table in front of me. And I do this for hours, lying there in what's come to be known as "The Roman Position", as though I were Nero at the trough, about to chow down on grapes and fermented fish guts. 

I may have to sit up straight in future in order to avoid searing pain, if it's not already too late. But I love slouching, I adore backsliding. You'll always find me down the back of the sofa at parties, like loose change, crumbs and Boris Johnson's phone password. 

No more. I need to straighten up and fly right. I'm going to go out for my hike in a minute. It'll probably rain. Good. I deserve it, with my narrow shoulders and slovenly spine. Time to iron out those kinks with exercise and general misery. Comfort be damned.