Somehow I’ve done something to my back over the weekend. One minute it is fine, Gordon and I are walking miles along the beaches while Bruce and his gangly greyhound legs gallop ahead of us. Then a little later a twinge. A little later serious owwwwww followed by JESUSCHRISTONABATTLESHIPBRIDGEMAKEITSTOP! Buggered if I know how I pulled a muscle (and didn’t notice in a walk of several miles) but its damned sore and since it is down at the base of the spine it is almost literally a pin in the arse. There’s nothing like taking five minutes just to get your shoes on and laced because you can’t bend your back right to teach you not to take your spine for granted. Why can’t we just spray WD40 on backbones and muscles as well as mechanical components to fix everything? Requests to be given a petite Filippino gal to massage my back regularly on the NHS have been denied. It’s an outrage. It is also an inrage.

Then again, perhaps it isn’t a pulled muscle, perhaps those sneaky Israeli’s have hit my lower spine in a surgical strike after mistaking my magnificent Celtic arse for a rocket launcher.