Back in peak condition

I've just returned from the Osteopath.

It would seem that my fettle is fine and out to the fullest. My lower thoracic lumbar spinacticles, linear discography and radial hinge facets are all in rum order and my magnificent all-powerful spinal cord is hitting the right note. Status Quo have two they say, there may be three in Oasis.

I went through the full range of movements as he looked on. In other words, I twisted and dipped robotically and tried to touch my toes, and failed miserably, although the Osteo, Pat, hmmed appreciably at my efforts and was pleased. I think he be's listening out for a big cartoonish twonggggggggggg of something fundamental and spring-loaded snapping in me as I stretch. When I keep body and soul together, he can relax a little.

Your movements are fine anyway, he says.

Yeah, I dropped a big poo before coming in alright.

As in, I think about saying that, but I don't.

"Hop up there on the bench now and let's take a look at that lower back region," he says. "I think I'll do a few manipulations."
Ah yes. Manipulations. I always imagine that someday he'll pause and narrow his eyes or steeple his fingers before saying manipulations in pinched italics, and then twist a waxen moustache like an evil overlord. But nope, he always stays as good old Osteo Pat.

But yes, let's get to manipulatin'. I know what this means, this euphemism for harsh lower backcrackery crickitywhackery, and I take a deep breath and ready steady myself. I give my bones and muscles over to him then and he cradles me and drags my limbs into a big gangly human swastika. He starts kneading and hauling me beyond the limits of all internationally accepted yoga boundaries, and I fear every seam of me will fray and split like a nurse's knickers in a Carry On movie, before the beanbag fillings inside me spill hissing on the floor like grain from a sack.

He fidgets and drags me about the place for a bit. I grunt and try not to drool as I'm face down on his bench and trying to offer feedback regarding my sliding scale of pain. Then he hits a sore spot. I jolt. Feedback indeed.

"Oh," he says. "Seems like a trigger point. Better do some work here."

It's called a trigger point because every time he puts his finger on it it's like you're being shot. So, he shoots me through repeatedly and finally, he holsters up and tells me that's enough for today.

"You're doing well. I think we'll leave it six weeks before the next one," he says.

I think so, says I, wondering should I tell him about the stiff neck I forgot earlier.