My fucking back is going all shit again.
I’ve not cycled in since Monday as I’ve been having to go to Wimbledon during lunch for various things, yesterday it was a phone, today it’s to buy a load of little decoration things for my parents wedding anniversary on Saturday. I’ll be jumping puddles next.
I’m sure the lack of exercise is contributing to the ongoing back issue, but I’m now 99% sure that all the sliding and auto-correction that took place in the swamp at that festival a few weeks ago is directly responsible for the new ‘click’ in the second lumber up from the coccyx. I’m now having to be warying of how I sit, stand, walk… if I’m not careful when buying all those flowery glittery bits and bobs at lunch I’m going to get a reputation. ‘There he is’, they’ll say, ‘they created the Blue Oyster Bar in his honour, he’s so gay that he can’t fart without using a bin liner’.
I managed to get a new phone yesterday without too much fuss and expense, mercifully the sim card didn’t have its information entirely cleansed, though I have lost all of my pictures which is a big pisser. Nevermind, least I kept all of my contacts details. After a harrowing afternoon at work, I got home in time to have a quick shower and began to prepare dinner. Myfwt was coming over, see?
She’s been a bit under the weather, nothing serious; throat infection but I’d not seen her since last week. I’d already decided we were gong to eat roast chicken so there wasn’t really too much to do, peel some spuds and carrots, shell some peas, shove the chicken in the Chicken Brick… Yes, you heard me. I’ve mentioned this thing before, its fucking amazing, buy one from Habitat, the sales on… Not only does the chicken skin go crispy in this thing the meat is so tender you can virtually shake it off the carcass, in addition, all the juices are retained, hey presto instant gravy.
We had champagne as a fucking aperitif, I had a bottle knocking about from a few weeks ago. Personally I prefer a Bordeaux but I wasn’t objecting of course. Myfwt got them out in order to have a bath whilst I finished off supper. It was a triumph, every single component was delicious and the gravy so good I can only describe it by the erection I have typing this.
I ate it all like a fucking pig, flailing limbs, grunting, morsels of food falling, flying… All of the decorum, balance and care in its making went right of the window in its consumption. A fucking triumph.
I must be honest, I’m now actually quite worried that my sodding back may require some attention. When it went all bent a couple of years back surgery was mentioned, after much expense and some diligence at the hands of my chiropractor such action was avoided, but it’s never been entirely ruled out. I mean I can continue having treatments when it gets bad but the fundamental problem with it is only going to be solved by a fucking operation.
Still, at least I’m at work; in this office listening to my colleagues slag each other off, so that’s good.
RIP George Melly, I only slagged you off last month too. You were a good sort though
(My back wouldn’t allow me to do what these chap do on stage. Blast)