“I’ve had a problem with my right hip. Just a wee niggly pain. I’ve rested it for a month and, before I go home for Christmas, I thought I’d get it checked to make sure it’s all fixed.”
And, with that, I removed all my clothes except my boxers.
Just to be clear, I was prompted to do that.
I don’t just rip off my clothes at the drop of a hat, jumper, trousers and socks. I booked a visit to a physio in Larbert, one I’d been to before so I knew the routine. I would say what was wrong with me. She’d say strip. I’d strip then she’d prod me with her thumbs and make me scream.
Again, just to be clear, she asked first if it was okay to prod me. Though I think “prod” is not the medical term. Her term might have been “apply pressure to the muscle to cause it to release” but, whatever the right term, the effect was the same. She prodded my back and then I screamed.
But that was just the start.
“Your right leg is tighter than your left.”
“I know,” I said “I can never get money out of my right pocket.”
She didn’t laugh. I assume she hadn’t heard.
“Lie on your side. Bend your knee. Raise your arm. Put your hand here. Keep that leg straight.”
I try and follow but it feels like I’m trying to re-create a chalk outline of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
“Don’t worry if you can’t manage it,” she said, “just breathe out.”
And she pushed down on my knee.
Just to be clear, she didn’t ask me first. It was assault. A vicious attack. An unproved invasion of my physical space and a –
A balloon had exploded. The planet had exploded. I’d just heard the Big Bang.
“That’s it,” she said, “got it, you’re cured!”
And I was. I couldn’t feel any pain. Whatever had popped had stopped whatever was niggling the jiggling of my legs and hips.
It was a miracle.
But, blimey, it hurt. But at least it was over. Done.
Then she said the five words you never want to hear from a physio.
No, not “It’s not meant to crack!”
Or “Let’s call the Doctor now.”
Or “Can I cup the balls?”
It’s worse. It’s “Let’s do the other side!”