I went back to the chiropractor this afternoon having more or less decided that it would be my last session. I know I was told at the beginning of the first session that there were no quick-fix cures, but even so, after two full sessions, I was starting to lose faith. Plus, it’s really back-breakingly expensive.
Then, as I was waiting to be seen, I noticed a certificate on the wall of the reception. It belonged to another of the chiropractors at the same practice. It was a framed diploma. In aromatherapy. Now I don’t know about you – although I can guess, because you come across as pretty cynical on the whole – but whenever I hear the word ‘aromatherapy’, I smell a rat. A large, new age rat with chimes for teeth and a trail of crystals and 'healing stones' oozing out of its puckered rear end. For me, it’s a dirty great sham. The champagne of shams. Snake oil, essentially. Tangerine and lavender – no matter how pleasant on the olfactory neurons – will not cure cancer and will not bring about peace in the Middle East.
So that diploma put the nail in the coffin. I had decided. No more chiropractic. Next time I would try osteopathy.
But then I went into that little room with Naomi and I stripped down to my pants and lay on the table – Naomi asks me just to take my top off but I insist on stripping down to my pants – and by the end of half an hour of pummelling and manipulating, I had decided to go back.
I don’t know – no one knows – but... Naomi could be The One.
I know it sounds silly, but something in the way she tenderly holds my neck, just before she violently jerks it till it goes ‘click’; something in the way this afternoon her hand gently and quite unnecessarily brushed my calf; something in the way she offered me a piece of her underwear at the end of today’s session… Well, it might have been hers. A stocking, or a sheer sock of some kind. With a tennis ball in it…
I don’t know. No one knows. You know? But let’s face it, I am a giant lactic acidic knot of love and there is every possibility that she wants me.
Speaking of which, I must tell you about Morag. Tomorrow. If at all possible.
Hope you're well. Until soon.
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
Back and Forth
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12 comments:
Good evening! Only found your blog a few days ago, and have been avidly following your life in a ridiculously voyeuristic way since... I'm only up to May thus far - and as such am unaware of what has or happened in the last couple of months (until I catch up properly).
Anyhow, I wanted to post my first comment and let you know that I am hooked! You've had me in tears and in stitches through sharing some of the most intimate details of your life - for that I thank you.
Keep it up, and btw I've just filled in that blog questionaire from May (if you're still collecting data).
PS. Interestingly enough I live no more than 3/4 miles from you, small world.
Thank you very much. And hello. By the way, is that three to four miles away, or three quarters of a mile? If it is the latter, I hope you won't be offended if become a little afraid. Not because you're so close, but because you're so accurate. (And so close.)
You're a big tease.
Oh, yeah! She wants you, she wants you so badly.
She gave you, "A stocking, or a sheer sock of some kind. With a tennis ball in it…", Umm- I'm not 100% sure, but I think this means you're married in Chiropractlandia.
You should move into her place immediately!
Oops - it does indeed appear to be three quarters, but I can assure you that I meant three to four miles.
(Although now I am reading you moved in with keith in Peckham, which has added another mile or two)
Panic over, safety assured!
You should move into her place immediately!
I might just turn up at the next appointment with a packed suitcase. That'd show her.
Hey, bright-eyed, do you know anything about backs?
Are you trying to make me jealous?
Backs eh?
Well I could wax lyrical about the vertebral coloumn, its bony landmarks and the associated physiology - however, practical advice is something I may only have after another 3 years of med school... sorry!
I would say beware of chiropractors and the like, when it comes to your spine, you can't be too careful. The thought of someone with a dubious qualification cracking it into/out of place worries me. Yet I bet some people swear by it.
Are you sure it was a tennis ball?
I've watched Scum.
Fermina. Yes.
Bright-Eyed. Wax lyrical about the vertebral coloumn! Wax lyrical about the vertebral coloumn!
Coffee-Boy. It's for massage. Honest. Although if anyone asks, I am the Daddy round here.
Run (stockinball in hand) for the hills!
WV:fknexs
I'd advise the attention of an osteopath, but if you're getting off on the attention, your back seems a small sacrifice.
(just kidding)
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