Wake to heavy rain, and the need for a Sunday paper. Which means braving the heavy rain to walk up to the shops. Normally I would nimbly dodge between the rain drops, but today my back still so immobile that I am shuffling like a pensioner, and making involuntary 'ooouff' noises. I convince myself that the walk will loosen things up. It doesn't. As I stiffly hobble across the road to the newsagent, I anticipate but am not fast enough to avoid the sheet of water kicked up by an impatient car. Soaked in a mixture of rain-water, WKD and teenage vomit (we're right outside St Albans' premier 'nite spot'.) Bad. But a clear-cut opportunity for some classic fist-shaking. Good.
I can't wait for my back to return to me. I will bend extravagantly. Unnecessarily. I will twist and lift, carelessly. I will revel in the luxury of taking it for granted again.
Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn't mean it
I just want you, Back, for good.
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