Pointedly

It's called a manipulation table. You lie on your belly with most of your face pushed down through a slot in the upholstery. Thus you may talk in a muffled way, fighting off an enhanced flow of saliva.

At the peak of the procedure there were 17 needles bristling my back, not one visible to me. Most were introduced into my flesh surreptitiously except one that was long enough to get through the unlovable bulge of my gluteus maximus (ie, backside). That one hurt just a bit.

I was apprehensive about two that were stuck in the back of my neck close to my skull. However my faculties continued to function.

There followed a twenty-minute wait. Although he'd clearly attempted to suppress his accent, I identified the needle-pusher as Welsh. A very minor thought occurred to me; in Wales my first name is more popular than in England, sometimes shortened to Rhodri. Rhodri sounds more vigorous, more masculine but alas it's too late to change now.

He'd been a rock climber but gave up when his "power-to-weight ratio" became unfavourable. Me too and I used the same phrase, thought I'd invented it.

The needles were removed in seconds and were disposed of. I was delighted he had the wherewithal to pay by credit card. VR was waiting in the Tesco café and as I walked there I could hold myself erect without pain, the first time for nearly four months. VR said "Go again." Later I booked another appointment.

The following day I walked the 1000 yards to pick up The Guardian at the filling station. Previously I’d been forced to use the car. A fast pace seemed to help. The next test will be whether I can stand up for my singing lesson.