Bones, gristle and chat

I can’t remember whether Gary is officially a chiropractor, a physiotherapist or an osteopath. Not that it matters. Once he eased me out of the worst (ie, sciatic) pain ever. Now I visit randomly even when I’m pain-free. During his pummelling he usually isolates a muscle or other flexible bit which profits from his ministrations. Good to stretch.

This time it’s what you might call a triple date. I’m without a car so daughter Occasional Speeder drives me there and also gets pummelled. I’m first on the table and as usual there’s wall-to-wall talk. For some reason I recall my RAF training when I deliberately made myself the most unpopular occupant of a 24-man billet and how this led two quite serious fights. Gary’s a decent sort and he ums and ahs politely then steers the conversation to somewhere less pugilistic.

When Occasional Speeder takes to the table I get to see the pummelling from a more objective viewpoint. In particular, strange two-handed flicks up and down her spine, too fast to follow. Then OS’s arm is held vertically with the hand made to describe figure-of-eight patterns; it’s almost balletic. My concentration lights on a (presumably) plastic model of a backbone with an odd asymmetrical attachment at the top. I intend to ask Gary about this, but by now the talk has risen to a noisier level as we shout our condemnation of the present Tory government.

Should one undergo pummelling even when there’s no tangible pain? Or am I really there for the chat? Gary’s got a heavy-duty electric pummeller that’s new to me; to the patient it’s like a badly sprung car riding over a bumpy road. But only for a few seconds. Outside it’s sunny and I realise how rare this is in 2024.