Who's The Daddy: Pain in the back meant the dishes went unwashed

It’s not up there with shattering my elbow and wrist tipping off the side of my bike after the chain came off going uphill and my feet got caught in the stirrups.

It doesn’t even compare with tearing ligaments in my lower back getting off the toilet six months later. And making it even worse 24 hours after that by putting a sock on.

Not as good as concussion from running around the garden in a loft ladder box, tripping with my arms wedged in by my side and going over on my forehead like a mighty Scots pine.

Or getting my foot jammed in the dishwasher handle while trying to close the door with the big toe of my left foot. Hopping around on my right until the inevitable happened and hit the deck like a desperate forward looking for a penalty deep into injury time.

Nope, far more mundane and way more painful. Bending down and then back up too quick after heroically putting a plate into the bottom row of the dishwasher. I’ve never quite been dumb enough to stick a fork into an electrical socket but I’d imagine the sharp burst of pain you feel in your lower back is comparable.

You know you’re getting older when you tell your other half that you’re injured and in pain after doing something either incredibly mundane or Darwin Awards level stupid, and instead of laughing so hard they can’t breathe, they pull a concerned face and ask you how you are.

“Go and have a lie down. Have you got any of those strong painkillers left?” asked the boss last Friday morning. As it happens, I had. But they’re so strong you can smell music and taste numbers, and I had work later that morning so a day on mood-altering opioids was pretty much out of the question.

Backs are weird things though. If you haven’t done some serious damage, often, if you lie in the magic position for a little while that makes the pain go away, pretty often it’s manageable and a day or two later you can hobble around without too much difficulty.

Dogs, especially our sighthound Walter, are so tuned into their favourite hooman that I swear to God they know when something’s up. Maybe it’s the contorted look on your face or the way you tiptoe around the house, slowly. It’s as if he knows not to chase the cats around like Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner so as not to accidentally skittle you down the stairs as he thunders past.

Anyway, 48 hours after it went BANG!, it was pretty much OK. Losing a ton of weight last year probably helped, as did walking the dog’s legs off every day. Gymnastics and a career in the circus as an acrobat are probably out, but tippety-tap-tap-tapping with the index fingers on both hands in that way every single journalist I’ve ever met does, I’m probably good to go.

Although there isn’t much to be said for getting old, it is way better than the alternative.

To read more Who’s The Daddy click here