Osteopath

Further to my little trip to London last week, I forgot to mention that when trudging down the King’s Rd, a new bride emerged from the Town hall in a wedding dress that had fresh peach coloured roses sewn into the silk. As if that was not enough – wait for it – no bridesmaid accompanied her – oh no a dog, also peach coloured!
At this point I was lugging various bits of luggage and desperately trying to hang on to two young girls lest they run into the road and get mown down by a Porsche 4x4 so, what with the tussle and not being able to take my eyes of this apparition in front of me I consequently returned to Cornwall with a cricked neck and a very sore back.
Mags gave me the name of an osteopath she ‘swears by’ and before I knew it, I had dialled his number and made an appointment to be seen. I can categorically say that what followed has to be one of the most mortifying experiences of my life. I had left my house in a fit of pique as Hubby had just arrived home for the weekend and was not best pleased to be informed that his wife was now going to spend a decent sum of money on yet another “quack doctor” and shouldn’t I “just improve my posture and lose a few pounds”. As I could barely turn my head, I was not in a position to get fierce and shake my fist at him, instead I told him that I would be out of action all weekend unless someone saw to my ailments. This rather coded threat was enough to silence him long enough for me to slip out of the house, but it was late when I arrived at the osteopath’s consulting rooms. The country lane was pitch dark and it was literally a pain in the neck to peer through the car window to find his office. Eventually I pulled up in the car park and as I entered the building, the osteopath was waiting for me. If I had expected a dressing down for being late, I was much mistaken – he was lovely, kind and understanding. We went into his room and that’s when he hit me with it – “Undress down to your underwear please”.
I blustered, I blushed, I stammered, I begged for a gown – but he was having none of it. “You haven’t got a sore throat Mrs Band, I need to be able to see your front and back” and that was that, he left me to disrobe.
Dying of shame I pulled my clothes off and threw them on the back of the chair. Then with a heavy heart I climbed onto the examination bed and waited for him to return. He returned to find me with my hands covering my face. “Oh Mrs Band, are you alright?” Suddenly it dawned on me that he may think I was crying and I quickly removed my hands and rather flippantly joked, “I just feel so exposed, no-one has ever seen me like this unless they were drunk, I was drunk or have been married to me for 15 years”
“I’m not looking at your body like that Mrs Band”
“Oh no”, I briskly replied, “I’m not suggesting you are, it’s just that had I known I was stripping off I’d have gone on a diet, worn my best knickers and painted my toenails” I was digging myself a hellish, deep and desperate hole. Why couldn’t I just shut up?
“Mrs Band I’m a professional. I have seen several female bodies today….”
“Not one like mine though eh, I bet? I….”
“Mrs Band, would you please remove your socks”. Damn, damn, damn. Now, not only had he made me aware that dangling at the end of my hairy legs were my most unattractive, ankle-socked feet but I would now have to sit up and thus bend in the middle, completely obliterating any image that my lying flat as a pancake had made me appear slightly slim.
My back and neck were so painful he actually had to help me up and, as I knew it would, my belly rolled forward and down, eclipsing my knickers. Try as I might to elegantly peel off socks that had left a delightful elastic tide mark around my ankles, it was impossible perched as I was on a hard, narrow bed and as I awkwardly pulled at the material around my toe it flew off, throwing me backwards and sideways, leaving the osteopath no alternative but to catch me. It is only poor old Hubby that has had such intimate contact with my corpulent flesh this side of the age of 25 and even he is at a loss with what to do with it. This poor bugger was as proficiently and remotely as is possible when a large, mostly naked woman throws herself at you -attempting to extricate his hands from my soft tissue.
Eventually order was restored and we both recovered our equilibrium. I lay flat and was very quiet whilst he checked my legs, feet and shoulders. This peace was not to last when I turned over however and he manipulated my neck and shoulder. The pain was so intense that I screamed and almost passed out. As he ran his hands further down my back and he pressed my sacrum, tears sprang to my eyes and foolishly I whimpered, “It hurts so much”.
“Mrs Band, you are in a mess but I have the capability and technology to mend you”. Was he going to make me bionic? When I got home I told Hubby all about it over a large glass of wine.
“Well as long as it doesn’t cost 6 million dollars, I really couldn’t care less”.