People - a lesson from history

I was on the tube again this morning, due to my unusual hamstring.  It's not actually sore today; don't tell anyone.  I've an appointment with my physio tomorrow.  If it carries on like this, I'll have to start making symptoms up.  

I've got a bit of previous when it comes to bullshitting professionals in a one-to-one situation.  I'm a Catholic, and as a child I had to start making up sins when I went to confession.  It's not that I was free from sin at that age (I am now), but I used to dry up under the pressure of the confessional, so I'd start inventing generic venial misdemeanours.  I don't suppose Father [insert Irish surname here] bought it for a minute.  I wish now I'd taken the trouble to make up so more interesting ones, from a theological perspective I mean.  "You been feeding your budgie Holy water?  Hmm...not sure how to deal with this one...it does sound quite bad...I'll have to phone the Bishop.  Give up cheese and hop around on one leg until I get back to you."

Where was I?  Oh, yes, the tube.  So it's about 50 degrees Celsius as per on the Jubilee Line, and we're rammed in there like bluebottles inside a hollowed-out turd when some rotter decides to fart.  I'm not a violent man, but by Christ I would battered the culprit flaccid had I got my gloves on him.  Have we not all got enough to deal with, what with the heat and the general pervasive air of gloom?

Essence and Extension

I had to get the tube to work today, which for a jobbing cyclist like me is a nightmare.  Also, it's July; the sun is shining and the cotton is high, instead of being out there enjoying it, I was stuck in a giant tumble dryer with the vulgar mob.  And they are vulgar, believe me.  The reason for the unwelcome return to London's expensive and shambolic transport system is that one of my hamstrings is playing-up.  It's not sore exactly, just not right, and I don't want to do any damage, so I'm waiting to see my physio.

I have a difficult relationship with health care professionals.  I love them but at the same time hate myself for being so needy.  It's all take-take from me.  I don't know what my physio gets out of it, frankly, apart from £90 an hour (I suppose one could rent a very attractive Russian prostitute for that kind of money, but BUPA would probably baulk at that).  My physio is big on taking responsibility for one's pain management.  I had a problem with my neck some years ago; it was absolutely excruciating.  I mean this was real "can I go on?" agony.  It was debilitating too.  Anyway, he treated me and the symptoms died down, but afterwards he gave me some exercises that were designed expressly to anger the errant neck vertebra.  The rationale for this is that pain has two elements: the electrical signal, about which you can do nothing, and the brain's reaction to that signal, about which you have absolute control.  So basically I was prodding the sore nerve ending with a physio stick until it realised that Mr Brain was going to ignore it.

It was incredibly liberating, this process.  I felt a degree of control I'd never previously thought possible.  For a few months I was master of my limbs and trunk.  Unfortunately, real life creeps back up and gives one a drubbing, just to restore balance.  Just as well I suppose, otherwise I might have ended-up like one of the halfwits who thinks himself utterly invulnerable and spends his weekends base-jumping when he could be drinking freezing cold sherry with his darling wife.

No pain - yes please.