What is it with blokes and their backs? Not only do I hear of horror stories from work, and from my dad’s mate who is some magistrate in Adelaide who specialises (if not revels) in bizarro workplace accidents, I have actual contact with back-impaired people. And a back-impaired person is very closely related to a toothache impaired person. A few weeks back (sorry) my friend D was knocked for six when he got out of his car and his back decided that it was time to give up. It took a holiday. I am not a fount of anatomical knowledge, but I would make a guess and dangerously assume that the taller you are, the worse you are going to feel when your back packs up.
D is one of the loftier of my acquaintances. He ducks under doorways. So they had a bit of trouble fitting him into the ambulance, and eventually had to lift his feet while they quickly closed the doors. He then got left on a trolley all night in some forsaken emergency ward, but that’s another story.
M has also done his back while lifting my dad’s 5hp Tohatsu in or out of the van. I think it was at the tail end (sorry) of their Boy’s Own Adventure which consisted of taking Hoo-Ray! out on the wild seas over night. He returned home, liver more or less intact, with a gingerness that one does not usually associate with him. So ginger was he, that it began to feel better, whereupon he picked me up, literally, on Friday night and we both heard the sound of a drumstick being wrenched from a roast chicken as he gracefully collapsed to the floor.
Yesterday he was magicianed by an osteopath, and is much better. However, the osteopath warned him to lay of the heavy physical work, so he has proclaimed the coming week to be The Week of Soft Furnishings. That is, the cutting out of foam and sewing of Boat’s cushions.