A punishing therapy

I’M LYING on my side on the examination table, while the physiotherapist pummels my hip with fingers, hands and even elbows. A nice big bruise is already appearing…

And it seems, at the moment, I’m to endure this punishment twice weekly.

Rick is convinced that my hip pain is less to do with arthritis than with a lifetime of general slouchy-ness and flat feet.

Hence my new year has begun with this regular pounding.

And then, of course, there are the exercises I’m supposed to do at home – stretching, bending, leaning hard against a tennis ball wrapped in a sock.

All this is to try and re-educate my poor old muscles into giving me the support I really need.

I’m far from persuaded of the efficacy of all this; muscles that have been dormant for sixty-odd years are surely not going to suddenly spring into life, are they?

But Rick is sure of this treatment and is full of youthful enthusiasm and I don’t wish to rain on his parade.

So, my punishing therapy continues…