"YOUR hamstrings aren't horrific." With those four words my fears are allayed.
I can picture that on my tombstone, I tell Pamela, the physiotherapist. "Here lies Sean Guthrie, 1971-xxxx. His hamstrings weren't horrific." To be fair, she laughs, doubtless in sympathy at the stiff wreck of a specimen sitting in nought but shorts and burgundy Argyle check socks before her. I've always found absurdism a balm in times of trouble, and few appointments fill me with grave concern quite as much as an 8.30am slot with the physio, a time of day when my body is as flexible as a frozen oak.
Fifty minutes later, a printout of exercises in my mitt, I'm promising Pamela she won't recognise me when we meet in a fortnight (9.15am, mercifully). "I'll be bending like a willow," I josh. "I might even dig out my pogo stick for the journey." She smiles and ushers me out. Should I have said space hopper?
I walk to my car, drawing my navel into my spine and swearing to myself that these flexions and extensions will, nay must be done twice a day, otherwise my hamstrings will be ... Well, you can probably guess. The golf season is on the horizon and I'm damned if I'm going to miss out because of back trouble and related not-quite-horrific tendons in my legs.
I've been addressing my diet, too. Having chucked the tobacco, it seems foolish not to. Her nibs keeps me nourished on homemade meals packed with salmon, mackerel and sardines; rice, lentils and couscous; olives, fennel and egg; mint, parsley and thyme; almonds, walnuts, raisins. You'd automatically assume I'd be in good shape, wouldn't you? All I'll say is I'm getting there.
There's still some psychological tweaking to be done. After that breakfast-busting 8.30am appointment with Pamela I was thinking: bacon rolls. Two of them. But I resisted, plumping instead for granola with berries and yogurt. Granted, a sausage roll formed part of the subsequent lunch but you can't deny yourself all the time.
Is this a health kick? Whatever, it's as close as I've knowingly been to one. Golf isn't the sole purpose; I'm entering a period of unquantifiable flux with the (hoped for) sale of my flat and purchase of a bigger, better home. This means not only keeping on top of solicitors, mortgage advisers and tradesmen fixing or checking on this, that and the other, but also jumping through countless administrative hoops too tedious even to mention here. And to carry out such tasks effectively you have to be fighting fit, which, it should be obvious if you've read this far, I am not.
It could be worse, though. My hamstrings could be horrific.
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