A a a a a r g h. Jesus holy Christ and all his attendant wingèd hamster attendants. My back has gone bang, just below the knobbly bit that my right kidney hangs off (my grasp of lumbar physiology isn’t terribly tight, as all the chunky Lego bits of mine seem to rattle round a bit). I have the usual ice-cream headache in my right hip, and shooting pains along my thigh. If only someone, all those years ago, had told me to at least vary the shoulder my bag was slung over; or to walk around occasionally during revision for A-level mocks, my world might now be different. How did I have the nerve to mock the sartorius of those gaggles of French tourists on Cornmarket? Oh, wait: I remember.
But I don’t know what I’m going to do at the Reading Festival at this rate. Don’t be surprised if I go quiet for a week. Three days of keeping away from a computer when I can might make the five days of enforced connectivity withdrawal at the hands of Mean Fucking Fiddler slightly more palatable. I already have an inflatable to balance on, should my whole ganglion burst into flames.