My shoulder and superman

Something strange happened yesterday. Two hours after waking up, twittering about the most cringeworthy debate about Twitter ever to grace my TV screen, watching 5 minutes of Jeremy Kyle then wondering into my room to get dressed...my shoulder seized up. I can see no other reason for this, except that I had exposed my body to ITV and now I was paying the price.

Slowly the muscles tightened and knotted as I raised my arm to apply some eyeliner. Within ten minutes, my neck refused to grant me access to left and right without a shooting pain whizzing down my arm and the left hand side of my spine. Nevertheless, I slathered myself in Ibuprofen gel and got myself back to London, where I employed all manner of heat pads, pain killers and Green and Blacks dark chocolate to make myself feel better.

This morning, it still hurt - so an off work mum got me a physio appointment at the sports club. Now, bear in mind I was uncomfortable, in pain, but still functioning, i.e. able to dress, make toast, waggle about with the dawgs, generally hold conversation. We approached the reception at the sports club, where we handed over our membership cards and the receptionist said hello, and ah yes you've got an appointment, off you go it's in there.

"Yes. She's in agony." said my mum, eliciting sympathetic noises and cooing from the receptionist.
"Mum, I'm not in agony." I said within earshot as we walked into the gym.
"Aren't you?" she replied, slightly outraged as if she'd been tricked.
"No! Not agony. Like, it hurts...but I wouldn't say it's agony"

She looked at me as if I'd just sworn and farted the alphabet.

"Agony means an all-encompassing pain, like I'd be screaming in pain, and in tears...which I'm not... am I? I just can't move my neck and shoulders."
"Oh." she said, a bit disappointed.

However, as we sat outside the physio office in the air conditioned gym, waiting for an appointment that didn't exist because the physio, believing he had no other patients that afternoon, had gone home ill - it did get worse. And, as I was telling the apologetic receptionist not to worry, I'd just "go home and Nurofen-up", my mum darted after a tall, dashing hunk of a man walking the other way.

Next thing I know this man, who apparently runs my mum's exercise class and "sorted Lorraine's shoulder out once" (?!) has taken me to one side in the sports club foyer and is doing things to my shoulder, neck and back. Magical, wonderful things which are painful in an inexplicably lovely way. He's pressing and teasing out the knots, moving things around and wiggling the rocks that are my shoulder muscles. All the while, he's continuing to have normal conversation with passing people, who stop and chat, look at me and cock their head in imitation or mock sympathy.

"Alright Jay. We still on for 4pm?" or "Hiya Darren. How's it going?", while I am standing there in front of him, mouth agape, half drooling, half grimacing in pain. The man finishes whatever he's doing and tells me to stretch my neck this way and that, then roll my shoulders.

"How does that feel?"

And miraculously, this public, impromptu physio session has given me the gift of movement. Before I can thank him, in true Superman "my work here is done" style, he is running out the door and, I shit you not, sprinting across the car park. Literally, within seconds, he's gone. Me and my mum look at each other as this figure disappears out of view, wondering if he's coming back or what.

I like to think that he was late to an appointment...somewhere out there in NW London, another wounded lady was in need of his attentive Superhands. Godbless that man. It's an easter miracle.