Yesterday was an odd mix of tearful trauma and free wine. In the morning I paid a visit to the British School of Osteopathy for back-crackin’ thrills. I’d read that a visit to the O requires stripping (at 10am! Really!), but when getting ready that morning I hadn’t taken the time to really think about this. So my legs were hairy, everywhere else was, as usual, hairy, and I was wearing bad mismatched underwear. Also, thank you God, I had my period. I had requested a female med student, as the last time any guy except Steve saw me in my pants was in 2002. But there were TWO students, one male and one female, and there was fluorescent strip lighting and there was me, with sock indentations on my ankles. Not only was I made to strip, I was made to bend and stretch. The only funny part was when I bent over to touch my toes and, as if on cue, a bus on Borough High Street exhaled noisily. Har. Then I had to lie on a couch and a doctor came in and prodded me and felt my neck and then got me in a headlock and my neck made loud cracking noises. Call me strange, but I believe the neck is one of those body parts that should be seen and not heard. Silent neck = good neck. Loud, cracking neck = crying and pain. I am going back next week, but have requested they hold off the wrestling moves and just use massage instead.
But the evening made everything better. Went to the launch/exhibition to accompany this book, and there were nice people (and some silly hipsters) and free booze, and a very wonderful vintage store next door having a huge sale. Gorgeous 40s dresses were marked down from £40 to a tenner, but sadly I am not built for fitted clothing: compared to 40s ladies I am tube-shaped. I always thought I had a waist; apparently I was wrong. Anyway, this didn’t stop me from spending twenty minutes rubbing my sweaty face over the dresses as I tried in vain to pull them over my head.