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Room for improvement

Gerald Ingolby wimps out

Now about six weeks beyond my previous appointment, yesterday I had to report to my physiotherapist so that she could assess my progress in exercising in order to promote greater flexibility in my right thigh/hip and back.

In anticipation of this version of a schoolboy’s visit to the headmaster’s study, I had had decided well in advance that I would confess upfront that I hadn’t quite managed to stick to my given ‘five exercises, twice a day’ regime. I’d admit to doing the set of five exercises only about once, twice, or even three times per week.

Even this was a lie, of course – apart from some half-hearted attempts to do them every day on my annual holiday abroad, which soon subsided – I’d practically done none at all.

However, my historical practice in life has been to assume that, with doctors, dentist and similar professionals, an apparent refreshing degree of honesty by yours truly can tend to break the ice and (as regards any ticking off to be done) limit the damage to perhaps even a mere suspended sentence.

Even the chance that it might do so made its own compelling case.

Accordingly, as I was collected from the waiting area by my personal Rosa Klebb, I began babbling away with verbal diahorrea even before we reached her room. I took up my position beside her desk glowing with the erroneous feeling that things were going well.

Soon I was down to T-shirt and my mid-thigh lycra shorts and bending over to touch my toes, then – standing straight (hands upon my hips) – bending my back backwards. Even I could tell I was about as stiff as a three-day old corpse beset with rigor mortis.

We got chatting. Trying to ingratiate myself, I suggested that she must have seen every sort of client and heard every excuse imaginable in her time. She replied in the affirmative and said that, during an appointment – whatever anyone said to her – she could tell instantly, as soon as they went through their paces, whether they’d been doing their allotted exercises or not.

I gained the impression that I hadn’t been scoring many runs.

Later, with a reduced programme of three exercises that I’d promised to do religiously, after my post-prandial nap I found myself with a couple of afternoon hours to spare and forced myself go to the gymnasium. Three uninvolved minutes on the stepping machine convinced me that continuing was pointless and so I went straight downstairs, changed into my civvies, and walked home down the hill.

More effort required, methinks.

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About Gerald Ingolby

Formerly a consumer journalist on radio and television, in 2002 Gerald published a thriller novel featuring a campaigning editor who was wrongly accused and jailed for fraud. He now runs a website devoted to consumer news. More Posts