This shoulder of a giant doesn’t need standing upon

Staying in the country over the weekend, on Saturday in perfect weather conditions we joined a party that took a motor launch out of harbour and across the Solent to drop anchor off Bembridge in the Isle of Wight. Our purpose was no more than to enjoy a birthday picnic lunch and watch some of the alleged 1,500 competitors come sailing by in the annual ‘Round the Island’ race, a mission that we accomplished with flying colours.

It is the nature of these things that – after the long chug back to port, putting the boat to bed, having a cup of tea and then relaxing and chatting on the terrace overlooking the sweeping lawns of the pile that doubles as the family’s stately home – all of us flushed with reddened faces courtesy of being out on the water in bright sunshine all day whilst intaking large breaths of salt-flavoured southern England air, minds and indeed bodies soon turned to thoughts of keeling over and having a snooze. Or retiring to bed, as I did at just before 7.00pm, with a clear conscience.

Domestic arrangements being what they were last weekend (two sisters were doubling up in the guest room I normally occupy), this meant me being consigned to slumber as best I could on an ancient sofa in the main drawing room, covered by a grey woollen blanket that must have seen better days because it was decidedly coarse upon the skin and had probably first done business in the year we first moved into the place exactly four decades previously.

(I say that with some confidence because most of the house’s artefacts and utensils still in regular use would qualify under this heading).

Upon taking up my preferred position, curled up into a foetal position in order to avoid falling off the sofa, and turning alternatively on one side and then the other in the few moments I needed to reach sleep – I joke at dinner parties that whenever yours truly jumps into the sack, a state of unconsciousness coincides with my head hitting the pillow – I went out like a light.

And then re-awoke in the wee hours in agony.

I have a propensity, somewhere within the depth of my right shoulder blade, to suddenly succumb to excruciating stabbing pain that people tell me is probably caused by either a trapped nerve and/or ‘knotted muscles’. From time to time over the past couple of decades this affliction visits me and leaves me wincing day and night and generally feeling sorry for myself.

Yesterday is was a case of ‘back to the good old, bad old, days’. It was literally impossible, when at the wheel of my car at a T-junction, to turn my head to the right far enough to see whether there were any cars coming towards me from that direction.

Thus I was in the absurd situation yesterday, as we drove back to the metropolis after tea, of necessarily requiring my front seat passenger to join me in team work – “Anything coming?” I would ask … and she would answer “Yes” or “No” depending upon whether anything was.

At least, I say she would do that, but of course (since I couldn’t turn my head to the right at all) I was relying 100% upon her ability to judge these matters correctly.

The first time we reached a T-junction and used this scheme I did have a sudden onset of that awful feeling that – metaphorically speaking – I might be stepping into the unknown when she said “You’re fine to go!” because … for example, in the event she was making this statement up, and/or made an unfortunate misjudgement of the speed of any oncoming vehicle – by simply turning out into the main road ‘blind’, I was actually leaving my life (and those of my passengers) to the hoped-for nirvana that, by doing so and accelerating as fast as I could, I would escape a collision from behind as a heavy-duty commercial van rattling along at a closing speed of 35 mph-plus approached from less than 100 yards away.

Yesterday – quite separately of any of the above – I had two offers of treatment or help, both of which I accepted partly because I did not wish to let anyone down by refusing and partly because – in my distressed physical state – I was willing to try anything.

The first was from the half-Argentinian sister of my ‘ball and chain’, who claimed to have extensive experience of massage prone bodies and also that she greatly enjoyed giving such treatments.

I therefore lay face down on a towel on the lawn, T-shirt discarded, whilst she applied olive oil (yes, the stuff you cook with!) all over my back and not just my afflicted right shoulder.

Apart from the occasional sudden involuntary ‘starts’ and yelps as she kneaded some sinew or muscle, this was an enjoyable experience in terms of relaxation and anticipated improvement.

Sometime later, not long before we departed, the second offer came from my father’s African carer George who is very professional and always keen to assist or please. He is also a very committed evangelical Christian and this part of his life does cause occasional frictions because he brings it up more often than perhaps he should.

A few weeks back, for example, the ‘ball and chain’ entered the ‘Does God exist?’ lists by telling George that, whilst she totally respected his right to believe whatever he wanted, would he please mind very much if he left her out of his bounteous ministrations because she was an atheist and didn’t believe a word of it.

George took an interesting line in response, bordering on the proposition that she was misguided in her views because – whatever she thought they were, God loved her. What’s more George himself loved her and would pray for her. “Please don’t” she said. The exchange went on for several minutes and (inevitably) got nowhere.

That is why I was a little surprised yesterday when George bowled up and offered to cure me. I thought no harm could come of it and anyway was curious as to how this might happen.

He took me into the drawing room, placed his hand upon my right shoulder blade, closed his eyes, and prayed to God, calling upon him to put his healing had upon him (George) so that he could – through the Lord – heal me.

He then announced (eyes still closed) that God had now given him magical powers, and proceeded to command all my pains to leave my body instantly … “Now!” (and with that he pushed his hand violently into my shoulder blade) as if to signal to whatever evil had possessed that it was time to bugger off.

I don’t mind admitting here to Rust readers that the excruciating pain which both George and I had been hoping would leave my body forever instantly then happened to visit me with greatly increased force and extent, to the point where it was all I could do to struggle to the open door out onto the terrace, straining with bulging and moistening eyes all the while to hold back a scream of pain caused directly by the force of George’s command and the hand he had thrust upon my shoulder blade.

I’m still undecided as to whether God doesn’t exist, or alternatively that he does but yesterday was intent upon teaching me a much-needed lesson for not believing it.

For the record, my shoulder is far worse this morning than it was last night.