So where's the backbone?

Might as well take this opportunity to get back on the bicycle. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I won't be getting back on my real bicycle for a little while yet.

The story is that one recent Saturday morning, I was heading to West Kensington to help Prof carry some things from a friend's flat. Coming out of the tube station, I bent over to unfold my folding bike and felt an ominous twinge in my lower back. Thought to myself, "What the heck? It'll loosen off if I just work it a bit" - I've tried to impress you with my formidable level of intelligence before, haven't I?

So I got on my Brompton and cycled away, looking now and then at my A-Z, my back feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Found myself on Old Brompton Road (on my Brompton bicycle) outside Brompton Specialist dry cleaners, where my incompetent brain and body finally agreed to let me drag myself onto the pavement and collapse (slowly, slowly!) against a wall. The dry cleaner saw me and helped me into his shop, gave me a cup of tea, and used me as a conversation piece with his customers. Thanks, John! If you ever need something cleaned in Chelsea, look him up.

So I ended up being carried rather than carrying things, but hey!, at least I got to see an osteopath. That's not something you do every day. The moral is clear: if you're an old fat bastard, don't be stupid as well.

Like I said, searching for the backbone