How a visit to an osteopath created a crisis of undie pants

I put my back out earlier this month. I’d like to say it happened whilst doing something exciting but it didn’t. It was, however, a sporting injury, in that I was on my knees reaching out to pick up one of George’s football cards when it went crack.

Despite surviving seven hours of labour without pain relief (followed by seven hours of epidural heaven) I consider myself to have a very low pain threshold. A bit like the princess and the pea. I therefore adopted a two stage pain relief strategy. That evening I numbed the pain with neurophen and sauvignon blanc (very effective). The next morning, I went to see an osteopath.

It was only when I had gone through the preliminary chat with the osteopath (early-thirties, ex-gymnast) and he said: “Right. If you could get undressed now down to your bra and knickers,” that I suddenly realised one does not go to an osteopath unprepared.

I used to buy matching bra and knickers sets at Selfridges. I used to go to Arezoo Kaviani for my bikini wax. I used to shave my legs weekly - EVEN IN WINTER. However, having young children, working full time, balancing a budget and wrapping up warm for subzero temperatures, tend to make such things seem mere fripperies.

And so, as my osteopath asked me to bend over and touch my toes so he could see the line of my spine, the only small piece of comfort I could draw was that I had at least not gone to work that day wearing a thong.

Oh my god, I'm trailor trash!

I’ve just finished reading the book Watching the English, The hidden rules of English behaviour by Kate Fox. As a Kiwi married to an Englishman, living in England, with two English sons (they are actually half-Kiwi, but in denial at the moment, but more on that some other time), it looked like compulsory reading material.

Let’s just say, it was a bit of an eye opener. We don’t have a real upper class in New Zealand, despite what some people living in Christchurch might think. But most of us secretly believe that when we come over to England we will be embraced by English people of all classes - including the upper classes - because we are so quirky and charming and there are only four million of us.

Little did I know that lots of little words I use every day give me away (and most of the Kiwi population) as a working class trollop aspiring to be middle class. 'Toilet' or 'bathroom'? Lower class. If you’re posh you say ‘loo’. 'Couch'? The height of ill breeding! What you’d be saying if your Dad went to Eton is ‘sofa’. ‘Lounge’? Eek, it’s ‘The Front Room’, don’t you know. And don’t even think about calling napkins ‘serviettes’ - that’s an arriviste affectation adopted by those of us who think it’s sophisticated to use words of French derivation. Ce n’est-pas vrai, apparently.

So there you have it. I am trailor trash. The only small comfort that I could take from the book was that only working class people clean their cars every weekend, and truly upper class people’s furniture tends to be a mix of mis-matched hand-me-downs with tears in the upholstery. I can tick those boxes with aplomb!