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.