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Bad back has me like Quasimodo without bell.

Byline: Denis Kilcommons

THE back pain came from nowhere to remind me not to get clever. No more football for you, pal, it said in no uncertain terms.

Yes, I know I'm getting on a bit for putting on my boots, but the way Manchester United's defence has been leaking goals recently I thought even I might have a chance as a midfield enforcer.

I was never tall but I could always make myself a nuisance during my playing days. Usually to my own team mates.

However, the worn discs in my lower back had decided to pull a sickie and left me in agony and walking around like Quasimodo in search of a bell.

Once I was sitting down it was not too bad and once I was standing up it was not too bad. But getting from one position to the other was murder.

The bad back has not developed because of age. I have had it for 25 years and had a couple of minor operations in decades past.

Periodically it returns if I attempt anything too strenuous - like cutting the grass in the back garden.

Not that I cut it - my wife does. But it gives me a guilt complex as I watch her push the mower for hours at a time. The change in seasons at least means I won't feel guilty in that particular area again until next spring.

The thing about a bad back is that there are no outward signs that anything is wrong. A broken leg means a plaster cast and a crutch. A broken right arm means someone else has to buy the drinks. But a bad back? Sometimes I think doctors should hand out NHS badges, similar in size to those that supermarket 'Greeters' used to wear with a suitable slogan upon them. Something like: 'Despite looking as fit as a lop, this person is seriously ill and needs looking | A PAIN: my back after.' I'm not the sort of person to make a bad back a career choice and never work again and when it goes I do soldier bravely on. I try not to cause a fuss, but the occasional cup of tea and chocolate biscuit do not go amiss when I'm marooned in my armchair recliner.

You try and get out of a recliner when you have a bad back.

"Thank you, dear," I say. The discomfort is real and I couldn't even get to sleep at night because of the pain when I attempted to change position in bed.

"Tonight I might sleep in a chair downstairs," I told my wife.

"Why?" "So that I don't disturb you when I cry out."

"Have you been crying out, then?" Sometimes, her patience does wear a tad thin and the cups of tea become less Honest, hurts frequent. Like now. Do you know, I think my back is getting better.


| A REAL PAIN: Honest, my back hurts
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Publication:Huddersfield Daily Examiner (Huddersfield, England)
Date:Oct 5, 2012
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