Consequential of ricking my lower back while gardening, I’m in severe discomfort as I commence this chronicle.

While my peony rose enjoys its liberty from my eradication of adjacent shrubbery, gaining the solar ray warmth the far denied in 2020, I’m subjecting myself to the skin warmth bequeathed by Deep Heat cream. It’s remit that of easing my muscular discomfort.

From experience of previous episodes of lower back problems, I’m confident the sporadic spasms troubling me will abate sooner rather than later.

At least my circumstances leading to my pain wasn’t without gain. After all, in the line of duty which caused this injury, possibly the most beautiful plant in the back garden is no longer in stealth mode. Consequently, it’s now got carte blanche to strut its horticultural peacock feathers with the hubris it warrants.

Scene of the accident!

To be honest, until yesterday I actually thought the rose had died. Last years failed attempt to take a cutting, which I planted into a different garden border appearing to have rendered the shrub moribund. The cutting itself dying quicker than a fairground prize goldfish; the parent plant rather peaky after my failed attempt at horticultural cloning.

This year that area of the border was full of a plant which’d overtaken the area where last summer the peony rose stood proudly. Or it had until my tinkering with plant biology rendered it (what I thought was) lifeless. Yesterday morning, though, as two budding rose buds made themselves known, it became apparent the shrub wasn’t pushing up the daisies…… So to speak!

Consequently, I began the task of uprooting the plants enveloping it’s more aesthetically appealing flora and fauna cousin. A piece of garden maintenance I was undertaking while in phone conversation with my estranged wife Karen. My extremely painful lower back injury, of which I earlier alluded, consequential of heaving the plants from the borders clay soil.

I’ve oft suffered mental pain during conversations with Karen, but this is the first time verbal interactions with her have been accompanied by physical pain. This tweaking of muscle, rendering me unable to stand fully upright, and taking a simple step forward excruciatingly uncomfortable.

After a slow tentative shuffling of feet, I eventually managed to return into the house. A sloth paced odyssey where I bore a stooping gait similar to that employed by late comedian Groucho Marx.

On getting into the house, I asked my mum if she’d any Deep Heat cream to aid with my back pain management. She advised the home was currently bereft of the muscle warming lotion. Instead proffering “We’ve got a tube of Savlon cream!”

“Savlon’s an antiseptic cream, mum!…. How the bloody hell will that help a muscular injury?” I countered through gritted teeth consequential of the sheer discomfort I was experiencing.

“I think, I’ve some Germolene!” mum well-meaningly, but foolishly, observed further.

“That’s a bloody antiseptic cream as well!….. Have you anything that might provide some heat relief for my spasming muscles?” I questioned, the pain increasing my agitation.

“We used to have a hot water bottle!” mater chirped.

“What do you mean, you used to have a hot water bottle?…..Have you still got it?” I grunted through a sharp back twinge?

“Errr, no!” mum uttered sheepishly.

“Well why the hell did you mention a hot water bottle we don’t have?!” I berated. At this point unsure what was more irritating, the muscular pain or this idiotic conversation.

“I was only trying to help!” Maggie pointed out to her distressed eldest offspring.

“It’s no good, I’m gonna have to drive down to Tescos Express; see if they’ve any muscle heat cream!” I grimaced through still gritted gnashers.

“You can’t drive down, you can barely walk!” mater observed.

“I know I can’t walk, that’s why I’m gonna chuffing drive there!” I grumped at the matriarch.

“You might crash!” she exclaimed, not without some justification.

At this point, yours truly didn’t pay her further mind. Instead making a slow shuffling walk to my car, departing for the local store. Fifteen minutes later I returned home with the Deep Heat cream. Medication which, although I’d never used before, I knew would allow more efficient pain management than Savlon.

Shuffling slowly into the living room, I was greeted by my mum holding aloft a hot water bottle…… “Look, Gaz!….. I hadn’t thrown this out after all!”

Deep Heat – Better than Savlon for muscle pain management!