An Eighteen Wheeler

On Saturday afternoon I’d a re-occurrence of lower back issues which dog me from time to time. I’m unaware of this latest lumbar incident’s cause; however I can say without any doubt the last few days have seen me suffer agonisingly with upper glute muscle discomfort.

Trying to take a positive from the event, on the plus side at least my spasm induced cursing means at least the Strachan swear box now overflows. Meaning at least I’m flush enough to fill my car with diesel fuel…… Yes, believe it or not, my pain caused swearing has been that bad since Saturday!!

A further boon is upon rising this Wednesday morning to discover my three day discomfort had diminished markedly. Consequently, a much cheerier GJ Strachan materialised on the flipside of last night’s slumber.

It’s fair to say, though, despite clear signs of reduction in upper flute pain, I ensured steady alighting bed practises were followed at reveille. Yours truly desperately wishing to avoid re-occurrence of the muscular distress which’d plagued me for 72 hours or so..

It has to be said, it was a mighty relief Wednesday saw me rise from my pit without resorting to use of the naughty word rhyming with duck; profanity triggered by sharp stabbing pain when climbing from my bunk. During those back spasms, this curse word was a locution regularly utilised; often prefixed by ‘for’ and suffixed with ‘sake’.

However, this use of the f*** word was only delayed temporarily as upon entering chez Strachan’s kitchen with a pain free strut, both dogs in my wake, the three words with acronym FFS crossed my lips. A brisk proffering when catching sight of canine poop mountains through the back window….. The sound of the swear box rattling shortly afterwards.

Well, I’m assuming the mound was a lawn ‘gift’ from Zella and Deano (German Shepherd & Lhasa apso respectively). I must admit, though, the scale of faeces did have me googling ‘Escaped elephants in the West Yorkshire area’.

The only positive notion manifesting when seeing these poop mountains was the comfort I’d no longer be dogged with lumbar pain when bending over to pick the unpleasant heap from the grass.

To maintain the prose at gutter levels, at this point I’d like to point out the doggy guests mum refers to her pets dumps as eighteen wheelers. A title I understand borne from her perception the poop piles similarities mirror the size of 18 wheel heavy goods vehicles clogging our freeways seven days a week.

This nome d’plume possibly explaining why you rarely witness a movie scene with a hurried passenger jumping into a cab and ordering the cabbie to “Follow that eighteen wheeler!”….. And, when I say rarely, I of course mean never!

Footnote – Apologies for putting those visions into your head…… Notions which may come back to plague you every time you overtake a huge Stobbart truck on the M1.

Anyhow, perhaps now would be a prudent time to veer the prose onto a higher brow plateau.

Come on now, Gary. Think of something to pen which just, just might retrieve this thus far lukewarm and coarse literary fare. In the process ensuring its conclusion doesn’t become a metaphor for the dog poop mentioned above.

Aaarrrggghhhhhh!…… Bloody hell, I’ve just ricked my back again trying to get out of the armchair where I’m writing this diatribe….. FOR F*** SAKE!!!…… Now where’s that bloody swear box?!

Leave a Reply