Sitting on the tailgate of the car, putting my walking boots on, I laughingly comment to Dad, "if you loved me you'd do my boots up for me - don't you know I've got a bad back?".
Oh fatal last words, as I bend down to tie my second boot, there's a sickening sound and feeling of something shifting in my lower spine, that well just isn't supposed to do that. Screaming agony returns, forcing tears of pain to pour down my face and trust me it's of more credit than you can possibly imagine that I didn't issue profanities in front of a parent. The only part of my body that wasn't screaming the f word was my mouth.
I hadn't thought it possible, but this time the pain is even greater, but after ten minutes or so, it again lessens slightly and wincing with every step we commence our walk. After-all sitting or standing are also excrutiatingly painful, so we may as well walk, besides there's a school of thought that suggests it's better to keep a bad back moving and above all I don't want to let Dad down on the last day.
It's a little slow going, but we manage a decent distance from Thurlestone around to Bolt Head and back.
For the remainder of our trip however, I have to get Dad to help get my shoes on and off. As he wryly observes, he came away to get a break from such duties...
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