This week was one of those times. A small twinge, then a few more, then finding it hard to get out of a chair. But did I take the day off work? Nope. I loaded up my rucksack and spent nearly two and a half hours taking two buses and a train to the office, where I endured many concerned comments about my lack of mobility and eventually parcelled myself to the NHS walk in centre.
Apparently my back, loyal lugger of all things inappropriately heavy, had decided to go into spasm.
Ah well, life has to carry on, and I had a dinner party to get to, so dosed up with extra strength painkillers and muscle relaxants I hopped (slowly) onto another bus, laughed my way through dinner, then promptly became rather poorly. Eventually I felt well enough to go home, so my legs gave way in the train station, and despite much giggling as my 70 year old colleague commandeered a wheelchair and we raced through the station, I sadly missed the train and ended up staying overnight at a friend's house.
Still, I'm home now, and the drugs are doing their work, and I'm slowly and not-very-patiently learning to be patient.
I haven't yet found the enthusiasm for doing anything with them, mind you, but at least they aren't being eaten by the birds.
It's been glorious weather round here lately, and I've been doing some gentle pottering amidst bouts of lying down feeling sorry for myself.
In the meantime I'm thinking longingly of the bike ride we went on last weekend and wondering how long it's going to take before I can move around freely again.