The joints of my lower limbs have been a bit dodgy since my teens. My knees and ankles have always cracked and groaned and sometimes, just to add a little excitement into the mix, my knees sometimes buckle when I try to straighten them.

Having a late introduction to skiing probably wasn’t the wisest thing for me to do at the tender age of 40 and the tender weight of, well, way too much. Still, I did it twice and enjoyed the luxury boutique chalet (more than anything else), the fresh air, the beautiful scenery in the French Alps, not to mention the freedom of swooshing down a snowy hillside on a crisp January morning. It was always only the morning because I was too knackered to ski in the afternoons – high altitude and that. The free afternoons allowed me to explore the ski area with my camera by using the linked ski lifts and chairs. A beautiful experience…

…Until a week after returning from my second skiing expedition in March, during which the snow on the lower slopes had been turning much to slush by the late mornings, making controlling the skis even more difficult than during my efforts in the January. On returning to work, I experienced a radiating burning sensation in my lower back that within days became so severe that it rendered me paralysed with pain down my leg, into my hip, groin, knee and ankle. This was accompanied by weakness in my left leg that left me barely able to walk up a slight incline. Of course the doctor was fully engaged, ordered a full range of tests and did his best to resolve my problem fucking useless, treated me like malingering dolescum and sent me away with some cocodamol, diclofenac and exercises for my back.

For anybody who has ever suffered bad back pain, the sort of pain that comes on when conducting the simplest task such as washing your hands, or is so bad that you can only get dressed by lassoing your knickers on, you’ll know that having a poo is one of the most arduous tasks. So why do GPs prescribe codeine, which makes you constipated?

Over a period of about four months and after the intervention of a physiotherapist’s elbow in my hip, the worst of the pain subsided and I’m now left with some residual weakness in the limb, reduced flexibility of the hip, slight discomfort in my hip and groin, and pain in my knee and ankle when I walk. So, after eighteen months, it’s not better at all.

What’s the reason for bringing this up now? Well, it was a bit cold tonight and I was so tired, and I wanted to make an excuse for not taking the dog on a particularly good walk this evening. The stupid thing is, I daren’t mention this problem when I go to my GP. It feels as if, because I’m a regular visitor at the moment for one thing, it’s a bit cheeky to ask them to reinvestigate this particular problem. It affects my quality of life, but not quite as much as being so depressed that just living is a total drag. So in health economics terms, how much would I be willing to pay to be free from physical pain, compared to mental anguish? I’d rather buy a new gadget.

This is how it plays out in my mind, but note, my GP is actually really lovely (I know this, I KNOW THIS):

“But you’ve been coming here every two months, why have you not mentioned this?”

“Because I was treated like a scumbag last time.”

“You are a scumbag. Get a fucking grip and get some exercise.”

“Do you have to undergo special training to be able to speak to your patients like that?”

“No, I’m just sick of the sight of you, coming in here every two months, whinging on about how depressed you are. You never ask about me. It’s always about you.”

“How are you?”

“Oh piss off, like you care. You lot are all the same. It’s just take, take, take.”

“Can I have my prescription please? Maybe be referred to somebody about my hip?”

“What’s it worth?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want you to beg me.”

“Beg you?”

“Yes, BEG ME!”

So you see, I’m already walking out of there before I even go in. I suppose it’s only a niggle.