I don’t know if it was driving the five thousand plus miles we’ve covered in the last few months, tensed up, holding the bike handlebars in a death grip as we skittered and skidded our way across South Africa’s gravel roads or hanging over my guitar each night as I vainly try to master some basic tunes but, either way, my neck is killing me.

A month or so ago I went back to the osteopath I’d used previously when I pulled my gluteus maximus, that’s bum for any riff-raft that may be reading this. I got a bit of a rub down and then some six inch needles stuck in my shoulder. As usual with these treatments the only benefit was that my wallet was slightly lighter to carry. You’d think I’d have learned.

Consequently, scared of needles and even more scared of parting with money, I’ve been suffering in silence for the last few weeks. As only men can. However, after another nights lost sleep, I could take no more.

Nor could Anne. She said my version of “silence” was deafening. If not to say irritating.

So, here I am sat in the newly recommended osteopath’s waiting room feeling I should have brought the Vaseline……as I think I’m about to be screwed.

You see, the walls that don’t have bottles of own brand, cure-all magic potions for sale at silly prices have framed pictures of some long haired guru. I presume yer man’s mentor.

Just what a cynic with a sore neck needs. Should have stuck to gin.