Squashed

Thursday 11th November

Day 204

The woman with the delicate fairy fingers feels her way into the muscles of my low back.

‘It’s very compressed here,’ she says, ‘very heavy - no movement in your sacrum.’

After she’s gone I wonder what it is that is weighing me down, squashing me like one of those long Italian sandwiches layered up with slices of proscuitto and mozarella and olive tapenade and then clamped down with something heavy - a brick or a cast iron pan so that the sharp oily juices run into the soft spaces of the ciabatta bread.

I guess it is some old burden that I have picked up again - from a long time ago - imagining I have to carry it all by myself.