Tender is the Night

My wife teases me. If you've heard this complaint before it's because I've mentioned it in the past.

I've put up with her regular titters, her double takes and her pointing fingers as I, the unfortunate, find that my natural actions and movements are the butt of her humour.

However, it's got beyond a joke. Not that she thinks so. Every morning and evening I'm subjected to her quips and jibes. Why?

I am suffering from tendonitis. Heavy lifting - putting out the massive Dalek like rubbish, recycling and garden/kitchen waste bins, along with wheeling masses of horse manure on the allotment - has inflicted this painful complaint on me.

It would wake me up in the night, with sharp stabbing pains in my elbows and shoulders. Any sharp movement  sent a hot iron of pain through me. I didn't complain, bore my cross with patience and made an appointment with our doctor. When I phoned the surgery and spoke to the stressed out receptionist, I didn't make a fuss; put me in a convenient slot I said, no rush as I loaded another block of ice onto my shoulder.

A week later I was sitting in the waiting room, with the only other patient there. We got chatting about the doctors. He wasn't seeing mine - couldn't bear him. He talked so softly that you never knew what he was saying. I had to agree. My fellow patient swore that half the pensioners in Walthamstow had been prescribed hearing aids by him. Not because their hearing was below par but simply because he was inaudible.

I was called in.He greeted me at the surgery door, sat me down, switched on his computer and immediately left the room. Every time I see him he does this. I've no idea why although I suspect he has a weak bladder. Anyway he comes back and we start chatting about my arms. I say I'm worried that it might be my arthritis progressing, he gives me a few exercises to do. "Tendonitis - tennis elbow" "I don't play tennis". "Carrying unusually heavy items for a man of your age - do you pay for your perscriptions." He presses a button on his key board and the printer whirls and I'm presented with print out illustrating a series of exercises to relieve and remedy my aches and pains.

I'm relieved and thank him. As I leave I realise I heard every word he said. He must have been on a speech training course after someone at the Heath Authority queried his huge hearing aid bill.

Having gone to the doc's and been given the means to alleviate my aches and pains - without any more pills - I assidiously start to apply the treatment by doing the set of exercise routines, morning, noon and evening as instructed.

I do them in the bedroom. In front of the mirror, in my jimjams. I see nothing funny about that. There must be thousands of households where this sort of thing happens. Husbands trying to lose their beer gut, wives attempting to regain their youthful body shape. Poor unfortunates like me trying to get better. Performing exercise routines in jimjams or the female equivalent must take place up and down the homes of this great nation of ours. I'd go so far as to say it's a national pastime.

Imagine, if you will, of an evening, the missus tucked up in bed, curlers in, teeth out and me performing my routines in front of the mirror. She should be reading, or knitting or something other than giggling and passing comment on my inability to rotate my shoulders, lift my arms up or stand on my head without looking like a plonker. She shares her merriment with the cat, tells me to stop what I'm doing because she's in danger of wetting herself and threatens to take a pic to upload to her Facebook page.

I continue. My series of seven routines completed, I slip under the douvet and sip a slightly chilled cup of tea before turning to the missus and kissing her good night. She switches off her light and titters herself to sleep. Muttering on her way to nod land - "You're a caution and no mistake".