As I stumbled and staggered my way from my wrecked bed (bad night’s sleep) to the arctic ring of the loo for a morning wee (where this fluid comes from I have no idea – I sweated buckets in the night because I forgot to turn down the heating and was up at least three times I can remember but I’m still desperate) it occurred to me that I can’t actually remember the last time I stretched.
I don’t mean those little fidgets you do as you get older, trying to stretch a little something in an effort to get more comfortable. I mean those first-thing-in-the-morning stretches when you starfish across your bed with post sleep agility and every joint in your body clicks into position, leaving you springing into action with ease.
“ I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m so riddled with tension it’s a miracle I can even turn my neck. . .]
Stretches are evidently now a thing of the past. And given that rising from any seated position, including my morning wee, requires some cantilever or bracing point, it’s probably kinder to my body to stop fighting and let it take its own twisted and natural path.
Whitstable’s very own Quasimodo. Hello.