The Chiropractor Story

After a good four years of writing the Misssives sometimes you feel that you’ve run out of stories. And then something HUGE pops into your head. This has happened this morning as a result of Meeester M posting this Blipfoto yesterday. In the blurb he claims that if he was a lady and had to wear high heels it would be these. Who can blame him? They are ace shoes.

This morning I said to him, “Oh my goodness Meeester M, do you know what I’ve never blogged? The Chiropractor Story. Can I do it?” . Check me, uncharacteristically asking someone’s permission before I post.

“Yes,” he said, straight away.

“Are you sure???” I say,  even more uncharacteristically making them reassess whether a full Misssive on the subject might not damage their reputation like some kind of reverse tabloid journalist.

“I’m pretty unembarrassable. Do it,” he says. It’s true, he is. Just as well.

Ladies and gentlemen it is with great pride that I give you the Chiropractor Story.

Back in time when Indy was a baby Meeester M worked in social work. He was the manager of an old folks’ home in Aberdeen. Very often he had to lift old people, whether in be in and out of a bath or if they had a fall. One day he twisted his back when an old lady decided mid lift that she didn’t want to be lifted anymore and thrashed about a bit. Old ladies can be difficult creatures. The resultant back injury gave Meeester M a lot of gyp, so much so that he decided that he had to seek professional help.

His doctor was of no use, just recommending rest and painkillers, so one of Meeester’s friends recommended a chiropractor. What possibly swung it for Meeester M was the added bit of information that the chiropractor was the uncle of Tim Wheeler from the band Ash. I throw that in for no other reason than to give a full picture of the timescale. Ash were currently very big. So were the newly wed Beckhams. Victoria had just been on Parkinson the other week embarrassing her new husband about liking to wear her underwear. Remember that? So we’re talking around 1998/9. It was a time of a new Labour government, no banking scandals , no real terrorist threat and George Bush hadn’t been elected yet. Times of positivity and innocence. I think they call them “halcyon days”.

The chiropractor was just round the corner from Meeester’s workplace but he hadn’t been able to secure an first appointment during work hours. He was on an early shift meaning he had to leave the house at 6.30am on a wet dark winter’s morning. Indy and I were still asleep when he left. We would meet him later on when we collected him from the chiropractors on our way down to see Meeester M’s family in Glasgow for the weekend.

After a sore day at work where Meeester M could do no more than office and supervisory duties, he limped around the corner to the chiropractors. He was looking forward to a quick twist and a crack or two of his spine that would suddenly release the pain, and with any luck the mobile number of the management for Ash, so that he could secure a support slot for his band for any upcoming tours.

He met the chiropractor and explained his problem to him. “Old ladies can be difficult creatures,” he said.

“Yes,” the chiropractor said, “If you just go into the changing room and strip down to your underwear and we’ll get you to lie on the bench and I’ll take a look.”  I imagine he was flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles at that point, but I’m probably embellishing that to add more colour to the scene. Not that any more colour would be needed within a few minutes.

Meeester went into the cubicle and began to undress (steady there, ladies). His back was smarting and he had struggled to get his shirt off. He was worried about bending down to take his socks off. Could he just leave them on? No, they would have to come off. He didn’t want to look like an arse. He needn’t have worried, as something far more pressing was about to happen. 

He looked down at his crotch and realised he was wearing a pair of his wife’s knickers.

Now I’m not one for lingerie, so it could have been a lot worse. But the pants were bad enough for a big hairy man to worry about  going naked in front of the chiropractor uncle of Tim Wheeler for Ash. The pants were hot pink bikini cotton pants from M&S. They may even have been tanga design. There is no way they could possibly have been passed off as bloke’s pants. And, ladies and gentlemen, they had not been put on by mistake that morning. Don't feel too sorry for him. Meeester had worn them ON PURPOSE.

At 6am Meeester M is not good. His underwear drawer is a mess, and he often cannot readily find clean pants in the dark. That morning he decided not to put the light on and disturb his wife as she would very likely attack him viciously if he wakes up the baby, as is her right. 

“I know, I’ll stick a pair of Misssy’s keks on," he thinks. “They’ll do. Nice and snug as well”.  That last thought of Meeester’s – I’ve added that for comic effect, but you know it’s true, they would have been nice and snug. In fact, they would have been very snug indeed.

At 6am he has forgotten that he is due at a chiropractors in a few hours time. He forgets the same thing each time he visits his work loo that morning. Dr Freud would have a field day.

Back to the changing cubicle and Meeester M is panicking. What is the best course of action? Does he appeal to the doctor to keep his trousers on? No, the back pain is in his lower back. Does he go commando? Is it better to go out there completely naked than with women’s knickers on? No, he doesn’t want the police involved in the situation, this is getting public enough. Does he march in nonchalantly wearing the pants and make absolutely no reference to them? He considers this. It could just work.

In the end he decides to ‘fess up. He clears his throat and calls the guy from behind the curtain, “Er, I have to warn you. I am wearing my wife’s underwear.”  Now on reflection his words could have been better chosen, as “underwear” suggests a bra was also in the equation.

“Em, it doesn’t matter. Just come out,” the uncle of Tim Wheeler from Ash who Meeester’s band will never support in concert replies.

Meeester steps out and sheepishly stands in front of the spine jockey as he regards him.

 “Tell me,” he says as he looks at the pubic explosion that is Meeester’s crotch and the fuschia pink knickers combo, “Is it a David Beckham thing?”

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