I am a bit knackered. An old martial arts injury has reoccurred so I am undergoing a course of physiotherapy. And it's got me a bit perplexed...
The first unsettling thing is my physiotherapist. He's utterly lovely and he clearly knows his stuff. But he's young. The sort of young that makes me realise I am not. He looks younger than my son.
The second problem is I forgot to pack any gym shorts for my first consultation session. I did obviously have clean boxer shorts on, but there was a moment I was laid flat out on a bench, raising one leg at a time, and I realised my boxer shorts were a bit loose... and I may have exposed a low-hanging bollock to a young, fresh-faced boy on a Monday morning.
This badly conflicts with my preferred self-image.
In my head, I am not a 46-year-old man: I am a modern-day member of the Hwo Rang Do, a breed of historical warrior poets from Korea, who valued intelligence, courage and compassion and were trained to fight. I am articulate and witty.
But, in reality, I am an injured old man who has exposed a testicle to a twentysomething boy.
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