I've spent a large chunk of the evening on the phone to First-born, trying to persuade her that her spine isn't going to fall out of her bottom.
Of course, if she'd ever sampled food from the staff canteen at my workplace, she could have that experience on a daily basis. Even I, the human dustbin, refuse to even purchase sealed confections, let alone the gloop that has been sitting on the hot plate for the last 30 years.
No, what happened with First-born is this:
The Ex picked up a leaflet in the local shopping centre offering a free consultation with a private chiropractor. She's always been a bit of a hypochondriac, and so off she trotted with First-born in tow.
The guy basically said that both their backs are messed up, and they need to start a programme of consultations lasting a year.
Even The Ex saw through that one, and left. But not before First-born had listened to all the horror stories and got them jumbled up in her head, the net result of which is the first sentence of this entry and a terror of lying down in bed for fear she might 'trap a nerve in her vertebrae and not be able to move ever again'.
So First-born and I have had a long conversation, and with luck I've rolled some of the mental barbed wire back.
Stern words with The Ex tomorrow, I think.
