Last week I managed to break the bones of my bottom, for the second time. But before I begin to tell you the ins and outs of these events, I should familiarize you with my buttocks.

Whilst “normal” bottoms remind others of peaches and in my mind their surface area resembles that of a “dige zood paz”, mine looks more like a flat frying-pan. What it lacks in upholstery it makes up in width. I am not about to indulge in vanity. In fact, the lack of adequate padding on my butt turns it into an unprotected target.

I shall explain.

The first time I broke my coccyx (the last bit on the spine), it was as a result of seeing somewhat double in a nightclub. On the staircase one or two shoulder-padded creatures, nothing short of extras in
Star Wars, came towards me on a staircase. I took the route of tactical manoeuvre and tried to squeeze myself in between the two. Alas, the radius of my rear-end had been miscalculated and I managed to fall flat on my flat bottom straight onto the bony part.

In great gratitude to Tequila worms, I didn't feel a thing. The next day I was quite happy to go to the gym and purify myself on the much needed hip-abductor. Avoiding those drastic pop songs, my Walkman deliciously nursed my hangover with an Aria sung by Pavarotti. He was declaring his eternal love for my bountiful beauty, whilst I was panting in rhythm, spreading my legs against the weights with great gusto. Suddenly Pavarotti hit the high C. And so did I! Ouch!

I'd finally broken the broken bit of my vertebrae. For a while I refused to be attended by a doctor on philosophical grounds. It was too confusing for me to not only BE a pain in the ass, but also to HAVE a pain in the ass. But the pain got the better of me. Lots of rest and prescribed pills and all was well in the end with my rear-end.

Last week's episode, however, took a more domestic turn. I was imitating Hercules, lifting furniture about (serves me right to imitate a man without being a feminist) when I slipped and fell onto my low, wooden African chair, which I had proudly haggled down to 10 quid in The Gambia. Even the carved giraffe seemed to laugh at me.

But any chuckle on my part was interrupted by excruciating pain from my traumatised coccyx. I had to wait two whole days before seeing a doctor. This time on grounds of pragmatism. Not because I couldn't move. No. And this is honestly, truly true: I had run out of clean knickers! Enough said.

Eventually, on my way back from the back doctor, I had the misfortune of bumping into an Iranian acquaintance. Now, what is it about Iranians and bizarre competitions with illness and disease? It's like being on the playground. If someone's just been in an accident, it isn't anything compared to so and so?s ?pesar khaleh? who had a triple by-pass on the very same day. Or in the case of this woman's logic, my broken coccyx was nothing compared to her rare and sensitive skin.

Of course having been from one specialist to another, she had now found an expensive specialist to administer her own ubiquitous prescription of daily injections of Vitamin B. My guess is that she is “suffering” from a single pimple behind her left earlobe!

Anyway, here I am pill-happy, convalescing in bed and thinking of cunning plans to protect my bum in the future. A Vivien Westwood outfit might have provided a safe landing in the last century. Even silicon implants have crossed my mind, but they are not bio-degradable.Which means that once the lease of my grave runs out, the person who will be buried on my spot, will have a hefty, bumpy ride! Here's a thought: I hope it will be that Vitamin woman!

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