I've put my back out. It's very painful. Thankfully it's just a pulled muscle and not spinal and I'll get over it in a couple of days.
How did I do this? Have I been flinging paving slabs around? Was I splitting railway sleepers with my bare hands in order to make an innovative garden feature? Perhaps I was giving some distressed lady motorist with a broken jack some assistance by lifting her car while she changed a wheel, even? Maybe a little over-exertion while blasting away 7 hapless opposition batsmen for 28 runs in the opening match of the season? Of course not. As any man knows, pulling a muscle in one's back is never the result of any impressively macho pursuit. The male musculature delights in picking its moment to go tits up in order to provide maximum embarrassment. So far I have frozen up while carrying a small box of commemorative medals out of a store-room, requiring my managing director to pour me into his car while laughing heartily. Then there was the time a muscle tore one minute before setting off for work while I was hopping around on one leg doing my shoelace up, leaving me completely unable to move and looking like a crippled Ian Anderson.
And today? Tesco,