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  • Sciatica sucks. It's like someone small is hiding between the muscle fibres of my left buttock, wielding a Samurai sword or a Klingon Bat'Leth against my flesh.

    It pinches and howls in maudlin cadence to some twanging catgut stringed instrument I did not know resided there.

    As each jolt of searing pain cuts a swathe across my hip joint, the bolt looses its vitriol down the back of my left leg, dissipating somewhere near the ball of my foot.

    There is no fun in being an ageing wreck of human flesh. 'Tis harder when none can see the pain you wear like a secret under your skin. Only if you contort your face a moment and halt mid-stride can anyone suspect something may be amiss. But, of course, my culture dictates that to do so is to be condemned an Inferior Human Being. For, bemoaning one's pain, too consistently, is to be a Pain in the Arse for everyone else.

    If you feel it - do not mention it. Take up your pain and stoically bear it like a crucifix of yore.

    Never tell anyone you are in pain. Suck it up and in and hold it to your pride like a blanket. Wrap yourself inside its tender embrace and suffer. Suffocate.

    Hair shirts have nothing on sciatica.

    It's an insidious venom buried deep in the tissues of your body. It will eat your soul like JK Rowling's Dementors. It will spit out your inclinations, your dreams and your happiness as if they were rotten, maggot-infested flesh.

    The only respite is to stretch and stretch and stretch.
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