Alternative therapy

I've been very fortunate during my life in that I've never really suffered with backache. Until around a year ago that is, when I happened to bend over in the shower, something went 'ping' (no, not a microwave, thank you Mrs Miggins), and I spent a week hobbling around with a trapped sciatic nerve. Since then, the nerve will occasionally make itself known to me and it did so last night resulting in much thrashing around as I tried and failed to find a comfy sleeping position. I reckon it's twinging because I've been doing a lot of walking this week. This proves exercise isn't as good for us as we are led to believe. Or perhaps it's got something to do with me practising the splits. I don't know.

'What's up with you?' asks Mrs Miggins this morning as I hobble into the garden to serve breakfast (croissants and jam, followed by porridge and honey) and break the six inch thick ice on the water bowl. She spreads some butter on a croissant as I explain my sciatic nerve story and, to her credit, she only yawns twice. 'Hens never suffer with sciatic nerve trouble,' she says. 'Oh really?' I say. 'Is that because hens don't have sciatic nerves?' 'No,' says Miggins, 'it's because we don't bend over in showers. Do you think you could soften the butter before you bring it out next time? It's very hard to spread when it's solid like this. Look.' And she shows me her croissant which, admittedly, does look a bit of a wreck.

'Right,' I say. I want to say 'and thanks for the sympathy but I don't because one of my New Year resolutions is to avoid unnecessary sarcasm. Just as I turn to go, Mrs Miggins says, 'Why don't you have a chat with Mrs Poo? I'm sure she could help with your trapped nerve.' 'Really?' I say. 'In what manner?' 'In the manner of her being an alternative therapist,' says Miggins. 'Of course, it depends if you believe in all that twaddle, but it might be worth a go. She sorted out Mrs Pumphrey's back when she wrenched it at one of Tango Pete's Extreme Tango classes.' 'What sort of alternative therapy?' I ask. 'Acustabbing,' says Miggins. 'Surely you mean acupuncture?' I say. 'You've got a blob of jam on your beak by the way.' 'I know what I mean,' says Miggins, darkly. ' She takes a cotton handerchief embroidered with violets from her handbag and dabs the corner of her beak. 'Gone?' she asks. 'Gone,' I confirm. 'What's acustabbing?' 'Well,' says Miggins, sprinkling some brown sugar atop her porridge, 'it's like acupuncture only with slightly bigger needles.'

I'm not sure I like the sound of that and I say so. 'Oh, don't worry,' Miggins reassures. 'Mrs Poo is a highly skilled acustabber.' 'I bet she is,' I say. 'She trained under a Tibetan monk,' says Miggins. 'He also taught her how to use inflexology, odourtherapy and shi -tat -zu which I think involves small dogs with stupid hair-do's. Oh yes, and she can also read rissoles. You can learn alot about someone's health from the state of their rissoles. Apparently.' Mrs Miggins raises an eyebrow which suggests she isn't wholly convinced of Mrs Poo's alternative therapy skills herself. Then, without warning...

'Oi, Winnie!' yells Mrs Miggins, 'I've got you a customer for an acustabbing session.' Mrs Poo's head appears from the Eglu. She's been taking breakfast in bed the last few days on account of the fact she's not keen on fresh air when it's below freezing. 'Who's that then?' she shouts back. 'Old hopalong here,' shouts Miggins, 'she's got a twinge in her not insubstantial backside.' 'Excuse me,' I interrupt. 'Do you have to yell details of my medical condition across the garden for all the neighbours to hear?' 'No,' says Miggins, 'but Mrs Poo has got an ear injury so she can't hear very well at the moment and I'm not getting up and going all the way over there to talk to her.' 'How did she get an ear injury?' I ask, unaware of this latest hen health issue. 'Self acustabbing, coincidentally,' says Miggins. 'She was trying on a pair of Mrs Pumphrey's diamante chandelier earrings and it fell inside her ear so she used one of her acustabber needles to hoik it out and then she sneezed, the needle slipped and went right into her ear and there was a lot of squawking and blood and...' 'STOP!' I shout. 'How could she have lost a whole earring in her ear?' 'I know,' says Miggins. 'I was impressed, too. I'm sure Mrs Poo will do a demo if you ask her.'

'What's that?' asks Poo, appearing behind us. Her head is bandaged a la Vincent Van Gogh. She is carrying what looks like a set of enormous knitting needles. 'I was just telling her about your accident with the earring,' shouts Miggins. 'I sneezed,' says Poo. 'There was a lot of blood and...' 'I KNOW!' I shriek. 'AND WHAT ARE THOSE?' 'My acustabbers,' says Poo. 'Pop up on the garden table, there's a dear, and I'll see what I can do for your back.' It might be my imagination, but Mrs Poo has a wild and excitable look in her eye. I make a run for the house and lock the door behind me.

Mrs Poo looks at Mrs Miggins, who shrugs her shoulders. 'Doesn't seem to be having any trouble moving now, does she?' remarks Poo. 'Another triumph for the miracle that is acustabbing,' admits Mrs Miggins. 'Perhaps there's something to it after all.'