Ian McMillan: Putting my back into a weighty read

I’ve just about got past the phase of opening the magazine at this page and then letting it fall to the floor so my words and my picture are prominently displayed, so that when I bend down to pick it up somebody will glance across and say “Oh, I always read your column. It makes my day.” I’ve just about got past that phase, but not quite.

I still sometimes say “A Yorkshire Post, please. The one with my column and photograph in the magazine.” Daft, I know, but fame is a fleeting thing, as George Ramsbottom-Hyde said. Who’s he? I rest my case!

But on this particular morning the Yorkshire Posts aren’t in their usual place in the display. In fact, none of the papers are; there’s been a late delivery and all the news is still waiting to be put out.

I’m bereft and the shop lady is frantic, trying to get things sorted, so I decide to lend a hand. “I’ll get the Yorkshire Posts,” I say, in a voice that suggests I’m used to taking command, but which turns into a half cough and a mini-burp because I’ve got a frog in my throat.

Still, I’m “ahem … ahemmemm ...” used to being in command.

I go to the pile of Posts and bend over to pick them up, and that is my first mistake. You see, I assumed in my naïve way that because paper is light, then a pile of newspapers would be light, but that’s like imagining that because a slice of bread is light, then a full-size model of the Humber Bridge made of bread would be light.

I grab the pile of papers and because I think they’re not going to be heavy I don’t tense my muscles or bend my knees. I just grab.

A pain runs up my back like that mouse ran up that clock in that nursery rhyme. I say “Aaa!” in a voice that’s used to taking command. I put the Yorkshire Posts back down. Blimey, they’re heavy!

Are they giving away free bricks this week? Is the news particularly weighty? I bend my knees and pick the pile up again.

I stagger to the display and put the Yorkshire Posts in. My back really hurts; it’s as though somebody with heavy boots is running up and down it in a combination of minority Olympic sport and deep painful massage.

I take a single copy of the paper and delve for my purse to get the money to buy it. My hands are shaking because my back is hurting so much, so I drop the paper and the Magazine falls to the floor and opens to my column.

My cheery face gazes up from the ground. I can see the other shoppers looking at me with a mixture of pity and something that’s just this side of disgust. I can almost hear them thinking “Yes, we know. We know you’ve got a column in the Yorkshire Post. We buy and it and we read it. You don’t have to go on about it.”

I want to explain: “It’s not vanity, honest. I hurt my back, you see, and my hand was shaking and I dropped it and …”

But I can’t speak – because my teeth are too tightly gritted and anyway I can’t move. I’m like a statue. You’ve heard of Rodin’s Thinker, well I’m like Rodin’s Middle-aged Bloke Bending Over.

That’ll teach me not to bend from the knees!