In which I fall in love with an osteopath

As a devoted reader of the Bad Science column in the Grauniad and a determined mocker of my beloved friend Emma’s faith in homeopathy, I have long scorned alternative therapies of all kinds.  Alas, however, I will now be forced to review my position and even, possibly, change my mind (I’m pretty sure the last time I did this was 1999 and it related solely to whether I preferred the NME or the Melody Maker.  Innocent days.).    For various reasons (not all related to self-absorbed exes), the last few weeks have been pretty stressful and I’ve had a headache for 10 days.  Having scared myself silly via the  hypochondriac’s paradise that is the NHS online symptoms guide, I was recommended to see an osteopath by a colleague.  I duly toddled along, expecting it to be as irritatingly pointless as every massge I’ve ever had (possibly this is my type A-ness in action, but something about being gently stroked to whale music makes my shoulders scrunch up somewhere around my ears).   Oh no, ooh la la, this was a different kettle of fish altogether.   When the wonderful Kelly McKay at the Neal’s Yard Therapy Rooms agreed with me that the clicking sound in my neck might be something which needed sorting out, I first got that fizz of recognition you have on a great first date when you discover that you both hate John Lennon or people who call Stoke Newington ‘Stokey’.  When she told me that I was actually more-than-averagely flexible and could progress really quickly at yoga, I puffed up with flattered pride.  Then, when the treatment started and she did something that made my neck emit a satisfying ‘popping’ sound, I knew that osteopathy was destined to be one of the great, profound passions of my life.  God, it was great.   A small price to pay for a lighter heart, a broader smile and the ability to turn one’s head more than 10 degrees to the right.