I had a massage on Saturday for my annoyingly painful back.

It was quite possibly the most painful thing since the Spanish Inquisition, which no-one expects, particularly when there's that tranquil hippy meandering sort of music being played in the room and there are fluffy, warm towels.

But holy bananas.

Yes, I know I have back tension and muscle knots and so on, but trigger point massage is something I vow here and now to never, ever have done again. Instead of leaving feeling regenerated and like I was in a state of blissful enlightenment with the world, as I did the last time I had a massage done, I left feeling like I'd suddenly turned 95 and all I wanted to do was beat people with a walking frame.

Was violently ill on Sunday and only somewhat less violently ill on Monday, thanks to the muscle knots rebelling and organising amongst themselves to return with vengeful glee to be worse than ever. Advil didn't even take the edge off things. Finally resorted to some leftover prescription stuff from when I had the wisdom teeth out (which is wrong and bad and everything). That was the only thing that managed to get me off to sleep, although I still woke up with one heck of a headache on Monday morning.

And my back's still sore after all that.

Next time I'm going to either make sure I only see the first therapist I saw or just have a long, hot bath with the involvement of a long, interesting book and good music.