Life Touch Massage in Crouch End and my old life in the country.

Eleonora at Life Touch Massage

I've been suffering from a painful shoulder since last December. But it wasn't until May this year, when the pain became acute, that I decided I needed to go and see somebody. I found a web page for Eleonora at Life Touch Massage, read the testimonials, and decided I couldn't go wrong.

Eleonora asked me to arrive 10 minutes early for the first appointment to talk about my health history. She was so friendly and caring, I immediately felt at ease. After that first massage, which was wonderfully relaxing, Eleonora said I was suffering from a Frozen shoulder. 'I can fix it, but it can take a little time,' she said.

Frozen shoulder is something that affects mainly women, and there's very little research into why it happens. It's not an affliction which stops daily life - it's just painful and it prevents me from doing certain things, like swimming and going to the gym.

When my GP said the condition can last from six months to six years, I very nearly fainted. I'm not going to be in pain for six years, I decided and asked for a Cortisone injection, which sometimes helps for a few weeks, allowing more movement in the joints.

But after my summer holiday in Finland, the shoulder got even worse. It ached constantly and stopped me from sleeping. Exhausted and close to tears, I crawled back to Eleonora and her magical hands. 'You will get better,' she assured me and began working on my sore body.

After a few twice weekly sessions with Eleonora, I was right as rain. My shoulder is still a little painful and occasionally I will lose a night's sleep, but generally I feel myself again.

When I asked Eleonora why people get a Frozen Shoulder - was it my slacking gym attendance, or that fact that since we left Wiltshire I hadn't really taken regular Pilates classes? 'Well,' she said, 'Some people think it's associated with mourning.'

When I walked home after that session, I tried to think what an earth I would be mourning for. True, my life had changed dramatically in the last two years. The move from the country to London was perhaps a little drastic (from a cottage with 3 acres of land & gardens in the middle of nowhere, to a flat in busy North London with only a few potted herbs on a balcony), but I didn't think missing the orchard, or the bumper crop of swiss chard, or our lovely Labrador could be called mourning.

Our chocolate Lab doing his rounds around the garden.

But the more I thought about it, and looked at the many pictures I took of the house and grounds before we left, I realised perhaps I was kidding myself. Perhaps I just hadn't allowed myself to miss my previous life? Even though I knew I wouldn't want to go back and knew that the idyllic pictures belie the endless grass cutting, digging and weeding the garden demanded. Or the farm smells that I never got used to, or the mud and the flies which seemed to be a constant feature of our life in the country (I swear I lived in my wellington boots for the 15 years we were in the cottage). Still, I can honestly say I do (sometimes) miss the old life.

There.

Now better (nearly - my back is another story!), I go and see Eleonora about every two weeks. She literally fixes both my mind and body, and so she's become part of my regular health routine.

Eleonora at Life Touch Massage can be contacted here.

Loft finds

I knew this last bit of packing would really get to me. Not only because Son came home to spend the 'last weekend in the house' with us and last night we had a BBQ under the vine and watched the cows graze a couple of fields away, with dogs milling round chasing each other, relieved that the heat of the day was over. We were all tired from emptying out old boxes of stuff which we'd packed away at the start of the house refurb, in a vain attempt to cut down on the rubbish we keep. Because there's one big flaw in this down sizing process: we never throw ANYTHING away.

On top of that we aren't as organised as it would appear. When I was leafing through old, now defunct paperwork of bills and ten-year-old plane tickets I'd for some weird reason had kept in a box called 'Travel 1995-1997' I came a cross a home-made Mother's Day card from daughter aged 5, as well as a get-well soon card (undated) when I'd hurt my wrist. This amongst defunct tickets, a ten-year-old brochure for Sun City in South Africa, and maps for everything from LA to Paris to the Northernmost part of the Norwegian coast (don't ask: this was 'an adventure' Husband took the whole family on in the days when I still let him make decisions about holiday destinations). It was the get well card that made me crack, you may understand why.

This is the front

And this is what it said inside...

In another box, Daughter found a tiny christening gown. 'What cheapskates; you used the same gown for both of us?' I explained it was Victorian and antique. She nodded, unconvinced, and asked where she should put it. 'I hope you'll use it for your children too,' I shouted after her and felt old.

Today we have more such treasures to find. How I wish I was an organised person and wouldn't have these sudden reminders of the past happy time in this house, because at the end of this process I might not have any tears left. And we still have the moment to come when we have to deliver the Labrador to his new home. At the moment, only four days before it has to happen, I cannot even think about it.

I'm glad we have this picture remind us of how daft this dog is: he found a new bed we've bought for the Terrier. Though funny, even this made me cry, it's as if he was trying as hard as he could to fit into our new, down-sized life. Oh no, here are the tears again.

Timing is the secret of good comedy - or even tragedy

We've had a wobbly couple of days. On top of the Big Move and associated nerve-wrecking arrangements, not to mention the bloody football (I won't), last Wednesday daughter noticed a lump on our ten-year-old Labrador's flank. We all felt it and husband and I were astonished we hadn't spotted it before: it was the size of a tennis ball. On top of that everyone said Pretzel had lost weight too.

Last Thursday's visit to the vet's made things worse. The diagnosis was a very probable tumour; they'd do a biopsy on Monday to see if it was malignant, in other words cancerous. Our forever-hungry Labrador needed to be starved the night before. As it is, every morning when he gets fed he acts as if he's never had any food in his life. It's the only time he ever growls at our other dog, the plucky Border Terrier who often tries to eat his mate's food as well as his own.

The day of the biopsy was today, but we didn't expect any news as the sample would be sent to the lab and all we'd get back is a poorly dog, one that would probably not want to ever visit the vet's practise ever again.

We got the phone call at quarter past two to say he was ready. 'Don't worry it's not bad news, the vet would just like to talk to you when you collect Pretzel,' the veterinary nurse said. I didn't even ask; we were expecting a week long wait for results.

All weekend I'd been thinking that our lovely Labrador would still be poorly whatever the results when we were due to move, in only three weeks' time.

But there is a Dog God after all. When we collected Pretzel it was thoroughly good news: the lump was a lymphoma, a harmless fat ball, after all. 'It's something Labs suffer from,' our friend the vet said. 'But otherwise he's a very fit and healthy dog.'

All that's visible from the drama is a dog feeling very sorry for itself, in a collar with a sock on one paw to stop  any scratching. And of course a lack of lump, replaced by a neat set of stitches.

Phew.