Kneading Torture
“he came in on a Sunday / every muscle aching walking in slow motion / like he’d just been hit” These are words of a very well-known and iconic Paul Kelly song. They described me perfectly. It was Sunday. I dragged myself off the beach, barely managing to hold on to my board. I’d paddled out, and even though the waves looked alluring and offered opportunities, there for the taking, I spectacularly failed to seize even one of those. It was all I could do to keep myself from drowning, hanging on to my board for dear life, and lying on it as exhausted as a cockroach in the last death throes of a decent dose of pesticide. In the end I’d given up and caught a bit of slop in. It wasn’t going to happen that day. There was a reason for that. I was comprehensively stuffed. Literally. I had a busted rib, a corked thigh muscle, a massive bump on the back of my head, and a thirst a full barrel of beer wasn’t going to be able to quench. I could barel...