I HAVE A CRICK in my neck. Hang on, is crick even a word? Apparently, yes. A quick fandango with a well-known search engine reveals it is “a powerful muscle spasm often caused by awkward sleeping positions”.
Crick was also the surname of the man who co-discovered the double-helix structure of DNA, a handy if irrelevant factoid I picked up during my research.Crick was also the surname of the man who co-discovered the double-helix structure of DNA, a handy if irrelevant factoid I picked up during my research.
The crick is so painful I thought of texting the editor to tell her I couldn’t write my column this week. I even drafted the text. But “sorry, can’t write the column this week because I have a crick in my neck” just looked too ridiculous when I saw it written on my phone screen. Also, she knows I was at the Electric Picnic sleeping in a tent for two nights and will be aware the crick was pretty much self-inflicted. I figured I wasn’t going to get much sympathy. So here I am, soldiering on.
Except if you’ve ever had an acute neck crick (that would have looked better in the text message, actually) you will know it’s almost impossible to soldier on while in its grips. I’ve worked away with migraines. I’ve slogged hard with a runny nose. I’ve produced articles with a stye in my eye and I’ve kept the nose to the grindstone with a doctor’s waiting room full of other unmentionable physical grievances.
But the crick? The crick is an evil genius of an affliction. It makes it impossible to think of anything except the crick. It’s as if Jedward lived in your house you’d never get anything done because every time you sat down to write they’d just be there poking you in the ribs and writing “AWESOME” on your computer screen and turning somersaults and stealing your notebooks.
The crick is equally unignorable. The crick pokes you in the neck and says: “Ha, you could try and write your column about important matters of national interest such as why you’ve never seen a GAA match even though you live minutes from Croke Park. You could try but you know I’m just going to sit here delivering spasms of pain every 10 seconds and you won’t be able to think of anything except me, me, me.” At least Jedward might be the tiniest bit entertaining.
Never mind finding it impossible to write about something other than the crick, the gnarly pain makes it difficult to operate in the parenting role. I can’t lift them up. I can’t mime the flippy, floppy hat in the nursery rhyme about a scarecrow. When I try to be a little teapot I fear ending up in AE.
Frustrated, I consult another well-known search engine to see how to get rid of the crick. Someone who claims to “work in the medical field” suggests the following: “Take a hot towel and wrap it around your neck for 20 minutes. Take it off and then very slowly, and I mean slowly, move your neck around, up and down and back and forth. Do this every hour and before you know it, it is gone. It takes a while so be patient but it does work, trust me.”
Oh, I trust you anonymous internet medic person. I have no choice. But how do I make a towel hot? The boiler is on the blink so I’ve no hot radiators on which to hang the towel. I think for the 10 seconds the crick is not shooting spasms along my neck and put the towel in the tumble dryer on the “extra dry” cycle. Then I worry that the tumble dryer will think something suspicious is happening because is is being asked to dry something that is already bone dry. Luckily my tumble dryer is a bit stupid. I throw the now warmish towel around my neck and experience some small relief. I add two painkillers to the mix. I sit down to write my column. And still all I can write about is the crick.
I reflect on whether the Picnic (“You mean the Cricknic,” my crick interjects) was worth the ensuing neck pain. Yes, I decide. Even though most of my time was spent in the magical Soul Kids section I also managed to see a bit of the beautiful Imelda May, watch this newspaper’s Kathy Sheridan and four other savvy women reflect on the boom/bust for RTÉ’s Drivetime, check out the musings of four equally savvy women from the Anti-Room blog, eat a stunning seafood linguine from Rathmullan House on Wheels, and drink three excellent mojitos with two very stylish gentlemen. Even if I knew the crick was waiting around the corner I’d do it all again. And I’m sorry but if you don’t think this is a strong enough final paragraph, you know who you can blame.
THIS WEEKEND: Róisín will be eating snails somewhere in the south of France having been whisked away by a big sister as a treat. She doesn’t want to know the French for le crick
