Ralph Oswick: Did CCTV catch my predicament and will it go viral?

Ifell off my bike a few weeks ago. Taking a short cut across a car sales forecourt a guy was washing the cars and my front wheel had a disagreement with his hosepipe. I slid down slowly but inexorably between two cars and landed with a bump on my shoulder. My first thoughts weren’t ‘Am I injured?’ but rather ‘Did anyone see my embarrassing descent?’ Or more precisely ‘Did the CCTV camera catch my predicament and will it go viral?’ My next problem was how to get up without scratching the two shiny vehicles between which I was sandwiched, what with my dodgy knee and all. (Friends will recall I’m better on my bike than walking. To the puzzlement of onlookers I whizz along like a veritable but slightly stouter Wiggins at far above the legal speed for electrically assisted cycles and after locking my sporty steed to a lamppost, I limp off leaning on my stick like some ancient creaking Methuselah). Anyway, back to my car sales lot predicament: I finally laboriously hauled myself up by grabbing the wing mirrors of the adjoining vehicles, hoping that in doing so I didn’t set off any blaring car alarms. Halfway up a besuited salesman hurried by, more interested in his clipboard than in the gasping, muddy old chap wedged between his gleaming family saloons. Anyway, when finally restored to what passes as an upright position for me these days, a quick check of all the relevant areas of my person revealed nothing more than a slightly grazed ankle and I resumed my stately journey towards the M&S Food Hall. Six weeks later and I’m completely debilitated by what I believe is referred to as whiplash. In actual fact, I can hardly type this, such is the pain in my neck, so I hope you appreciate my dedication to the noble cause of preserving and nurturing local newspapers. I’ve had a session with a cranial osteopath, having experienced a miracle cure from a practitioner of this subtle system some years ago when I accidentally launched myself down a mock Tudor staircase while playing Henry VIII. The ultimate collapse of stout party: huge bellowing, bewhiskered theatrical entrance in a vast costume complete with codpiece fitted with LED tracer lights (you had to be there) followed by weeping crumpled heap of pathetic humanity. I say subtle: they literally seem to do nothing, just imperceptible pressure applied in silence by magic fingers. It really does seem to work. The pain returns somewhat as you reach for your wallet at the end, but I am going back for more. Meanwhile, ouch, double ouch! Not helped by a concerned chap who approached me at a funeral this week. ‘Neck pain?’ he asked, his voice muffled by layers of knitted scarves. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘today is exactly one year six weeks since I started treatment for mine, so I wish you luck.’ As we limped off crablike in opposite directions I did feel a little dispirited!