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I’m engaged in a raging debate, and while usually these kinds of things get resolved before they get physical, this time I can’t seem to come to a reasonable understanding with myself.

The subject of the debate: how will I get my Dowager’s Hump? (Because, obviously, it’s inevitable.) Currently I’m split three ways, and someone needs to intervene before I hold myself over the edge of our balcony by my ankles and threaten to let go.

Theory number one: Dowager’s via vacuuming.

An evolutionary (or perhaps genetic) default has made me incapable of vacuuming in the manner of a normal human being. Irrespective of how fancy the vacuum cleaner, how extendable and sturdy its tube or how versatile its end, you had better believe that when I turn it on, I will bend to half my height and waddle around the house pushing my whole bodyweight into it.

Consequently, it’s just a matter of time before I’ll stay that way.

The comforting thought in all of this is that I am not alone. Simon is also tormented by the affliction, which means that when I finally succumb to the Dowager’s Hump, Simon will be right there with me; bent in half, unable to get up and shrugging his shoulders like, “it was only a matter of time.”  Once it happens we’ll barricade ourselves inside the house and spend our days wearing headscarves, talking about headscarves and ordering Mark to rub ointment into our butt-cracks (so they don’t get chapped).  

Theory number two: Dowager’s via walking

Walking isn’t really dangerous to most people. But since I’m not most people, walking has caused me lots of hurt and humiliation. And, as it happens, it is also the source of one of my greatest failings as a human being – the inability to tear my eyes away from the ground while in motion. 

Clearly some part of my subconscious thinks that if it just watches the three centimetres of pavement directly in front of me, everything will be fine. I don’t know how many kneecaps I have to bust to prove that theory wrong.

More to the point, however, aside from looking incredibly stupid, my downward gazing becomes a pain in the neck. Literally. So I’ll be looking like a pruned-up banana any day now. Why pruned up? I really don’t know. Just because.

 Theory number three: Dowager’s via sitting

When I was nine years old my mother pointed out some pretty swan-like child and gushed about proper posture. It needs to be noted that nothing is higher in a mother’s list of desires than a child who can sit straight. But since I had a few other things to contend with – huge teeth, frizzy hair, large glasses, an unfortunate taste in clothing – my posture wasn’t all that high on my list of priorities. So my poor mother, for all her goodwill and encouragement, never got to experience the true heights of parenthood.

I don’t know what became of the swan girl. We can only hope that she’s raising a fleet of straight-sitting ballerina children. Yes, I said “a fleet”. I think you’ll agree it’s completely appropriate.

As to my posture, it never improved and now whenever I sit, I hunch in a way that makes virgins all over the world sing my praise. Why virgins? I don’t know. Just because. If the mother of my youth could see me now, she’d surely nail boards to my back. 

The big question:

Which is it that’ll cause my ultimate demise? 

Suck it now, suck it good, vacuum this carpet just like you should. My neck, my back, "Hey Mark, I need ointment on my crack."

My back is bananas B-A-N-A-N-A-S, my back is a banana B-A-N-A-N-A ...ass!

She bangs, she bangs. Oh baby when she moves she moves; she goes crazy. 'Cos she walks like a weirdo, and ploughs into a tree, like nobody else in history...