The fear most people associated with the dentist, I associated with the physiotherapist.
Those mild-mannered, quietly spoken men and women with disproportionately large hands render me mute with terror. Throughout the session only small moans and incoherent pleas for mercy escape my mouth.
This morning I went to see the physio because of a pain in my wrist. That would be the part of the body attaching the hand to the arm.
Apparently, the tendons are inflamed as a result of too much typing with the letters on the LHS of the keyboard. I need to use more words originating entirely on the RHS. Like pool and boil and ply.
During the poking and prodding we also determined by means of pushing my pain threshold, that my shoulder is in spasm and my neck is FUBAR.
I had my head wrenched nearly off my body with a ghastly crack that brought back every horror movie in gruesome detail.
I had enough needles stuck into me that a porcupine would have no difficulty welcoming me to Sunday lunch.
And then I had heat treatment. What I imagined would be a hot water bottle and 10 minutes of nap time, turned out to weigh about the same as a full-grown rhinoceros with severe sunburn.
I resigned myself to relaxing into it, only to realise that my face was being squished and squashed into that neat little hole they leave in the bed so you can breathe.
I had visions of being found with my head stuck all the way through to the other side, or walking out with the indentation of the hole embedded into my skin like an Amazonian warrior.
Neither outcome appealed, so I spent 10 minutes trying to simultaneously relax and not get stuck.
My wrist is throbbing, my neck is screaming and my lower back is cursing me in all twelve official languages.
So, what sick, macabre reason made me agree to go back in two days for more punishment?