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Thursday, 11 May 2017

THE EXPIRING CHIROPRACTOR

The note on the window of the chiropractor’s in the town was particularly bitter. It read: “Owing to the practitioner setting up in business a short distance away and taking with her the whole practice, despite only giving a month’s notice, we regret to announce that this business has been forced into insolvency. The nett impact of this is the closure of a business that has operated locally for 93 years and the loss of twelve jobs. We would like to thank all of our customers for their support over the years.” It stopped short of saying “We hope the practitioner breaks her arm in the morning,” but that was the thrust of the missive. The note struck me as being quite extraordinary. Firstly, why put yourself in the insidious position of relying on a single person, placing all of your eggs in one proverbial basket? Secondly, why not have another qualified practitioner in reserve in case the first jumped ship? Thirdly, why not offer the woman more money to make her stay? Fourthly, why was there no restrictive covenant built into her contract to prevent her setting up in the next street? Lastly, if the whole of the practice had gone with the practitioner, wouldn’t she need to employ the twelve redundant staff? That would make a nonsense of the redundancy beef, anyway. If she didn’t need to employ them, what was the point in the expiring chiropractor hiring them in the first place? Haven’t they heard of risk management? What is a chiropractor anyway?

The little bird had somehow found its way into the spare bedroom. It was just out of the nest, a bundle of tiny feathers. It remained motionless on the carpet, terrified. I scooped it up with my hands, making soothing noises as I did. It responded with a surprisingly loud squawk for something so minuscule. I carried it outside into the back garden and laid it gently down on a pile of leaves. “You should be safe there,” I said. I went back this morning to check. The little bird was lying, quite dead, its tiny claws in the air, not six inches where I had so gingerly placed it. One of its siblings lay dead on the lawn, presumably having tried to fly from the nest without success. I reflected on what a tenuous hold on life these little creatures have as I fetched a trowel from the shed to dig a hole into which to inter them.

The town looked resplendent in the bright sunlight as I walked along the main street. There was scarcely a cloud in the sky and for once it was warm and summery. I strolled with the dog through the park and down to the river, and I was struck by how low the water level was. The river was only a couple of inches deep in places. Near the bleaching green, a miniature island I’d never seen before had risen above the water, and a couple of mallards, one M and one F, had made it their home. The lack of rain nhereabouts has turned the grass piebald in parts and the tracks to dust. We’re promised some rain this weekend, but the barometer in the lobby is still almost off the scale, as it has been for weeks, despite much tapping and bashing.

Some women were playing tennis. I didn’t recognise any of them – they weren’t club members. Nor were they very good. It was as if they thought they would receive an electric shock each time the ball hit their racquet, so timid and tentative was their strokeplay. I watched one lady serve three consecutive double faults, ball straight into the net, then change from overarm to underarm serving, only to hit her next two serves into the net as well. Her opponent had won the service game without having to play a shot. I’d never come across that before.

I arrived home in quite a cheerful frame of mind, until I remembered I had to chair the annual general meeting of the badminton club tonight. It’s held in the seedy function room of a local public house, and the number of attendees will not be great. The majority of members have much more sense than to come out and listen to arguments about the quality of shuttles and the number of teams the club ought to submit to various leagues this winter. They’d much rather watch the murder and mayhem that constitutes Emmerdale these days. Still, it’s the nearest thing to work I have left. I can still control a meeting even though I have difficulty in keeping the members to the agenda and stopping them wandering down memory lane. One thing I have never managed is to confine the meeting to under two hours.