I AM writing this rather in the style of a rock pianist standing to pound out a number on an upright piano.

Because of an ill-judged jump from a high wall on to concrete, I seem to have crushed a vertabrae, or squashed a disc, or bruised my bum.

Whatever, apparently I have trapped my sciatic nerve and until the full extent of the damage is known from an MRI scan, I am swallowing painkillers like there is no tomorrow and cannot sit to type, eat or drive without protracted – some would say histrionic – squeals of pain.

John is thinking of decamping to a spare bedroom as I squirm all over the bed to try to find a comfortable position to sleep. Except he can’t because I need him to push me out and pull me up.

All of which takes ages as I yelp away at every excruciating stab of red hot needles through my backside and leg. I have never had any back pain before so all of this is a new torture to me.

I have now transferred to writing this on my iPad as I can no longer stand by the computer. Luckily I always have the freezers stuffed with the full range of cottage, shepherd, steak, chicken, apple, blackberry and raspberry pies. So man may not be able to live on bread alone at this house, as we do not eat a lot of loaves, but he certainly can on pies.

After receiving an extensive list of exercises through the post, when I actually saw a physiotherapist, she advised me to stop all of that in case I did some permanent damage.

I just have to potter and lie down in between pottering. Very frustrating, especially with the dogs used to several walks a day with me to go blackberrying. The blackberries will now be left to the birds and the apples to rot on the ground until I am able to bend down to pick them up.

My row of broody bantams has been unceremoniously turfed off their nests as John says he has no time to look after them. Eggs are remaining uncollected until friends call to take them away. However, some good is coming of it all. I have decided to go through my wardrobes and throw out anything I have not worn for a reasonable length of time.

John has stuffed everything I am discarding into black bin bags to take to a local charity shop. Healthy gaps are appearing on the wardrobe rails and items of clothing I had forgotten I had, cheering me up immensely at their discovery.

But this life of idleness cannot last. My recovery has a time limit as a fishing trip in Scotland beckons John in a month’s time, and I shall be left in charge. Any miracle cures for sciatica out there?