During a family holiday in 1996, my mum noticed something wasn’t quite right with my back. Sunbathing by the pool, she saw a flap of skin that looked out of place. When we got home, Dad’s osteopath traced an S-shape with her finger along my spine, and suggested I see a faith healer. Mum insisted on a more traditional route, and at the Royal National Orthopaedic hospital in Harrow, west London, I was diagnosed with scoliosis – curvature of the spine – and told I would need surgery to correct it.
I had other ideas. I was an excitable 18-year-old, determined to see the world, and even more determined not to let anything get in the way of my first year at university. I postponed surgery and went to Manchester to study management, hoping that nightly back exercises in between trips to the union bar would see me through.
