I am in pain. I am in pain. I would like to repeat that sentence again and again until the end of this column — because the problem with being in pain is that you can’t think about anything else. It seems impossible that you will ever not be in pain. It’s like trying to imagine what it would feel like to be hot when you’re cold, or vice versa.

Although I wasn’t so foolish as to make any New Year’s resolutions — my track record in this regard is not exactly wreathed in glory — I did at least toy with the background thought that I could cultivate a more positive attitude in general. And this is what has led to my current plight.

In the family, my pessimism and negativity are largely counter-balanced by The Husband’s unshakeable optimism (for unshakeable, read “irritating”), but there are times when even I start to get depressed by my determination to find the cloud behind every silver lining. So, a fractionally more positive me seemed like it could only be a good thing.

With this unusually upbeat thought in mind, I headed for the gym for an extra session with my personal trainer. His favourite expressions are: “You have to challenge your body”, “You can do it!” and “I have faith in you”. Mine are: “My body is challenged enough already just by getting off the sofa,” “I can’t do it” and “It’s too hard”.

After our cardio workout, which reminds me that I must remember to put Hatzola on speed-dial, we head for the weights section and he sets up a circuit of exercises designed to work my legs and glutes. Mentally, I promise myself I will try really hard and not say I can’t do it before I’ve even started.

The first set-up is deadlifting a huge bar-bell with a 10kg weight on each end. I’ve done this before. I know that the bar itself is 8kg so it’s a total of 28kg — challenging for me but within my capability.

It is only when I attempt the first lift that I realise it’s a different bar — not the 8kg one, but the 20kg one, so it’s 40kg in total rather than 28kg, over 40 per cent more. Ideally, you should do a deep squat, then lift, so that you bear the weight through your glutes and legs, but with my restricted mobility in my knees, I can’t do that — and it hits my lower back straightaway.

“Oh! My back!’”

I realise I’m like the boy who cried wolf. Because I’m always saying it’s too heavy, I can’t do it, the trainer is convinced that I’m merely being my usual negative self.

“You made it look easy,” he says. “Six more.”

I explain that it went into my back, and that I hadn’t realised he’d increased the weight so much. He insists that at my age and level of fitness, I should easily be able to lift 40kg. I carry on, with each lift hurting more and more until I refuse point-blank.

“My back really hurts,” I say again.

Eventually, he reluctantly concedes that I might actually be telling the truth and he directs me in some stretches to try to alleviate it, but by the time I’ve reached home, my back feels as if I’ve been given a good kicking and I can hardly walk.

Back pain takes you over — like toothache. Even though theoretically it’s only in one place, it feels as if it’s invading your entire head and body. The Husband has had to go into the office and The Teen has a shift at the restaurant where he’s been working. There is no one to help and no one to moan to.

I ring the physio who promises to make a home visit later but says he won’t be able to work on me unless I can calm the spasm down. He prescribes alternating ice and heat packs, then resting with my legs supported on pillows.

When I peel myself up off the floor to go to the loo, I shuffle as if I’m 100 years old. I hunt about the house for painkillers but, as I have only one kidney, I can’t take anti-inflammatories such as ibuprofen — only paracetamol and codeine, which is far less effective for this type of pain.

I can’t work on my (overdue) book because I can’t concentrate. I can’t even read anything too demanding because my body is too busy sending every cell in my brain the repeating message: Pain —pain — pain — pain. All I can do is mess about with ice and heat packs then lie on the floor whimpering softly.

I think back to when I was in hospital after I had my kidney removed and they gave me lovely, lovely morphine.

I was so out of it that when my husband and sister came to the doorway of the High-Dependency Unit to wave hello after my surgery (they weren’t allowed any further in), I remember thinking: This is funny, having both Larry and Steph in the same dream.

Yes, I do understand why you can’t just nip to the chemist and buy morphine over the counter as if it were Lemsip, but they should make an exception for me because — and I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this — I’m in pain…

@clairecalman