The tale of the artistic physio

There was a young lady called M. She was a bright young spark and was a student of many different disciplines. Not only was she a qualified physiotherapist but she also had an art degree. Two seemingly disparate subjects that couldn't possibly ever complement each other, or so it seemed. But M, the tiny-toed, bright young thing, knew perfectly well that two different subjects from utterly opposing ends of the intellectual spectrum were not a hindrance: they were mutually beneficial. She set out to prove to her sceptical tutors that this was the case.

And so it was that she blended and overlapped the two skills into the different parts of her life. M’s physio patients were astonished that not only could she diagnose the problems in their knees, back and joints, but that she could also provide a hand-drawn and eerily accurate portrait of the specific problem at the same time. Patients would proudly take away these works of artistic - and sometimes abstract - genius and hang them on their living-room walls. After all, it made more sense than trying to hang them on the cat.

Soon enough M was able to start up a shiny, gleaming practice of her own, as news of her unorthodox methods spread about the famous land known as Londinium. Patients came from far and wide, eager to leave their established physio for this new, mildly eccentric, Dr M. Indeed Verytinytoes Physios Ltd. soon became the stuff of legend and within several years was one of the strongest companies in the Footsie Index.

Now everybody wanted an artist's impression from their physio as a matter of course. And since M was the only physio in town with this specific talent, she was soon rich enough to buy a large mansion in Lower-Troddlebottom, near the county of Hertofrodshire.

Unfortunately, there was a down-side. M's art class companions weren't always best pleased with her. This wasn't for any of the usual reasons: they weren't jealous of her success, her tiny feet or the fact that she was obsessed with playing with random young men’s knees right in front of them all. They were pleased for her. But they did get slightly miffed from time to time when M took it upon herself to correct the posture of the real-life art model whilst everyone else was dependent on that already assumed posture for the completion of their own work. Oftentimes the model would be interrupted by an insistent M, mid-session, who would present them with her artist's impression of what their particular pose was doing to the small of their back, their muscle tone and cartilage. Normally they would gratefully take heed of such warnings but sometimes, if they failed to listen, she would reinforce her point by hitting the perpetrator with Gray’s Anatomy just to prove the point.

Naturally, Gray - a shy, retiring sort - got quite frustrated that M kept using parts of his body - without his approval - for assaulting ignorant people, but really, there was very little he could do about it. Needless to say, his girlfriend was less than impressed and even resorted to writing a stern letter to The Times complaining about the behaviour of young M. It would, naturally, have made more sense for her to actually speak to M about the matter-in-hand but due to a recent operation – a Common-Sense bypass at an un-specified Private Hospital – she had failed to realise that that might be an option.

Still, whilst the other members of class were often less than ecstatic at such interventions and the consequent re-arranging of the life-model so that his / her posture was unlikely to bring about long-term physio problems in later life, the models themselves were always pretty chuffed with the free diagrams of their posture, their gluts, and their hamstrings and flat feet. The free consultations and the exercises that would eventually prevent osteoporosis in later life saved them a fortune in medical fees.

More to the point, a genuine M original, complete with intricate muscle and cartilage detail always fetched a good few quid on eBay, which was never a bad thing.