Archie turned three the other day; butterflies are starting to flutter by; the days are warmer and the nights shorter. So we mark another seasonal cycle as the earth turns and the planet circles the sun.

With all this carrying on about the changing of the seasons and the passage of time, the unspoken element is, of course, that we also keep on riding the current, barrelling downstream at the same pace as all living things.

There’s no point hiding from the truth — as someone in a TV sitcom once said, “Denial isn’t just a river in Spain.” Despite adhering to a healthy diet, exercising regularly, and entertaining pure thoughts, the body will inevitably age. And while it’s easy to shrug off greying hair (secretly entertaining the appellation ‘silver fox’ as compensation), there are some age-related developments that are more difficult to accept.

I speak here of lower-back pain, my friends — what used to be called ‘lumbago’ for comic effect, but which is really not funny at all. Truth be told, this is not a new affliction — it’s been afflicting me for nearly two decades — but what’s newer is the reluctant realisation that it will always return if certain specific conditions are met. There is no return to that idyllic state of youth where things don’t routinely hurt.

The specific conditions of which I speak are 1) a morning of chopping, digging and raking in the Corner Cottage gardens; 2) disregarding the resulting stiffness when bending over and picking up a pile of sweaty laundry two days later. At that instant, a sharp burning, tearing feeling shot through the right lower lumbar region, eliciting a roar of frustration in the knowledge that this portended a week of hobbling around with the torso seized at a 90-degree angle.

And this is the nub of the matter: it’s not just the inability to get off the sofa without geriatric groaning, or the mounting frustration at rides unridden and birds unphotographed — it’s the cautiousness it forces on you. This is an acknowledgement that one harbours a vulnerability — that at any time that sharp burning, tearing sensation will recur, so best not to venture out on the bike, or tote the ludicrous lens up Gillamatong to stalk kestrels. Or that inserting one’s feet into one’s socks of a morning is now a significant physical challenge.

It’s a reluctant concession that the flexibility and resilience of youth have fled, never to return. The fact is, while signs of spring are popping out all about, your correspondent’s lumbar discs have a propensity to do the same.

“Sitting is the new smoking,” they say, and it’s true. While a decent measure of cycling and running can easily head off any potential cardiovascular problems, they aren’t much cop for the postural challenges. I mean, look at this guy:

Last time this happened we went the full monty — not stripping in front of a hen-night audience, of course, but getting an MRI scan of the affected area. Given the amount of pain and the weird leftward kink the tightened musculature lent to my posture, I had hoped for something pretty glamorous to show up in the images. A bony excrescence lancing into the spinal cord, perhaps, or large, angry swellings about the lumbar nerves.

But no, turns out there’s a concatenation of little things going on: a bulging disc here, a narrowed passage there, a spot or two of wear and tear . . . and, arresting if not glamorous, an extra vertebra! This sixth lumbar vertebra, a genetic aberration apparently associated with the HOX gene, is deemed rare, although present in about 10% of the population.

And having this little bony bonus leads to a little too much flex, a tad more leverage from tight hip flexors and hamstrings, which in turn results in that sharp burning, tearing sensation I may have mentioned. In short, it’s my parents’ fault. As usual.

When the injury comes upon you, you go through all the usual phases — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance — about three times a day. Denial is the most dangerous, because that’s what leads you to do it again in the mistaken belief that your youthful resilience has returned with the ingestion of Arcoxia 120s in Smartie-like quantities.

But bargaining is the worst. “If I just do some core work and/or yoga every day, please make my back as good as new.” It is a siren song, for it’s already too late, my friends. Your destiny is encoded in your DNA and manifests as time’s ravages set in. It would be better to skip straight over depression and arrive at acceptance. Well, except that doing the core stuff and the flexibility stuff will help. Help, mind, not heal.

So what’s the recommended treatment? Let’s say anti inflams, a hot water bottle anent the affected region, some core work and flexibility stuff later when the pain and stiffness have subsided — and a healthy dose of sweet, sweet acceptance. That at least enables you to return to the bike (maybe raise the stem a bit so you’re not quite so ‘aero’) and the careful tending of your garden.

It’s not perfect, is it? But it can be managed. And if you think about it, managing something means you’re in control — that’s what managers do. That’s why in any organisation, ‘management’ is where you’re supposed to want to be. Take control of the unruly genetic spaghetti that is your lower back, I say. Yes, it may try to control you — and have a jolly good shot at it, if the last couple of weeks are anything to go by — but manage it. You are, after all, at least capable of being in charge.

That should hold you for the next three decades or so. And that is long enough for anyone to spend in the C-suite, believe me. Then it’s time to hand over the keys to whoever those ceaselessly cycling seasons put in charge next.