When I was a kid I gave a lot of thought to what I'd do with my life. There seemed to be plenty of occupations to choose from, but I was a bit worried because most of them seemed pretty dangerous.

Train drivers could crash, explorers could get skin rashes, pop stars could be trampled by their fans, astronauts could be hit in the head by weightless kitchen appliances, dentists could drill their fingers, lolly shop owners could be shot by thieves desperate for chocolate, librarians could crush their fingers in big books, postmen could stub their toes on Beware Of The Dog signs, photographers could get their eyebrows caught in their shutter mechanisms, gardeners could be attacked by slugs.

After very careful consideration, I decided that the safest job in the world, the one with the least chance of workplace injury, was being a writer. All it involved was sitting at a desk quietly thinking and writing and trying not to fall into your electric pencil sharpener.

So I chose that one. Little knowing that I was exposing myself to the most horrendous occupational hazard of them all – Writer's Back.

My back started to twinge a few years ago. At first I just thought I'd been laughing too hard when I wrote funny bits. But gradually it got worse. A few times, when I bent over to pick up a large suitcase or cheque, something went ping and I ended up in bed for a week.

Now it's got to the point where I'm in trouble if I attempt a long international flight, even in a plane. So at last I've placed myself in the hands of back experts, who, if I'm hearing them correctly above all the clicking (them) and yelling (me), are telling me the exercises I must learn to do.

I'm mentioning all this for two reasons. Firstly as a warning if you're planning to be a writer. Get a good chair, a good desk and learn to touch type. I wish I'd done that years ago. And secondly by way of explanation and apology if you're at one of the schools in Britain I was going to be visiting in December. I'm afraid for the reasons above I've had to put my visit off until the middle of next year.

Still, I frequently tell myself, things could be worse. I could be a desperate refugee separated from my family and thrown into a maximum security detention centre by the Australian Government. If you've read my book Boy Overboard and you're interested in reading more about refugees in Australia, have a look at a wonderful website I was introduced to recently, Children Out Of Detention, or ChilOut.

ChilOut is an organisation devoted primarily to relieving the plight of children in Australian detention centres, but their website has a vast array of information about everything to do with refugees.

Until next time, happy reading, and sit up straight.

17 November 2002