Tuesday, 6 November 2007

One is not amused

And other Victorian sayings. I feel like I have returned to the days of crinolines, carbide lamps, annoying whales for fun and profit, child exploitation, colonialism, random prossie-slicing, a gentleman's right to carry firearms and other 'olde worlde' malarkey.

Why? Because apparently I might have Gout.

Nice Orthopod Scablifter from A&E phones me on Sunday morning to say that they had had 'some results back'. 'How am I feeling?' Fine thanks, much better than yesterday, I respond, a jolly happy chappy who can walk pretty normally and has just made breakfast for four plus livestock. Lovely stuff in those happy pills, thankyou so very much.

(Surprised tones) 'Well we think you've got gout, and you should get yourself down to your GP on Monday so he can prescribe....err did you say it feels OK? How many of the painkillers have you used? None? Oh.... OK, never mind, go and see him in a few days when the results from the sample we drew out of your knee will be back. You're sure it feels better already??

So I relay this to my beloved, and immediately get a bollocking for being a drunken idiot who has ruined my health with years of alcohol abuse etc etc. I whimper in true Alpha-Male stylee that the full results haven't come back yet and then beat a hasty retreat. (Note, the downing of a copious amount of whisky the night before did not help my case. The fact that I was up 2 hours earlier than her, and had cooked her and the spawn breakfast before she had even made it out of the scratcher, and crucially this included episode VI of the great 'introduce Junior to porridge' battle, was not deemed admissable in evidence).

So, off I scuttle to the GP the next morning, expecting to be told that I was Mr Creosote's younger brother, that my legs were going to drop off and I'd be admitted to Ye Olde Syphilitic & Drunkards Ward that day.

Results? No. Prodding of knee? No. "Lay off the red wine & rich food and you'll be OK" Yes. Urgent prescription of anti-gout meds? No. Although I should avoid pate. Well, bugger me, that's life not worth living, then.

And nothing on my medical records so far... until I go to the Annual Fireworks Mayhem tonight. Sort of like the Somme, but with prettier colours.

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