Why I'm playing Stickman

WHERE'S MY HORSEHAIR WIG?

In my previous post I mentioned that I've been walking with the aid of a stick for a few days.  Here's why.

Hogmanay began with a slight limp (that actually sounds like a promising opening line for a story....).  The limp decided it wasn't getting enough attention and made itself more noticeable, until, well before the bells were ringing in the New Year, my left foot had decided to withdraw it's labour and refused to accept any effort to put weight on it.  Well, not without me doing a bit of screaming.

It's as well I don't believe in omens, or I'd now dread what the rest of 2015 had in store for me.  I remained housebound until the eighth.  In the interim I developed my own methods of travel around the flat - on all fours, a stick-aided bunny hopping, and the time honoured sit-on-your-arse technique for stair negotiating.  Elegance was not an option.

On the eighth I got along to our new GP surgery, to meet a doctor with a sense of humour.  I have no idea how competent he is, but at least we had a laugh.  Which may be why he came up with a comedy diagnosis.  Considering all I told him about my symptoms, and a prod and visual scan of my inflated foot, he came to the conclusion that the most probable answer was....

Gout

Now it might turn out not to be, because he says it's difficult to prove, but it's a strong favourite.  And seems entirely appropriate.  A music hall ailment, a renowned subject for mirth.  I have kept a daily diary for many years, but didn't realise I was turning into Samuel Pepys.  (Note to pedants : yes, I do know Pepys didn't have gout.  It's a joke, albeit a poor one.  Now go and get yourself a life.)  I had better get out my horsehair wig and start downing the port and stilton.  (I might skip the wig bit.)

But as well as having comedic powers I can confirm one other reputed power of the gout.  It's f**king painful.  Ask our cat, who jumped casually on to the bed, landed on the afflicted paw, and was treated to a stream of names considerably less affectionate than those she's become used to.

So now I have pills, and am to drink five pints of water a day.  Which means I sweat like Shergar, fart like Ermintrude, have the runs like an Alsatian that's just lapped up a two day old prawn vindaloo, and I pee like Nellie the elephant.  I'm sure it's just coincidence that my wife has gone away for five days.

But I am, thanks for asking, well on the way to recovery.  On Saturday I woke without pain for the first time in 2015 (nothing like making it sound dramatic, is there?) and my foot is looking more like a human extremity again and less like something to be found on the slap at Crombies (which, for those not fortunate enough to inhabit this fair city, is an Edinburgh butcher renowned for sausages).  I am, almost, a free man again.

Except for knowing I have become a member of the parody malady club.  Now where's the port bottle?  And why is the cat playing with my wig?