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| My beautiful foot sans the gout |
Last week was not good. I woke up in the early hours of Monday morning and knew that it had come back to bite me on the ass. Or to be more anatomically correct - on the joint of my big toe. It felt like my left foot was giving birth to PAIN!!!!
It was 02:37am. In another two hours I would have to get up, shower and get ready for work. The joys of being a postman. My discomfort meant there would be no more sleep. My foot was on fire, but I knew where to find a quick fix. Hidden in the kitchen cupboard were some industrial strength little pills with the ability to sedate stags during the rutting season.
Painkillers to my gout is what make-up and foundation is to a homely woman. Sure, you can mask your suffering somewhat, but when it all wears off, you're still ugly and I'm still sore. What I really needed was Diclofenac, an anti inflammatory drug. I can only get this elixir on prescription, but I was loathe to phone my doctor's practice. The receptionists don't think gout qualifies as a life-threatening disease.
About eight months ago I once again suffered an acute attack. Foolishly I rang the surgery. The conversation went something like this:
Evil Receptionist: So-and-so surgery, good morning. How can I help?
Me: Hi. I'd like to make an appointment to see a doctor please.
Evil Receptionist: Can I have your postcode?
Me: KY15 7XXYY
(I could hear her banging away on the computer keyboard.)
Evil Receptionist: And your date of birth?
Me: 2 July 1973
Evil Receptionist: Yes Mr Murray. What seems to be the problem?
Me: It's McMurray. I think my gout is flaring up. My foot is killing me.
Evil receptionist: Are you taking painkillers?
Me: Um, yes. What I really need is some kind of anti inflammatory.
Evil receptionist: It looks like we are fully booked today...
(Why bother taking my details then?)
Me: I understand that you guys are very busy and all, but can't you squeeze me in? I won't take more than five minutes. I just need a prescription.
Evil receptionist: There are three or four slots available, but they really are for emergencies only Mr Murray.
Me: Oh. Um, the thing is...I can hardly walk and...
Evil receptionist: Are you taking painkillers?
Me: Uh-huh.
Evil receptionist: For a prescription I think you should put your request in writing and pop it into the surgery. We could probably have it ready for you in a day or two.
A day or two?
I wanted to tell this unsympathetic harlot that I could quite easily live with gout if my job involved sitting on my fat arse all day booking appointments, doing the odd bit of filing here and there and drinking endless cups of tea. I wanted this halfwit to know that my gout was an emergency. A postman on his round walks the equivalent of at least 63 city blocks a day. My livelihood depended on my feet.
Of course I didn't say any of this. Words, although not quite as painful as gout, can be hurtful. I know what it feels like to be slandered.
I've been called a self-righteous prick. I've been called selfish in bed. I've been called South African.
The one thing I'm not, however, is rude and discourteous. So I thanked the battle axe for her time and wished her a very good day. I hadn't even finished expressing my gratitude for her disinterestedness when the phone went dead.
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| My foot 20 minutes after the gout has kicked in |
It was now 04:20am. Work was going to be a bitch. In my crippled condition I couldn't chase down the pavement after windswept letters. Even trying to manoeuvre the throbbing foot into my sock was a harrowing experience. I needed the tranquilizers to kick in pronto.
A smart man would have taken the day off, but I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed. I'm like the Moron of Martyrdom or something.
Before leaving I woke my wife and asked her to make me an appointment with the quack. Tara has a knack for cajoling the receptionists into giving her precious consultation time with the doctor.
The worst part of being a postman is the tedious indoor work. We start our day by sorting thousands of mail items - letters, magazines, catalogues, packets and parcels - into the correct walks. Our office has 33 deliveries so it takes a couple of hours. After this mind-numbingly boring little exercise you clear down the mail for your own round and start prepping it into your frame. Most of my colleagues had bagged up and were out of the door by 08:45am. I only left the office at 10:36am. I was handicapped remember.
I was gingerly making my way down Seaforth Avenue. It was going to be a loooooong day.
Over the years I have built up relationships with the masses on my walk. My public - stay at home mums, pensioners and benefit scroungers - love to stop and shoot the breeze.
Today I was in no mood to make small talk or catch up on local gossip. I just wanted to get home and hopefully see a doctor.
It wasn't going to happen.
Men and women left their homes in droves to offer me support and encouragement when they saw me shuffling down the road.
It seemed everyone I bumped into was a self-styled gout guru.
Some half-jokingly said my disease was the result of "too much good living" while others warned me about the dangers of drinking too much port.
All tales thought up by a fishwife methinks. Port is not my cup of tea. As for the too much good living malarkey...I don't even know what that means. I'm a postman, not some globetrotting playboy.
Nonetheless, I was thankful to the citizens of Seaforth Avenue this day. They restored my faith in humanity. Their concern was genuine. Not like my brethren at Royal Mail who mercilessly tease my condition and tell me to remove the pebble from my shoe.
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| The full effects of gout on my foot |
It had gone past midday when I reached Mrs H's house at number 2069. Mrs H is a hoot. She's always coming up with new and imaginative ways to flirt with dustbin men, census takers and even passing Jehovah's Witnesses.
She was pottering away in her garden when I arrived.
"Hello luv," she said. "You're late today."
I told Mrs H about my condition.
"That's terrible," she said. "I get gout. Are you taking anything for it?"
"Just painkillers. I'm hoping my wife gets an appointment with the doctor today," I replied. "I really need some Diclofenac."
Mrs H thought about it for a second, looked around to see if anyone was listening, and whispered, "Forget the pills. I know what really works."
She leaned in closer. "Pee" was all she said under her breath.
"Sorry?" I whispered back.
Mrs H told me that during the Napoleonic Wars sailors were prone to gout attacks on account of all the rum they drank. She said these sea dogs eased their pain by bathing their feet in urine.
I was gobsmacked. Mrs H may have been a kindred spirit and something of a history buff, but she was also old enough to be my mother. Was she really advocating that I give my left foot a golden shower?
"Come again?" I asked.
"I've done it and it works a treat," she said.
I was skeptical.
"I'm not joking luv. Soak your foot in a bucket of urine for a couple of hours."
A couple of hours? Clearly Mrs H was taking the piss.
"And preferably your own wee."
I'm glad she cleared that last bit up. It's not like I was planning on bribing 12 Catholic choir boys for their specimen or anything. It was just good to know. I thanked Mrs H for the advice and told her I would give it a whizz sometime.
It was 2pm by the time I finally finished Seaforth Avenue and I was more irritable than bowel syndrome. Tara still hadn't phoned to confirm an appointment. It grated on me that my colleagues were most probably done for the day while I still had to deliver to the 700 or so houses down Claremont Avenue. I was physically, emotionally and spiritually drained. It felt like my toes were going to drop off. I would gladly have popped Rohypnol in a jail cell jam packed with horny, halitosis-suffering Hispanic hombres if it meant the foot ache would go away. Heck, I would even have manned up to a ballet of swans to ease the stabbing twinge.
I would have done anything. I would even...
Sigh. Let's get this ugliness out of the way. Yes, I would even have marinated my foot in a keg of pee.
I like Mrs H, I really do, but I have a theory about her and her bedroom antics. I'd hazard a guess that Mrs H led quite the hedonistic lifestyle during the salad days. She has tattoos and everything. As for the piercings on rather intimate places? I'm not sure why she felt the need to volunteer this information.
No, I believe Mrs H uses gout as an excuse. I think she intentionally pees on herself and others. It's foreplay for her and her ilk.
Yes, you read it here first folks. There are "people" out there who get their sexual kicks by losing control over all their bodily functions behind closed bedroom doors.
I'm no prude. After a couple of beers I can come up with stuff that would make Caligula and his orgies look like a tea party at The Waltons. Just give me a toilet brush and some pork chops and I'll show you kinky. But deriving any sort of gratification by defecating or whatnot on a loved one is wrong on so many different levels.
(Some wise guy out there will argue that you shouldn't knock it till you've tried it. Well, I've had a pigeon shit on me before. And nope. It did nothing for me.)
My point is that I am no pervert. I was only going to do what I was going to do because I was in such dire straits. This despite the fact that I didn't have a bucket with me. Or even a few hours to kill.
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| Political correctness gone mad |
It was 2:35pm and I was leaning against a wall down an alley behind Claremont Avenue willing my urinary tract to open the floodgates. There was always the off chance that Mrs H was right. Maybe a splash of piddle would alleviate the pain.
I knew I was flouting the laws of the land. You can't just discharge willy-nilly wherever you like. Something about public indecency or something.
Unlike George Michael, however, I had an iron clad defense. My gout is a medical emergency. If people with glaucoma can get away with smoking weed for their ailment (wink, wink), then surely I can pass water in public.
I wasn't passing anything though. It's kind of like when you're stood at a urinal in a crowded public toilet and you sense that the well groomed middle-aged patron squashed next to you is trying to to sneak a peek at your goods. Your bladder shuts down. Or is that only me?
In a bid to micturate
(Look it up. I had to) I closed my eyes and thought of waterfalls, leaking taps and running water. Lo and behold it actually worked. Although it probably would have worked even better had I remembered to remove my shoe and sock first.
Dammit.
I collapsed in the corner. Nothing was going my way. I was a mental breakdown just waiting to happen. Self-pity was bleeding from every orifice.
I was still contemplating hara kiri when my mobile phone went off. It was the wife.
"Hi Mike. It's Tara."
"I know it's you woman," I snapped. "I have caller ID on my phone."
"What's your problem?"
"I'm sorry. I've peed on my shoe."
There was a pregnant pause while my wife considered this.
"Yes, well, anyway I've managed to get you an appointment with Dr Kildaire at 5:45pm."
I looked at my watch. I had exactly three hours to finish my delivery.
This good news pepped me up no end. I was going to see a medical professional.
The pain was unbearable but like mummy's brave little soldier, I soldiered on and made it to the consultation with only minutes to spare.
It was hard graft. By the time I got to the practice I was sweating so profusely that it took two triage nurses armed with mops to wipe my brow. It was worth it though. I left the surgery clutching a prescription for the little sodium enteric coated miracle tablets. In a couple of hours I would once again be walking like a regular homo erectus.
I ran into Mrs H a day or two after my ordeal. Naturally she enquired about the you-know-what.
"Hello luv. How are you? How is the foot?"
"I'm peachy Mrs H. And my foot's dandy too."
"So, did you follow through on our home remedy?"
Our? Why was it now suddenly our home remedy? It was her suggestion.
Weirdo or not, Mrs H obviously felt passionate about urine as a healing agent and I didn't want to hurt her feelings.
I gave her a slight nod. And then I winked at her.
"I understand luv. It's our little secret," she said winking right back at me.
I don't think I'm going to be getting much in the way of Christmas tips down Seaforth Avenue this year. I think Mrs H, being the piss artist that she is, shared "our little secret" with some of the neighbours.
The always chatty, sweet little spinster at 2067, for example, can no longer bring herself to look me in the eye. And when mothers now see me coming they cross the road.
I may be gout free but I'm still something of a pariah down these parts. Thanks Mrs H.
Final Thought (with apologies to Jerry Springer): Does pee work for gout? I don't know, but my shoes have never been shinier. If you suffer gout and have actually peed on yourself out of desperation and it actually worked, please send a postcard with all the details to the usual address. Or better yet, just leave a comment. I am only interested in hearing from bona fide gout sufferers. The degenerate hoi polloi need not apply
