Unwell

I should have known that evoking the ghost of Jeffrey Bernard, whose sobriquet was 'Jeffrey Barnard is Unwell' in the Spectator when he was 'indisposed', would bring disaster. And waking up in the middle of the horrors of the night to find your balls the size of Texas and your wanger inflating like a balloon was not good at all. It was clear a visit to the doctors was urgent, or even a visit to the A&E.

Now getting me to the doctors is a bit like dragging your aging, wily collie to the vet. I do not like it. You might have to attempt to con me with savaloys to do it, because I know it's possibly the end and I need you to help me come to terms with it nicely. I pretty much expect the wrath of god to descend and life to vanish. So at least I always dress smart in the hope that they will recognize 'well he looks pretty respectable', that 'at least he can walk' and not send me for incarceration.

Dr Sami was more than nice, and I'm now on steroids which make me feel a bit funny, pills that accompany the steroids and more pills help those pills, and I have to sleep a lot.

Thankfully I have to report they seem to be working. And by the way, the cause was 'an allergy'. Now an allergy to what? Life? Work? World? David Cameron? I certainly don't think it's washing powder.