Friday 11 January 2013

This Little Piggy…




I have chilblains. How the hell do I have chilblains? I’m almost certain it’s chilblains. It’s either that or gout.

Given that my diet for the past few weeks has consisted largely of dried fruit, animal fats, and triple distilled liquor, gout isn’t something I can rule out all that swiftly. But that’s a joint thing, I believe, and this is the end of my toes. Just the middle ones, but on each foot. The very end, like Chinese torturers have delegated their usual role with bamboo splinters to a pair of disgruntled wasps.

How does this happen? I’m not that old. Chilblains! Old people get chilblains. I’m not old. Not old enough to get chilblains. I’m not old enough. I’m not old. Fuck you, I’m not. I’m not. Fuck off.

Mrs Cartwright. She was old. She lived next-door to us when I was in primary school and she was at least three-hundred-and-seventy. She got chilblains. Every winter, she got chilblains and told us all about them at great length and in rigorous detail. I remember Dad once asked why she didn’t just turn the heating on, to which she replied that she, ‘wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.’ Dad quickly dropped the subject and said he had to take me to my cello lesson. I played the piano.

Mrs Cartwright – old Mrs Cartwright – was also fond of explaining how she was, ‘a martyr to me piles,’ so there’s that to look forward to, at least. And she used to send us christmas cards with Old Lady Spider Writing. That’s what we called it, anyway. You know the thing, where it’s all very fine and shaky so it looks like a spider dipped its feet in ink and crawled across the page. Of course it was probably a side effect of her genuinely crippling arthritis and she must have spent hours in considerable discomfort simply to try and extend a neighbourly hand of good grace and seasonal cheer. How we laughed.

Mrs Cartwright – old, ancient Mrs Cartwright – also had a dog. One of those small, yappy things that may or may not have been some sort of terrier. The sort B-list celebrities carry around in their handbags but any sane person would think nothing of drop-kicking into the nearest leaf-shredder. And it bit me! The little fucker bit me and I ran to Mum and complained and she had it out with Mrs Cartwright – old, ancient, decrepit Mrs Cartwright – who refused to hear a bad word about her beloved little yappydog and blamed it all on me and said I was a terror and feral and that it was my fault because apparently annoying little yappydogs respond poorly when you tie fireworks to their tails.

She’s dead now.

OLD

Apparently there’s no real way to cure chilblains, just wait and ‘be kind to your feet’. This seems to involve keeping them dry and when you go out and when you come back in putting on a pair of loose thick socks and warming them up slowly. Warming your feet, not the socks. Though I suppose there’s no practical distinction by that point.

Reasonable advice, as far as it goes, but I’ve barely left the house in the past month. I’ve been INSIDE THE FUCKING HOUSE for FOUR FUCKING WEEKS and I’ve still managed to CONTRACT FUCKING CHILBLAINS.

Inside. Inside the fucking house. That’s not right. We’ve had the heaters on. Really we have. There’re children in the house, so of course we have. However, one’s a baby whom my wife insists on swaddling in so many layers that I’m sure we’ve already purchased 95% of Australia’s total wool production for the 2012-2013 financial year. The child is a screaming, shitting, puking trade deficit all by itself.

And the eldest is now big enough to have worked out how to open the doors on his own, which is cute and makes me so proud right up to the point where he opens the fucking doors. No, you little bastard, don’t let the heat out. Oh, you want to play hide and seek do you? Shut the door. Seen The Shining have you? Well, that’s how it’ll end up if you’re not careful, sunshine. All rest and no heat makes Daddy go crazy. Shut the door. There’s an axe in the tool kit, you know? Shut the door. It’s not that big but these internal doors aren’t all that sturdy. Shut the fucking door. No, don’t take off your socks, you’ll… Just shut the fuck… Ah, that’s better. Good boy. Well done. Good closing. Now… no, wait, don’t open it again.

Fuck’s sake.

...all the way home.

16 comments:

  1. Chillblains... One of those things we N.Americans thought were nonsense diagnoses from the ancient past, which we only came across in Dickens or something describing an equally coal-choked and miserable England. Maybe you are predisposed genetically, though coming to this garden-shed domiciled nation wouldn't help. Japan makes me think of a line from the Goons on Scothc hospitality:

    "Pull yourself up this roaring candle and pour this oatmeal over your head."

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  2. "...nonsense diagnoses from the ancient past..."

    That's exactly it. I now live in no little fear of catching typhoid or Spanish 'flu.

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  3. "Given that my diet for the past few weeks has consisted largely of dried fruit, animal fats, and triple distilled liquor"

    Sounds like the diary of a deck hand on a 19th century cargo ship carrying fine spirits. ;)

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  4. Did you know that gout in Japanese is "painful wind"? (痛風)
    I found this out the other day and I'm left to wonder why...

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    1. I'd like to try and answer that in an amusing manner, but honestly, it'd be like shooting fish in a barrel.

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  5. Doesn't sound like fun. Do you take a lot of baths? I get cold feet quite easily, but I find a bath every day really helps.

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    1. I don't fit. Even back home at least half of me is above the waterline at any one time. With Japanese baths I've got no chance :(

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    2. That blows. How tall are you?

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    3. Comfortably over 6 foot. Or not, as the case may be...

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  6. "No, you little bastard, don’t let the heat out."

    The best part about this is that I know you're not even joking...

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    1. Every word I write here is the god's honest truth. Just some things are more true than others, is all.

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  7. Actually had to follow the Wiki-link on that one. Do not recall ever reading anything in print about that ailment. Bet there's something on it somewhere in archives... where they keep the vellum.

    Surprised no one has suggested trying acupuncture, moxa balls, some of that good ol' fashioned reiki, or at least crystals. A little quartz never hurt no one.

    Maybe you could channel Mrs. Cartwright (since her pooch is probably behind all this). Maybe one of your other readers could suggest a good medium in the Tokyo area.

    What's really amazing is how stress manages to get people. One of my students, who shouldn't be retiring for at least twenty more years, talked about having had shingles, a number of times. All work and no play.

    May the force be with you.




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    1. Unfortunately I think it's just the opposite. Punishment for eating too much crap and not exercising enough. And by 'enough' I mean 'at all'.

      Now the gym's open again and I'm having to walk a bit to work every day (not much, but enough) everything in the toey garden is just lovely. I prefer quartz in my watches, if it's all the same to you...

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  8. Well I'll be damned chilblains happen to young folk! My grandmother was old (now she is dead) and had poor circulation and problems with diabetes. Her toes needed constant care and that's where I came in. Things that were normal to me as a child now as an adult I see were not quite the norm.

    I tended to her feet to make sure they were dry, nails trimmed, inspected for any cuts or hang nails. Her feet were not pretty... they were old poor circulation feet. I also washed her dentures after every meal for her. Why is it now that the thought of having done that kinda grosses me out?

    I hope your feet feel better and that this problem does not progress with age. I would just go with the gout thing....

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    1. It's amazing what you see as 'normal' when you're a kid, eh?

      The gout won't cure the chilblains you know. Or maybe you mean that if I get gout I just won't care. And doing the stuff necessary to get it would be more fun than just sitting round with cold feet. That's a pretty good plan, actually. I like the way you're thinking...

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