Ach. I’ve been in bed, cinematically dying without complaint, wondering at the severity of my bronchial affliction and watching through the windows as the early promise of summer evaporates in the sneering face of some particularly sarcastic rain.
According to the ancient “wisdom” of some farmers Charlotte claims to have recently met, the weather on the 8th of July sets the tone for the rest of the summer in Ireland. It was raining on the 8th of July - quite heavily, actually – and there’s been rain every single day since. Hmm.
Roundabout the 13th - five or so days into The Rains (that sounds so African and dramatic, beautiful) and once the illness had kicked in properly - I found myself in bed watching The Sopranos and I’m suddenly like “you know what, fuck farmers, where do they get off scaring us this way, those mother-fucking sons of a fuck-suck. Vaffanculo shepherd-face. Ficcanaso. Carbonara.” I felt every inch the gangster with this outburst, very Noo Joisey and incredibly motivated. (I may even have being doing ultra-expansive hand gestures by the end, threatening to upset my tray.) But it’s still raining and I can barely even smoke for coughing, which is disappointing.
Not disappointing as in…..
Doctor: …and it’s going to be horrifying. I give you six months. Tops.
Patient: Ach.
…..but disappointing nevertheless.
I think you’d be forgiven such an unseemly show of emotion if the doctor said these words, wouldn’t you? This will be A Big Disappointment for most people, after all, so an “ach” seems fairly legitimate. I don’t even see the point in going to the doctor, however, as he’ll only dole out antibiotics and send me back to bed. If I could be guaranteed some bad (or even merely interesting) news then, okay, maybe.
One of the other things I’m doing in bed is reading. I’ve just wheeched through Bad Science (Ben Goldacre) and Smile or Die – How Positive Thinking Fooled America & The World (Barbara Ehrenreich). Oh lady-writer Barbara, I love you so hard. Thank you for articulating everything I’ve thought (and known) since back in the day and forever. Thank you for having those skills. Bravissimo. Balsamico. Molto grazie e pesto basilico. If I wasn’t so ill I’d feel brilliant.
Ben Goldacre, on the other hand, has me pretty down on antibiotics. I was already fairly anti antibiotics – or anti the instinctive rush to medication as a first resort, rather - but he’s kind of sealed the deal. I’ll just wait for nature to run his course. At one point I thought I might go downstairs to the kitchen sink and pour myself a nice big glass of homeopathy, but Doctor Ben says this would be dribble-dumb, alas, as it’s all in the consultation.
I could ask myself what my symptoms are and listen sympathetically as I explain them to me and then turn on the tap, I suppose, but this feels excessive and I’m not entirely sure I could trust myself not to overcharge me for the session. Besides, I normally drink two litres of homeopathy every day so I’m probably ahead of the curve. Look, I don’t care what the doom merchants say: homeopathy is by far and away the best cure for dehydration. It really, really works.
Comico, molto comico. I should charge an admission fee for those last two lines alone. Let’s watch them again in slow motion: Loooook……I don’t care….what the doom merchants.....say: homeopathy is….by far and away….the best cure for….dehydration. It really….really….works.
Please, I’m wasted on you.
