King of Excellent (according to Scaryduck)

Friday, October 27


Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a sickly person, but recently I’ve started to have health problems.

As a child I was incredibly resilient. Other children would be off school regularly, but I was always the one there. I remember my teaching comment once on one of my days off that I was never ill. My reports would be glowing and my attendance would always be marked down as “very good.” I put this down to not being wrapped in cotton wool, and unlike children today I could be found pushing my body to the limits regularly be it cycling at break neck speed without brakes, or eating mud from the local woods.

I never caught flu. I remember the first time I had a flu episode, about 15 years old, when my best mate and I got caught in a downpour too far from any shelter to care and get out of it. We both ended up in bed (not with each other I hasten to add), shivering, sniffling, and enjoying the merits of Mulligatawny soup.

So this week I end up ill again, and I know it’s coming because I have cold hands. My hands are the complete opposite to a dog’s nose. If they’re cold, I’m going to be unwell, and on Monday night I was labouring around with hands that could cryogen the spheres on a copper and tin alloyed primate. By Tuesday morning I was positively dying, what with the shivering, the fact not one square inch of my skin didn’t hurt, and the fact I could sleep forever. I nearly did, getting up for a whole hour, before retiring back to bed after cancelling all my calls for the day, and sleeping until 5:15 in the evening.

So the following day, better rested and only slightly weak, I get a phone call.
“Hello, this is Dr. Long, your friendly neighbourhood GP. Yes, about the blood tests you had taken 3 weeks ago.”
“As yes,” I replied, “I telephoned a couple of weeks ago and I was told I was all clear. Then I got your letter telling me you had detected a discrepancy in my thyroid gland and I now needed to redo another test.”
“Yes, Mr. Aitch, but we also need to set you up with a prescription. Part of your tests came back positive after all, and we need to tackle the problem head on.”

So there you have it. I now have to take 8 pills a day. I rattle when I walk. I have got the nickname Maraca. When I “done a poo,” I produce plastic coated capsules. And to cap it all, I have people like Misty, Audrey and t’Duck telling me I’ve been sick for years.

Yes I know, but why rub salt in the wound.