“When you don’t have any money, the problem is food. When you have money, it’s sex. When you have both it’s health.”
That’s from The Ginger Man by JP Donleavy. He served in the US navy in WWII and jumped ship to go to Trinity College Dublin in 1946. Like Evelyn Waugh he didn’t get a Degree and became a successful novelist .
He stayed on in Ireland until his death in September last year living reclusively at Levington Park near Mullingar. Now, that quote from The Ginger Man is my text today. I have joined that happy subset of rich, sexually satiated, hypochondriacs. The same friend who recommended her accountant in Rutland sent me to a private doctor in Sloane Street. Let’s face it the NHS is no place for a hypochondriac with a conscience. It’s been very satisfactory; I have had my urine microalbumin ratio and kidney function checked: both perfect. I had an Echocardiogram scan and another heart test that involved things being attached to ankles and chest, I thought I would be electrocuted: both normal.
Now we must turn to an organ where I did not score so well. After forty-five years of relatively heavy drinking it is perhaps surprising that my liver function test result was only “slightly raised”. This sounds a lot better than the beginning of cirrhosis and is why a private doctor is so comforting. Incidentally the purpose of this whole palaver is to get my blood pressure down and, apparently, taking a break from the bottle is better than any medication.
Another way to self-medicate is to write a blog. It gets lots off one’s chest and must be relaxing. I took my bp at the end of the last paragraph and it was an exemplary 132/76, pulse 83. So long as I keep writing daily posts here I don’t see any need to do more than cut back on the booze.