The 3rd day of Cheesemas

It doesn’t take a lot of good living to feel a bit gouty. 

I’ve woken up this morning feeling not quite myself. Bloated and grumpy, with a furry tongue and a fuzzy head.  I checked Twitter and the trending subjects were #deathto2020 #snow and #Julia. 

It’s never going to help if your name is trending. 

I looked out of the window.

“Hurumph! The snow must be in Birmingham or somewhere. We don’t even get the good hashtags!”

The Long Suffering Husband pulled the duvet over his head. Wise man. 

I watched Charlie Brooker’s Death to 2020 yesterday. It’s like a more depressing version of his Wipe, covering the UK and America. It’s genius but has probably contributed to my gouty mood.

My grandad got gouty just after Christmas. He loved life and would be great at the Christmas party, drinking my dad under the table and fiddling the Monopoly game in a way that got my uncle accused of cheating by my stickler neighbour. He caught me noticing what he had done and smiled, eyes twinkling and showing his bad teeth before switching to a deadly serious look and pressing the lump of yellow Araldite that fixed his glasses together. Sliding his spectacles back up his nose became an unwritten sign of secrecy between us. I thought he was old but he must have been in his early fifties. 

A few days later we got a phone call. Mum looked worried and we all bundled into the car to make the journey that was just long enough to require a stop for me to be sick. (I’ve never travelled well). We stopped at a lay-by next to the heathland that is probably office blocks and flats now and mum bought some roadside flowers to cheer my Nan up.

When we arrived my Nan came to the door.

“He’s very grumpy,” she told my mum. “It’s very painful but the doctor said that it’s entirely self-inflicted. Too much good living.” With that she gave her trademark sniff that we all laughed at and turned on her heel. 

Grandad was sitting in the middle of the room in his favourite comfy chair. The fire was blazing and the room was so hot it was difficult to breathe. Grandad had one leg propped up on a kitchen chair and his foot was bandaged up. 

“Gout!” He declared. “Don’t touch. Keep the kids out!” 

This was a shock. The first time he hadn’t been thrilled to see us. 

So, on the third day of Cheesemas, in an attempt to feel more heathy I’m going to make a spinach soup and crumble the blue cheese into it.