Warts and Wisdom

I recently had a lumpy growth on my ankle. It looked exactly like the ‘wisdom’ wart I’d had on my head a few years ago. Clearly I’m getting wiser as I get wider. I had the wisdom to have that ugly bugger sliced off.

So off I went again to the doc. She said,

Looks like a wart to me but best get it checked out.

I got a call from the local hospital the next day and a few days on, I was flashing my warty ankle at the dermatology top dog. He said,

Looks like a wart to me but best get it sliced off.

A week later I was flashing my warty ankle at the dermatology underling for the slicing. She said,

‘Looks like a wart to me but best get it to the lab.’

I felt rather guilty as I hobbled aboard the bus taking me home. Not to put too finer point on it, the National Health Service is facing a number of difficult challenges right now. The care I received was fast and faultless but just a bit over the top for a simple wart. But what did I know?

Two weeks later, I received a letter.

The shave excision from your right foot showed a slow growing type of skin cancer known as basal cell carcinoma*.

So. I’m not so wise after all. And it turns out I need a bit more dug out. At this rate I’ll be hobbling all the way back to Bodrum.

*Basal cell carcinoma is a non-melanoma type of skin cancer that rarely spreads and is easily treatable. It’s probably the result of me prancing about barefoot and barely clothed in the Far East during the sixties. Serves me right, I suppose. Had a fabulous tan though.

Postcards from Gran Canaria

Gran Canaria was just what the quack ordered. We bonked, drank, slept, drank, ate, drank, swam, drank. You get the picture. We also giggled more than we’d done in ages – at ourselves and at the exhibits around us. Here are the postcards never sent.

The Barbarian Hordes

Few would describe Gran Canaria as pretty. The volcanic rock moored off the coast of Africa gets little rain and looks like an overbaked chocolate biscuit from the air. Closer up, it’s like a giant quarry on a tea break. Nevertheless, year-round sunshine, cheap booze and even cheaper fags (of both the smoking and shagging varieties) attract the northern tribes of Europe, all in desperate need of vitamin D. Our billet for the week is a welcome oasis set among the concrete with well-tended gardens, attentive staff and a refreshing salt water pool. The only fly in the sun lotion is the scarcity of parasols. This isn’t especially helpful as we’ve landed in a heatwave and are fairly keen to avoid third degree burns. Our continental cousins are notorious for reserving their sunbeds at the stroke of midnight so, to inject some fairness, our Spanish hosts stack and chain up (yes, chain up) the sunbeds overnight. Come dawn, it’s like feeding time on the Serengeti, a daily spectacle we witness from the safety of our terrace. We’ve decided not to play. Just like Brexit.

Moobs and Boobs

Our fellow sun seekers are a mixed bunch – Dutch, Germans, Austrians, Irish and Brits, but almost without exception, they have one thing in common: fat. Acres of it. Europe has an obesity crisis. We eat too much and move too little (me included). And the more mature ladies do love to let it all hang down. Who says a burkini is such a bad thing? Not me. Their menfolk are no better, wobbling to the bar, moobs a-swinging. It ain’t a pretty sight. Rest assured, I only take my top off when I’m prostrate.

An exception to the pageant of lard-arses and bingo wings is an elderly German who is in remarkably good shape and wears the tightest of trunks. He swings low in an entirely different place. We call him Melonballs. His pool pal is a round, leather-skinned hausfrau with the gravelly voice of a 40 a day habit and hair like a cockatoo. Funny really. We’re sure Melonballs is the one who’s had a cock or two.

Liam in Gran Canaria

Windbags and Wankers

All over Europe there’s a certain kind of man of a certain kind of age who is loud, opinionated and stupid. It’s our misfortune to be trapped with a classic specimen, an Austrian wanker who has cornered every Brit round the pool and lectured them on the dire consequences of Brexit (for them, of course). He’s no better than that old windbag Jean-Claude Juncker, president of the European Commission, whose pompous utterings nearly made me vote to leave the EU. The Austrian bore got short shrift from me. We call him Franz Ferdinand and are praying someone will shoot him. Not literally, you understand, but you get my drift.

Suck It and See

Being four floors up a converted Victorian warehouse means, with the exception of the occasional determined housefly or misguided bee, we’re rarely troubled by high-flying bugs. But the other day a lone mosquito came into land just inches from my line of sight. We eyed each other up for while to see who would blink first. The feeble little Brit-bug had no idea who he was dealing with. During our Turkish days, squadrons of stealthy mozzies dive-bombed dinner parties and bled us dry during our sleep. But gradually over four years, our leathery old hides developed welt-resisting immunity. The ugly sucker staring back at me was no match for its voracious Aegean cousins. So I extended my arm and said,

Go on then, suck it and see.

Now bug off.

A Pain in the Arse

You know you’re getting long in the tooth when you’re regularly called in by the quack to check for a pulse. The latest invitation dropping onto the mat was for bowel cancer screening. Apparently, there’s a national programme to screen everyone over the age of 55. My invitation came with an evening appointment and a handy little leaflet written in plain English even I can understand.

Of course, I’m ever grateful my inescapable slide towards the slab is being carefully monitored by the white coat crew. I strongly suspect, however, they’d be less conscientious if I fessed up to my persistent alcohol dependency.

I won’t go into the precise nature of the procedure I’m about to endure. Suffice it to say, it’ll be a pain in the arse.

Short and Curlies

My fifties are my contented years. Happy in life and at home, my banner waving days are behind me and I’m resigned to the advent of liver spots and erectile dysfunction disguised by the haze of creeping alcohol dependence. Apparently, there is a growing national problem with over-drinking by older people, or so say the health police. I’d say that’s the least of our worries. The real issue is the shrinking band of underpaid carers struggling to cope with a growing grey herd put out to pasture. Now, that’s something to leave a nasty taste in the mouth. I might just have to drink through the whole crisis.

One of the least attractive aspects of growing old is daily moulting – and not just from the head. To be frank, I’ve always kept my borders well manicured but hardly a day goes by without the bathroom being overwhelmed by tumbleweeds of short and curlies drifting around the floor. So, I’ve invested in a nifty little hand-held vacuum cleaner to suck up the hairy debris. It makes short work of the problem though I do have to get down on my knees to do the job. Let’s face it. One day I won’t be able to get back up again.

In the meantime, make mine a large one.

So This is Christmas and What Have You Done?

We all know Christmas is big for business so Christmas ads must be big too. John Lewis, that bellwether of the British high street, usually leads the pack. Its lavish TV offerings rarely fail to tug at the heart strings or loosen the purse, and this year is no different with a theme centred round the loneliness of old age. Like I need reminding that, childless as we are, our incontinent years might be a little bit crap. John Lewis has been criticised for spending so much on a TV campaign when they could have donated to charity instead. I’m all for bashing the corporate world for not paying their dues and not doing their bit. But in this case, the reproach is a tad misplaced. The campaign is supported by Age UK and has resulted in thousands of extra volunteers for the festive period. Besides, it’s our collective responsibility to care for the vulnerable, not a shop’s.

We also know Christmas is all about over-excited kids brainwashed into wanting bigger and better, faster and flashier. It’s all down to cynical marketing and playground peer pressure: pester-power is the biggest bang in the advertiser’s armoury. Or is it?

The moral of my story? Spend more time with your kids and spare a thought for the two old fairies at the bottom of the garden.

With thanks to John Lennon for the title of this post.

Farty Pants

To (badly) quote the glorious Victoria Wood, you know you’re getting old when you walk past a shop window displaying a pair of Scholl sandals and think to yourself Ooh, they look comfy. I had a similar revelation when I was thumbing through an Independent on Sunday glossy supplement and came across an advert for flatulence filtering underwear called Shreddies. And there was me thinking breakfast cereal made from wholegrain wheat. But then too much bran can brew a lusty whiff, so perhaps that’s the association. And while we’re on the subject of our grey days, why are the models advertising a product obviously targeted at the winking-sphincter brigade, young and lithe with rings of steel?

D.I.V.O.R.C.E

I suppose it was inevitable. First we had the ‘marriages’ swiftly followed by the ‘divorces’. I was recently catching up on Faceache and up popped an advert for civil partnership divorce on my side bar. Far be it for me to suggest that unhappy couples should stay together for the sake of the overpriced loft conversion or to save the breakup of the matching Louis Vuitton luggage set. Divorce is a fact of modern life (though I read rates are dropping as couples marry later and stay together longer). Over the last century, falling mortality rates have completely altered the concept of ‘til death us do part. In 1912, life expectancy for men was only around 52 and for women, around 55. Even though women could expect to live a little longer, some still died in child birth and second marriages for widowers were usual. Today, life expectancy has soared to 78 for men and 83 for women. Saying ‘I do’ at 23 and still feeling the love 60 years later? What are the odds? Or am I being a tad cynical?

Back to the advert. As Faceache knows everything there is to know about my vices and habits, from my inside leg measurement (barely functioning) and taste in men (breathing) to my favourite fragrance (Charlie) and my tipple of choice (meths), I assume they match their ads to my consumer profile. Is there something I’m not being told?

Perking the Pansies

Jack Scott's random ramblings

Category: Ageing

Warts and Wisdom