J P Disastre's "Nausea"

 I'm unwell. And not my usual sort of unwell. Often I have sore feet and legs because of my many, many historical injuries. Sometimes, though rarely, I have a hangover. Four times in the last two years I've had food poisoning, which was odd, as I'd never, ever had food poisoning before. But I put that down to compromised immunity owing to not being near any other people for two years through the lock-down. Boris Johnson has never had food poisoning in his life. See how he retains his food - it's obvious.  

My friend Liz told me yesterday that every time I see her I have "some sort of ailment", which I don't think is true, but okay. Maybe I'm a massive hypochondriac, self-diagnosing from the internet a series of obscure illnesses from ancient medical journals. Could I have "Rising of the lights", or "elf locks"? I might be a bit old for "The Green Sickness", and equipped with inappropriate genitals. But I don't think I do this. I'm a bit fat and I drink too much, but mostly I'm in half decent shape for a man of bulgingly ripe maturity. 

But I am unwell. I'm unwell enough to want to see a doctor, not something I've done since I broke my thumb tripping over my own feet on my way back from the optician's, maybe six years ago. I've had a headache for four days. It manifests as a dull ache at the base of my skull, in my neck and left shoulder. There is also pressure on my left eye, which is quite red and for a couple of days I appeared to be squinting. I had slightly blurring vision at first but now it's okay. The first day I had it, the headache was very bad, I was noticeably pale and nauseous. I had a sore throat and toothache. It has got better every day since, but still, on day four, I'm not quite "right". The eye-clamping has abated, my left eye seems normal, and most of the pain is at the back of my skull and the neck.  At no point did I have slurred speech, and my temperature and blood pressure are normal. 

It's probably a tension headache. I've been quite stressed. 

Still, a headache for four days is a long time, so I'm going to see a doctor. Or at least speak to one, the practice now is to ring the surgery at eight in the morning, wait for the receptionist to answer, describe your symptoms to her, give her your phone number and then, at some point, the doctor will phone me and either want to see me or, more likely send me off to A & E for a brain scan or, less likely, tell me its nothing and I'm fine, even though I'd really like that one. What the doctor will definitely say is that I'm too fat and I should drink less. They'll be able to tell just over the phone. I've got fat, boozy vocal chords. 

I really hope it's nothing. Obviously, I'd like it to be nothing. Sickness is a massive hassle. It takes time and resilience and being a good boy, none of which are my strong suits. I really hope it isn't fatal, though your brain can just pop one day, and then you're gone. There could be some preexisting brain-bleed I know nothing about, just biding it's time, waiting to switch me off. I'm already wary of the toilet - I don't want to go out like The King. Somebody told me last night that fifty to fifty five is a known "danger zone" for middle-aged men. Great. I don't want to suddenly, and after all this time, become statistically relevant.