Long-suffering bedwatchers will be dismayed to hear that I spoke too soon and am back on a course of antibiotics for my stomach. My old friend H Pylori, or possibly some relative thereof, might well have returned according to my doctor. Obviously there’ll be some basic human sympathy in that dismay, but I imagine a general feeling of ennui at the sheer
With any luck this will be a short, sharp shock: high, brief doses of antibiotics and no repeat prescriptions. I certainly don’t intend to be semi-dependent on the awful omeprazole again, and if this doesn’t work I’ll be happy to just take symptom management in future: for which read, Rennies. Certainly there’s no other indications of anything seriously, seriously wrong, so a couple of blood tests and some advice on my diet would make me a happier man than further medication.
Anyway, I started on the thumping quantities of amoxicillin, metronizadole and omeprazole this lunchtime and have just taken my second dose. Currently I feel dreadful—slight headache and wooziness, flushed face, odd taste in my mouth—but that might just be an encroaching hangover from last night’s excellent whisky tasting session. My last experience of Lady Liquor for two weeks, sadly: the doctor cautioned that drinking while on metronizadole would make me “feel like [I was] dying”, terminology which actually endeared her to me immensely.
At least the absence of drinking, and the diminishment of enjoying food (or indeed profiting calorifically from it, as my stomach shuts down for the duration) will help me adopt a lifestyle of post-festive detoxification. But, faced with tiny animals that drill into your gut, acid reflux, irritable bowel, a switched-off stomach and hot flashes… on the whole, I’d rather go to a spa.