Boils law

Whatever happened to boils? Nobody seems to get them any more. When I was a lad everybody had boils – well, that’s an exaggeration, but there were a lot of them about.

People seemed to get them mostly on the back of the neck, which, I suppose, was very painful if you had to wear a collar and tie.

As far as I remember, they were treated with ‘mustard plasters’ (whatever they were; some sort of poultice? I haven’t heard of those lately, either. Perhaps when the affliction disappeared, so did the treatment).

I imagine penicillin had a lot to do with it: the disappearance of boils – and carbuncles, you never hear of those nowadays. They were worse, as I understand: my dictionary defines a boil as: an inflamed pus-filled swelling on the skin, whereas a carbuncle is a severe abscess or multiple boil in the skin.

I don’t know why I woke up (in my room at Number 6, Cloister Walks) thinking about boils. But there you are. You are there, aren’t you?

I have a pleasant room overlooking the ASDA car park. It has a double bed, bedside cabinet, wardrobe, chest of drawers and a small armchair. Oh and of course it has its own tiny bathroom: lavatory, washbasin and shower. I think it is so important to have one’s own facilities.

Yesterday afternoon, Gwen, my landlady, asked me it I would take a look at her waste pipe; it has been smelling a bit in this hot weather. (I had noticed but hadn’t liked to say). I readily agreed and, although I am no plumber, ten minutes vigorous application of a broom handle cleared the blockage.

She was so grateful. She lit a cigarette and invited me to sit down at the kitchen table and partake of a glass of gin. I don’t normally drink until the sun has gone below the yard-arm (my old naval days coming back there), but decided I would make an exception as I felt I deserved a drink after my exertions.

She began to confide in me as she refilled our glasses. It turns out that she is not a widow – her husband disappeared on a holiday in Thailand, some ten years ago. She doesn’t know whether she ought to report him missing. What did I think? I said that I had read a statistic somewhere that thirty five thousand people are reported missing in Britain every year, and a third of those are never found. I said I imagined it was pretty much the same for Thailand. She said she wouldn’t bother then.

Although she did confidde how much she misses sharing her bed, having someone to hold onto in the long winter nights.

I excused myself, as I had to take my library books back. I have been reading a thriller called ‘Flesh and Blood’; I don’t normally read thrillers but sometimes you need a bit of escapism. I am also taking back a book of short stories by Jeffrey Deaver: 'Twisted'. I’ve only read three; they’re clever, but a bit too contrived for my liking.


Isn’t life strange?

Do you ever wonder how you came to be where you are today? I do. And do you try to unravel the threads of your own Bayeux tapestry. And if you could do so, would you re-embroider a different story?


Life is like water: it will find its own level. (I am not quite sure what I meant by that but I somehow know it is profound).