This whole acid reflux malarkey is getting old now and I’m going to have to admit because of it that perhaps I am as well. Time was I could just run into brick walls. Last night I had a pint while I was watching the old men play fiddle. Didn’t think much about it. Pint of export strength lager on an empty stomach. Then I went and bought a hot Thai curry. “Make it Thai hot please.” They obliged. Pretty much the instant I finished the curry I climbed into bed and slept until 3am when I woke up more bilious than ever. I didn’t want to go back to sleep in case I ended up gargling myself to death so I say up and read until it was time to feed Tessy. Since then I just went about my day in a kind of vague sleepy miasma, occasionally belching. Lou had honey and chamomile tea, which helped, and little turmeric and ginger pills which I pilfered. Gaviscon is too much of a mask now this is a regular affliction. And with the context of last night, I can’t fool myself that it is anything other than the fault of my proclivities. Time, it seems, to adjust things.
Not eating rich food and spicy food washed down with meat and ale, you say? Very well, doctor. How about this Guinea Fowl? No? Hmm.
I went to Café Rust, where I am often to be found over my morning cheese and death plate. I unwillingly ordered myself a granola. Yogurt and fruit and grains. Oh my. I didn’t want a coffee. Wasn’t sure it would stay down.
Lunch was a sweet potato pie with peas and mash. Nothing challenging there. It went down without too much comment. Lou got back to Brighton at 8 and we met at Pompoko. It’s a little cash only family ramen place. I just had a three blandest rice bowl I could find, with chicken on it.
The next year is going to be an adventure as I look after my angry belly by learning how to sustain myself without ingesting lit matches and bat heads of a Tuesday. Anything new is an adventure and abstention is just as much a choice as indulgence, with just as many experiences attached to it. If I’m serious about outliving my dear departed mother and her brother, the next few years will be crucial. I’m not necking vodka out of the bottle, sure. But I’ve got loads still to do. Tristan’s grandad just hit 100. He’s an actor. There’s hope for us all. But I always said I’d ease off at fifty and instead I got sad and started overeating and having silly empty tummy beers.
AlBarclay 