Too much self-glorification: the finger-wagging grammarian, the over-competitive swimmer, the shrill polemicist. How about something ignoble? Let’s try varicose veins and their aftermath. One aftermath is support hose, otherwise elasticated stockings. Made in Switzerland, shaped precisely to fit the calf (to avoid pressure points), costing £36 a pair (but free on the NHS), they are alas essential. Devalved, the veins start acting as sumps, accumulating the blood and fatiguing the legs. Firm containment allows the wearer to walk round museums, the ultimate test. Such hose have been my constant companion since 1978.
They are and must be tight-fitting. When new they are hard to put on. For twenty minutes after a bath, when the skin’s coefficient of friction is mysteriously increased, they are impossible to put on. But there are worse situations. Off Diafani in the Dodecanese I swam early and afterwards needed to re-clad my legs for the rest of the day. But the temperature was in the thirties and my hose exertions caused me to sweat. I tugged to no avail. I needed talcum powder but none was available. The indignity of it all.
I inherited my veins from my dad who also passed on gout. I have blogged about the first op when the anaesthetist cocked things up and I woke up suffocating. The second op was in a day clinic, a quickie. No more surgery is possible.
Novel progress 16/4/10. Ch. 20: 2773 words. Chs. 1 - 19: 85,903 words. Comments: Hatch and Clare (in secret).
