Getting to the Bottom of Things

 Today I made my third visit to the consulting rooms of Dr K. Purushothaman, the retired former dean of Thanjavur Medical College, now in private practice in the nearby village of Kulithalai. He must be good, because he has enough letters in and after his name to make two triple word scores. His letter-heading makes him look almost as qualified as a piano teacher (- they always appear to have a cluster of acronyms!)

I don’t have a temperature, nor any aches and pains; my blood-pressure is normal for my stature, and my pulse is steady. It’s just this darned Cellulitis that I picked up in July. My foot is swollen, and my lower calf is swollen and blistered. Since I am wearing shorts and sandals most of the time, my vanity drove me to the consult the most qualified local quack. 

I really did not want any more antibiotics in my system. The Ayurvedic doctor at Mattindia had already told me it would be 3-6 months before my body was clear of the penicillin that I had been taking thrice daily for 16 weeks from July to November under the NHS in Lincoln. My present condition now seemed to be deteriorating, and since the mild tablets that Doctor Scrabble-man had prescribed seemed to be having little effect, I had to trust his professional opinion on the matter.  Reluctantly I bowed to his superior acronyms. He explained that I would have to take the prescription to the local pharmacy as he was not licensed to carry stocks of penicillin. One of the nurses explained the address to my rickshaw driver, and I set off to pick up the prescription with which I have to return, tomorrow, for him to administer.

The pharmacy had endless rows of cupboards and shelves, stocking not only pills and potions but also, confusingly, a wide variety of biscuits, crisps and other snacks. The assistant studied the note from Dr P. and came back with a tiny bottle of milky-coloured liquid and a phial of what looked like water. When I asked what that was, I was told it was “for mixing.” My confusion evaporated when she then brought a plastic bag containing a sterile syringe with what looked like a plastic nozzle. Oh dear, I deduced that the penicillin was not going to be injected into my arm: it was to be squirted into the orifice the French and Italians seem to like using for delivering medication. But I was wrong when it came to my doctor’s appointment next day. What I had thought was a plastic nozzle was in fact only the protective cover on the needle. It went into my rump with a sharp pain, and the doctor warned me it would soon start to ache.

Another new experience was the Post Office, and there was a red pillar box outside to make me feel at home. With my descendants scattered around England, the Netherlands, Hong Kong, Canada and America, I always try to send postcards when I travel. This is made more difficult since the arrival of the internet has dramatically reduced the availability of postcards in many countries to say nothing of soaring postage costs. However, I have noticed that in both Hong Kong and India, the postal rates for postcards have been kept low, as a convenient and inexpensive way to promote tourism. Since the counter stocked only low-value stamps, I was despatched to a writing shelf with an entire sheet of stamps to tear up and adhere in little strips across the top of the cards, partly obscuring my well-meaning greetings.

And do you know what? In India there is a very small plastic bowl containing a damp sponge, so you don’t have to lick the stamps . . . just like back home.

Finally, a shopping bag with an important message!