Speaking of cannibals

On seeing the Queen for the first time, Hilary Mantel wrote:

“I passed my eyes over her as a cannibal views his dinner, my gaze sharp enough to pick the meat off her bones. I felt that such was the force of my devouring curiosity that the party had dematerialised and the walls melted and there were only two of us in the vast room…And I felt sorry then. I wanted to apologise. I wanted to say: it’s nothing personal, it’s monarchy I’m staring at.”

 It sounds bizarre. The only parallel experience I can relate to – until very recently – was when I saw the Rolling Stones perform in the 1970’s. We were only three feet away from the stage. They were late. The hall went pitch black. Suddenly they were standing before us, floodlight and silent. And yes, my eyes (as the promoters intended) devoured them cannibalistically. Along with ten thousand other eyes eager to feed. So these things happen. Hilary made sense. 

And it made sense in a more personal way when I was forced to visit the doctor and I was devoured. This doctor is a lean man who looks a little like the actor Peter Capaldi. He stared at me, hungrily, it seemed, devouring every word I said, each hesitation, every moment of silence. I felt like an actor rehearsing his part, a soul before judgement recounting its life.

It had been easier the previous week. Easier still the week before that - before the pain began, and I was forced to make an appointment. 

As a fully paid up member of the ‘worried well’ I had checked up online and arrived at the surgery self-diagnosed but willing to let the Duty Nurse speak first. It seemed only fair. She threw the ball in my court. “What do you think it is?” she asked. I hesitated so as not to show arrogance. “Sciatica…perhaps…?” 

“No, it’s lumbago,” she said. “Most definitely lumbago.”

I was so relieved. My pain had a name. More, I got painkillers. 

The pain was manageable during the day. Mine was nocturnal, a fox in the buttocks gnawing its way into my lower vertebrae. An hour’s sleep if lucky, then downstairs wedged between strategically placed cushions watching appalling TV. Sometimes I paced the room, filling in time, and realising the Gestapo would have had a fairly easy time interrogating me. I’d have handed them the D.Day plans on plate in exchange for a triple strength codeine and a hip flask of laudanum.

As it was my painkillers were coming to an end and a repeat visit to the surgery was called for – along with a repeat prescription.

 “See the doctor,” my wife urged. “Not the Duty Nurse.”

“She’s very good,” I said. “She saw it at once – lumbago.”

“Hmm.”

I saw the doctor, and it was him staring at me like a Hilary Mantel cannibal. “Lumbago,” he said.

Ha! I thought. Lumbago endorsed. And then something made me say it - a minor thing that had erupted five day’s earlier – insignificant in terms of the blade gouging through my vertebrae. “I have a rash, bit itchy, bit unpleasant.”

His manner changed when he saw it, his expression more triumphant than devouring. “I should have seen that earlier,” he said. There was respect in his voice as though I had something infinitely more interesting than Lumbago. “Shingles,” he said. “You have shingles. The rash always comes later.”

I felt better, too. Lumbago was an old man’s disease in my eyes, something associated with whiskery Victorians when they weren’t having gout. Shingles is sexy. More C21st.

And not only that he gave me more pain-killers and Anti-inflammatory capsules (with some horrible potential side-effects but I won’t go into that since they haven’t occurred yet) 

And now I feel great. I sleep at nights. I snore with joy and abandon. And dream of cannibals. 


PS Bad things happen and then go away. I just had nothing else to write about this week.