goutman returns

Morning with the beautiful chermopodist.
"You'll never do it James."
"I think I will."
"No. Not you. You'll never give up coffee."
"It's already done."
"Be realistic. Try cutting it down first."
"Listen, if this thing is a lifestyle disease, then I'm going to make the changes I need to make. If it's a choice between coffee or being hooked on a pharmaceutical product for life I think I can do without the coffee thank you very much. If it's a choice between using a little willpower or giving cash to pharmaceutical company swines whose whole business model for human health involves convincing people they have no free will or that they're mentally sick when they're not or that their kids need to be permanently sedated, when what the people really need to do is face their fears and talk to God and learn to live again, and what the kids really need is love and guidance and less television, if it's coffee or financing low life corporate drug selling humanity manipulating gits, well, no more coffee for this greatest living poet. You just watch me baby."
The beautiful chermop raised her eyebrows eyebrow raisingly.
She hadn't expected a party political broadcast on behalf of the Loon Party.
"You're a terrible man," quoth she.
"Ain't it the truth," I replied.
We parted merrily enough.
Something about a 500 quid bet I wouldn't stay off coffee for a week ringing in my ears.
Newbridge was bustling in a warm March sun.
I sat at the riverbank for a few minutes watching the whirling eddies and rodneys drift by.
Then I headed into the Whitewater Centre for a quick coffee with the Malteaser.
I drank it as if coffee beans wouldn't melt in my mouth.
During a particularly tender moment the Malteaser pressed a list into my hand.
"What's this?"
"Recommended diet for gout sufferers."
Gabbi works in insurance but apparently much of her day is filled dealing with claims relating to gout.
I read the list.
It was short but more extensive than I wanted.
The Gabbi diet ran thusly:
"Cut out soft drinks, sugar, salt, gravy, fried meals, and beef; Eat lean meat, vegetables, nuts, fruit, bananas, and oranges in moderation; Exercise with a forty minute walk at least three times a week."
I favoured Gabbi with my famous Paddington bear stare.
"This isn't just because I said Tom Hanks is a terrorist loving traitor and that Charlie Wilson's War is a heap of tosh?"
"No," sez she sweetly, "it's because I want you to get better."
We parted merrily enough.
Although I thought I could hear funeral music.
Lunch with Giovanna Rampazzo the Italian film producer.
The coffee was delicious.
"You don't look like you should have gout," she mused.
"Why? What do gout sufferers look like?"
"I'd expect them to be fat."
"I have a bit of a belly."
"Boh," says Giovanna, "men always have bellies."
I found this remark thoroughly Italian and thoroughly charming. Giovanna meanwhile, like Gabbi, now began making tentative moves towards advising me to exercise. Gabbi had slipped hers in at the end of her list. For Giovanna exercise was the opening gambit.
"Is there anything involving physical movement that you enjoy?" she enquired diplomatically.
"No."
"Swimming, dancing, walking?"
"No."
"How about skipping?"
"I suppose I could give it a try." (Like a man walking to the gallows.)
We parted merrily etc etc.
I collected the lady known as Lil from cards and we drove into Kilcullen. I wanted to make a few purchases at Mannah, the fresh food shop run by my feminist cousin Pauline.
She at least would treat my medical condition with the tact and sympathy such things require.
I pulled up to the kerb.
"What are stopping here for?" sez the Mammy round eyed. "You never go in here."
"People keep advising me that fresh food is good for gout," quoth I. "The processed stuff is off the menu from now on. I guess it's time to swallow some lentils. And er pride."
"Do you really think Pauline's stuff is fresh?" grinned the Mammy. "Why on earth would you think that?"
"It's supposed to be," sez I. "Farm fresh. The clue is in the title. Straight from the farm."
"Not at all," sez the Mammy. "She flies it in from France.
A chuckling Mammy waited in the car while I entered the Manna store.
Pauline was as good as gold when I laid out the details.
A slightly overlong peal of laughter and an oblique reference to Uncle Philmore.
Otherwise I couldn't fault her.
"Anyway Cousin, whatever you can suggest in the health food line, that's what I need. I'm going to be a regular customer from now on."
And somewhere the ghost of Annie Dillard was intoning in a voice not unlike Darth Vader's: "The circle is now complete."
I rejoined the Mammy in the car.
Laden with nuts, berries, cherry juice (Pauline says cherry juice is the magic bullet for gout) and so on.
"What now?" wondered the aged P.
"Let's go for coffee," sez I.
Ah yes bold readers.
Truth now.
Justice always.
Goutman forever.