goutman rising

Evening in the kitchen at the Chateau de Healy.
Just me and Doctor Barn.
One of the Dad's friends has recently been diagnosed with gout.
The Doc has been recommending a course of treatment.
As some of you are aware, I am the super hero formerly known as Goutman.
I know a thing or two about gout.
I cannot understand why people don't come to me for treatment.
Tonight I am pooh poohing the medical approach as is my wont, in favour of a strange mix of cherry juice, salt water foot baths, sugar free tea, brisk morning walks, and throwing cats over an unmarked grave at midnight.
(The cat one is for warts. - Barry Egan note.)
It's a strange mix folks because I don't even stick to it myself.
(Except for the cats. - Arf Arf note.)
"You guys," I tell Doctor Barn, "are rushing to put the chap on some pharmaceutical product. I cured my gout simply by making a few life style choices."
My brother allows himself a whimsical little chuckle.
"There's a touch of hubris about this Heelers," says the not so good Doctor. "You cured your gout, indeed. If I had a penny for every time I've heard that."
"You think it's going to come back?" sez I.
Daktari gives his darkest smile.
"I think you're going down," he intones.
It sounds just like a gypsy curse.
Before I can respond with some suitably defiant remark, Business woman Nessa Dunlea enters stage left.
She is a friend of my mothers.
A dark presentiment crosses my mind.
"Hello Nessa," quoth me, "you're not playing Bridge here tonight are you?"
Nessa responds with a warm affirmative.
My pallor whitens.
"You needn't worry," she adds. "After the last time when we kicked you out of the kitchen and you wrote about us on your blog, we decided to play from now on in the other room."
She leaves us in search of card players.
The noble Heelers' handsome preraphaelite jaw sags handsomely.
He turns to his brother.
"The TV room," I murmur aghast. "They're abandoning the kitchen and taking over the TV room. Why, it's.. it's... it's unholy."
The Doctor has little sympathy.
His concerns in life do not relate to missing the best ever episode of Star Trek Next Generation.
(The one where a hologram of the Sherlock Holmes villain Moriarity comes alive. - Jean Luc Picard note.)
The Doc has more down to earth concerns.
He departs from the Chateau de Healy to spend some quality time with his wife and wee Doctor Bairns.
I am alone in the kitchen.
Presently the laughter of card women rises up from the adjoining TV room.
I stick my head around the door for old time's sake.
No point in letting them have it all their own way.
"Don't mind me," I tell em. "I'm just coming in to watch a few porn movies. You can keep playing your game. I won't disturb you. But if it looks like I'm getting a bit excited, try to keep your eyes on the cards."
They reply with a range of stimulating and provocative comments which will never be published unless they set up blogs of their own.
I close the door on them gently and call Paddy Pup for his night walk.
If you had seen me at the moment gentle travellers of the internet you might have thought me an oddly gallant faintly heroic figure.
The last poet superhero.
A man always at odds with the modern world and forever in defiance of it.
I stand framed in the front doorway looking at the rain sleeting through the darkness.
Justice now.
Truth always.
Goutman forever.