goutman rises

Got out of bed and flinched.
Stood up to walk.
Nearly couldn't.
Uh oh, Jungo.
It looks like the superhero known as Goutman is back.
It's been two years since I was first diagnosed with gout.
Beginning of 2008.
I remember it like it was yesterday.
The mirth it provoked among my nearest and dearest was poignant in the extreme.
"You're like one of those British army Colonels," the Mammy had said gleefully.
"What British army Colonels?" I'd replied.
"You know, big red faced port drinking British army Colonels, the ones with gout," she'd crowed.
Such gems of wit encrust my life.
And people wonder why I scowl a lot.
At the time I'd considered the possibility that the gout might have been caused by my hatred for Muslim terrorists.
You know.
Had I somehow allowed the hatred to metastasise inside me into gout.
Medical opinion, courtesy of Doctor Barn, was that it had been caused by viewing ten hours of Star Trek a day, interspersed with a few Raymonds and Seinfelds, copious coffees, and three dinners.
I wasn't keen on the pharmaceutical companies solutions to gout, ie buy their chemical products and eat them forever.
So I intervened in my own life.
As Goutman I did a little crime fighting, sure.
But also changed my diet.
Took more exercise.
Tried not to hate Muslims so much as I hated the innate capacity of their culture to generate terrorism.
Soon the superhero known as Goutman went away.
I became mild mannered ex journalist Clark Kent once more.
I've taken no medication and yet have been symptom free for two years.
So what's brought it back?
Umm.
I've relapsed on some of the life style changes.
Yeah, got a bit more concerned about Muslim terror again too.
Plenty of vexatious stuff going round in my cranium.
Family estrangements.
Stress.
Could be any of it.
One thing I know.
Every difficulty is an opportunity to love God more.
Every affliction brings a particular gift.
That's two things.
Two things I know.
A surge of optimism takes me.
I hobble out of the old chateau and take a right turn down main street.
It is time to renew acquaintance with the local health food vendor.
As I struggle up the steps to my feminist cousin Pauline's natureopathy store, I am thinking: "Can it really be two years since I've seen Pauline?"
She watches me from the doorway with a roguish grin
Her greeting as I arrive at the top of the steps is the classic line: "Do you need any help up the steps?"
And then: "I knew you'd be back."
Hilarious no.
I go interior, seeking miraculous cures for gout.
Life is good.
Who knows what strange high spiritual progress I'll make in dealing with this.
And it'll be fun to be a superhero again.
Shuffling after bank robbers who can barely believe their nemesis could take this form. Dazzling damsels in distress with my slow rescues. Writing snotty letters to the press about the price of alfalfa beans.
It'll be great.
As I shuffle down the steps from Pauline's store, laden with cherry juice and basil leaves, I do believe I hear her singing.
She is singing: "Inch worm, inch worm, measuring the marigolds."
Cheeky.
Goutman don't get no respect.
A superhero is never respected in his home town.
But the Inch Worm song cannot be my calling card.
That will never do.
I'm gonna need a catchier theme.
I wonder would U2 write me something.
They did a nifty Batman a few years back.
I'll have to give Bonio a call.
One more thing gentle travellers of the internet.
Peace now.
Justice always.
Goutman forever.
That's three things.
Three more things.
But you know what I mean.