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A Sting in the Tale

A Sting in the Tale

In 2009 I decided to sell my  house in Les Rosiers sur Loire and move on to pastures new.

‘What’s that?’  The Estate Agent asked.  He was pointing at a wooden door, a foot square set in the wall of one of the five caves under my house. (and no, I didn't keep wine in all of them).  I opened it and out flew ‘things’.  I wasn’t sure if it was spores or insects but I brushed them away and closed it.

Later that evening I was trying to read but my face was itching, just under my left eye.  I rubbed it, and kept rubbing it.  (Lesson number one – don’t!)

The next morning I glanced in the mirror.  Quasimodo stared back.

Big swollen bags were hanging down my face.  My nose had doubled in size and there were angry, red sores below and beside my left eye.   I looked in the magnified mirror and confirmed it – I was hideous.

 I remembered the door and my itchy eye and was convinced that I had been stung by some strange creature lurking in the caves.   

I closed all the shutters.  Clearly I couldn’t let people see me. 

I grabbed the book on Home Remedies but my face was so sore and swollen I couldn’t wear my glasses.  This is when a magnifying glass would come in handy. Ice cubes, I thought, rushing to the freezer.  Why don’t I ever remember to fill the ice cube tray? I resorted to a washcloth soaked in cold water.

I looked in the mirror.  It was getting worse.

 My  friend the General phoned.  I told him what had happened.  He laughed. 

 During that first day I looked in the mirror 3,000 times.  Why?  Normally I may look twice in a whole day.  Why was I persecuting myself?

 I was bored.  I couldn’t read, I couldn’t watch television or do anything that entailed wearing glasses.  I vacuumed, I washed the floors, I even considered getting out the iron but that would have been a step too far. 

Someone rang the doorbell.  I kept quiet. I listened to the radio but couldn’t concentrate.

 I rang the doctor. ‘He’s not here today, he’s on strike.’  A GP on strike?

 The next morning at 8.00am I went to the doctor.  The day was warm but I had on a hat, a scarf and the collar turned up on my coat.  No-one in the waiting room, thank goodness.

‘Why were you on strike?’  I asked.  ‘More pay.’

 He didn’t ask why I was there.  Instead he said, ‘urghh’.  Yes - exactly.

 ‘I think I’ve been stung,’ I offered.  He stared at my face, keeping a good metre between us.

 ‘Does it burn?’ No, it itches.  ‘Does it hurt?’  No, it itches.  ‘C’est le zona.’  Le zona? I queried, unfamiliar with the word.  ‘Le zona’, he said emphatically.  ‘Take this prescription to the pharmacy.  Take the medicine, put on the cream and don’t touch anyone.’  No chance of that anyway.  ‘Come back in 7 days’.

 I went to the pharmacy praying not to meet anyone; impossible in a village.  Head down I hurried by.  No cheery smile, no stopping for the customary 2, 3, or even 4 kisses.  I was a woman on a mission – to get to the pharmacy and then home, unseen.

 Once home I held my glasses away from my face and grabbed the dictionary.  Le zona = shingles!  I took out the leaflets from the medicine boxes.  Anti-viral treatment for le zona.

I looked up shingles in the Home Remedy book.  ‘Shingles usually appears on the back or on the face and is always accompanied by pain.’

 Did I not tell the doctor that it doesn’t hurt?  Although totally unconvinced that I was suffering from shingles, I decided to use the cream anyway.  Anti-viral has to work, surely.

The next day I looked in the mirror.  Quasimodo with the plague stared back.

 Big red blotches covered my face.  I re-read the leaflet.  Side effects – if red marks appear after use, stop using immediately.

 I resorted to cold water flannels and dabbed on milk, purported to be a great healer according to my book.  After 7 days of climbing the walls with boredom and suffering from malnutrition, I decided to venture out.  I was beginning to look more or less normal so I stopped first at the doctor’s surgery, keen to show him that I did not have le zona.

 There was a note on the door. On strike.


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