Just call me Goutier (sic)

It’s been a dreadful week in the markets. The tourist season is supposedly upon us, the cave is full and the bank balance at rock bottom as a result of all the wine we've purchased. Yet in Lourmarin on Friday we hardly sold anything, and so, desperate for cash flow we prepared to make a one off visit to Apt on Saturday.

We set the alarm, went to bed early and at first light I stretched out in bed only to feel a throbbing pain in my foot. I quickly rehearsed the previous day in my mind . I hadn’t bumped into anything or stubbed my foot accidentally loading and unloading for the markets. Was it possible I’d kicked out in the night and badly bruised my big toe? I shifted my position and the weight of the moving duvet cover made me wince. Only a super powered karate kick could do this much damage, and anyway what sort of crazed dream would make me lash out at the wall? I stumbled from bed to load the wine into the car and immediately fell back onto the mattress in agony.

Instead of a market I spent most of Saturday with my foot up and a glass of rose in my hand bemoaning my misfortune. By early evening if possible the swelling had increased. I barely slept on Saturday night. On Sunday we missed Ansouis market and on Monday morning I hobbled through Lourmarin to the Doctor.

Easing myself onto the couch, I explained I thought I had an infection. The Doctor took one look. He barely even examined the affected area and he asked with something approaching glee:

“Do you like good wine?”

I nodded my head, enjoying the sympathetic repartie.

“And plenty of charcuterie?”

Another nod, another understanding smile from the Doctor.

“And of course the blue cheese?”

Well, I might be English but I am as partial to Roquefort as a native.

Clapping his hands together and helping me down the Doctor pronounced his verdict.“C’est un crise de gout” he proclaimed, beaming as he wrote out the prescription, reciting the complicated dosage as if he did it at least five times a day. As I left he vigorously shook my hand. If only there had been a prize for the best patient of the day, I am sure I would have won.

I limped into the Pharmacy and was greeted with garlands. “Take a seat Monsieur, put your foot up Monsieur and we’ll get the prescription right away.”

It was the same in the village. I’d never had an illness that drew so much sympathy before. As I made my way back to the car, people patted me on the back and wished me “Bon Courage.” A free baguette and some goats cheese was even pressed into my hand by a well wisher.

Back home I explained the strange reaction to Tanya. In England gout sufferers are afforded little consideration. The illness might be painful but it’s seen as self inflicted. Why the difference?

“Blue cheese, wine, charcuterie,” said Tanya “you’ve caught the French equivalent of the common cold. ”

It was all becoming clear. Every man in the village had doubtless suffered un crise de gout. My limp had probably been instantly diagnosed by everyone within a hundred metres. It was almost a badge of honour. I wanted to protest that all I’d been drinking was a little rose and that my blue cheese intake was very limited, but Tanya wasn’t having any of it.

“You’re an honorary Frenchman now, I shall call you Goutier (sic)”