Do you know what's the worst thing about having a stroke. I don't mean, absolutely, I've been very fortunate, but for me, on a personal level. It's not the drugs you take; it's not being barred from topping up the nicotine level; it's not being able to go on a 'bender' now and again; it's not even speaking like a spastic. No, it's.....
NO FAT!
(Apologies to sufferers of Cerebral Palsy. It's what you used to be called (even the charity was called the 'Spastics Society' before they changed their name to 'Scope' [whatever that means, except the marketing executive got paid muchos ackers to come up with it], and it's not really very nice, but I can think of no other way to describe it. Incoherent, incompetent, orally challenged; none of them will do. Spastic is the RIGHT word.)
'You've got to get your cholestrol level below 4, preferably below 3.5'.
'But it's only 5.4. I know people who are 9.5. 12.6! And they're OK.'
'Ah, but they've not had a stroke!' (Sounds vaguely risque, don't you think? High cholesterol is dangerous if you've had a stroke. So long as there's not a glimmer of a stroke in your life, high cholesterol is OK? [Ah hell, I know it isn't but I've no mind to put a reasoned argumant down right now - just go with the flow] But if you've had a stroke.....or perhaps a raking of the fingernails down your back....or maybe a gentle toe massage...that fingertip running along the inside of your thigh... then 5.4 is way too high! [I can jest, I've had one, remember. And besides, you've got to laugh; life is too short! And, probably in my case, even shorter than usual!])
'But you've no idea what it's doing to me!'
I used to dream of soft, nubile, young women; adventurous nymphomaniacs avid for 'Kama Sutra II - Die Harder!' Cute little turned up noses; pert, apple breasts with just a hint of a little paunch. Tight, firm buttocks and long legs that ended with the most delicate ankles. Toes that would capture the heart of a piece of coal! Enveloped in raspberry sauce.
And now?
Now all I can dream of is alligator, pan fried in garlic butter; tiramisu with double cream; lambs liver, flash fried in thin strips in yet more butter with paprika and red wine; pork crackling; asparagus with hollandaise; strawberry trifle. Do you have any idea what it is like to wake, seduced by a night-time reverie of roast potatoes in goose fat, suet pudding with black cherry jam, spaghetti carbonara (the real one), do you? You are doing this for my health, so I'll live longer. So I'll be like an able bodied man, not a semi paralysed cripple. But what is my life without fat! When all you have to look forward to is yet more fish, yet more chicken (without paprika butter). There's only so much broccoli (and even pheasant) that a man can take. Give me fat and give it me NOW!!
Let me wake up, just once God, please, and feel the grease dribble down my chin. Just let me please wake up to the smell of the goose breast in the oven. Hell, I'd be willing to settle for a mere whiff, let alone taste, of extra mature cheddar, stilton, Roquefort cheese, of garlic salami, of Lincolnshire Pork sausages. Let me savour the crisp skin of a roasted duck. Let me taste the joy in a cup of black coffee and a chocolate croissant for breakfast instead of unsweetened muesli and fruit juice (milk is verboten unless it is of the so skimmed that 'it tastes like water, because it is' variety). Hell, you even banned tabasco. How the hell are you supposed to make a three alarm chilli, assuming you could get away with the pork or beef, if there's no tabasco?
It's like sex without the foreplay!
You see, I know that you're only doing what's best for me. I know if I fall below the standards you set for me that you'll probably feel bad because you didn't spend enough time with me, persuade me to do all of this. I know I'm to blame if I don't go along with this and you must, perforce, feel guilty, Doc. One more failure to notch up on the bed post.
It's not your fault, honest!
BUT YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S DOING TO ME!
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