I’m starting to think my doctor is a bit of a prick.
You see, he’s decided to follow up my three weeks without dairy with a week without alcohol. Yes, a whole week. It’s all because of these antibiotics he’s put me on.
“But not being able to drink alcohol while on antibiotics is one of those old wives’ tales like ‘if you step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back’!” I can hear some of you saying.
Well, for one thing, if you step on your mother’s bum crack, you probably will break her back. Just saying.
And for another, while most antibiotics mix quite nicely with alcohol, these antibiotics I’ve been put on do not. These are special antibiotics with the unfortunate name of ‘Flagyl’ – a name that, quite frankly, puts my mind on spin dry. Not only does it make me think of ‘self-flagellate’ (an act which curiously mirrors the concept of a week without wine), it also sounds like ‘flatulence’ – which, rather neatly, is one of the ailments the antibiotics are trying to cure me of. Plus ‘Flagyl’ is simply one of those words that sounds much ruder than it actually is, like ‘flange’, ‘cockney’ and ‘fuck knuckle’. But I digress.
The long and the short of it is this: I will vomit if I drink alcohol whilst on Flagyl. And no, that’s not ‘trough loads of mixed spirits’ (which will also make me vomit), it’s any alcohol, no matter how small the amount. Which makes me wonder what kind of antibiotic does that to a person? I mean, is Flagyl even an antibiotic at all? Or is it some kind of Clockwork Orange-type medical intervention staged by concerned friends and family to stop me drinking so much? And if that’s the case, you’d think an intervention would at least earn me a brief residential stay in some drying-out facility far far away from the laundry and washing up. I feel cheated.
Incidentally, my doctor also sent me off for further blood tests along with some explanation about “blah blah blah geo mutations blah blah”. If you’re wondering what the “blah blah” bits were, your guess is as good as mine because I was too busy wondering if having a geo mutation would mean I was going to be able to spring knives out of my fingers like Wolverine. That’d be way-cool – and also quite handy when it came to freeing Fisher Price toys from their packaging shackles and keeping Genghis Cat in line.
In any case, I’m consoling myself with the fact that at least I can eat dairy food again. My life without dairy was a grim one. I spent most of my days fantasising about a giant dish of cauliflower cheese covered with breadcrumbs that had been pan fried in butter and then tossed with more cheese and accompanied with a pint glass of whipped cream. Except now that I can eat all these things, I’m probably going to leave the cauliflower out because it only makes me fart and that would earn me another week on the Flagyl. Also, cauliflower is not dairy.
In the meantime, I’m hoping my Wolverine finger-knives are good and ready for my next doctor’s appointment. Apparently his next trick, if the Flagyl doesn’t work, is to put me on two weeks without gluten. And as one of my friends once said, “I don’t know what gluten is but I must really really like it because, quite frankly, food tastes crap without it.”
My doctor, in his defence, says that ‘exclusion diets’ are the new black. And he’s right. They are black – as in ‘black is the colour of my soul right now’.