The last few months have taught me a few things. Rashes, and fungal skin infections, are extremely unpleasant, and uncomfortable, in the extreme. There seems to be little that can be done to assuage the terrible accompanying itch. I have tried all the creams and emollients prescribed by the doctor. The anti-itch tablets do nothing to help, and rubbing your back against a door, Barloo The Bear style, offers small, and temporary relief.
Using the material of your shirt to agitate your chest, causes weals and discolouration, and similarly offers no lasting antidote. Trying to get an appointment with your GP, to assess the efficacy of your treatment, is as hard as getting some ‘personal time’ with Barack Obama.
What really hits the spot, is a damn good scratch. As someone who bites his nails, and has limited reach, this has to involve a third party. Bring on my wife, Julie. She has ‘good nails’, and despite reservations, will scratch, if asked nicely. I don’t often ask, so when I do, she understands that it is ‘serious’. I might have been waiting all day for a ‘decent scratch’, and despite her tiredness after a long day at the Bank, she will oblige, if approached in the correct fashion. I could be agonising for up to four hours, before her return home. As soon as she is through the door, before she even has a chance to get changed, I am there. Like a junkie needing a fix, I ask plaintively, ‘can I have a good back scratch please?’
She obliges, her nails like nectar on my skin, raking the itch away, albeit temporarily. She can reach those spots denied to my efforts, and the effect is simply marvellous. It is better than an orgasm, more satisfying than a nose-blow, and leaves me complete; scratched, and relaxed, if only for a few minutes.
If I had only known, I would have paid anything that I had, to anyone, for such a service. It is an experience beyond compare, a fulfillment, an epiphany. A momentary relief, worth any price.
As you may surmise, it is not getting any better.