Oh dear, more warnings from the scaremongers determined to keep us tip-toeing along a knife edge as they issue their pronouncements about what is, or is not, good for us. Now it’s the turn of non-steroidal painkillers that might lead to a minute increase in the risk of a stroke or heart attack. I’m beginning to think the answer is to ignore all such and get on with life while bearing in mind the age-old advice of all things in moderation when eating and drinking.
I was prescribed a minimum dose of statins when a blood test revealed a near-the-borderline cholesterol level. I did as I was told and took one every night, but over the ensuing months; my joints began swelling, becoming both stiff and very painful. I had to go for walks along my country lanes using two walking poles; climb stairs one at a time, coming down the same way; after one hour of shopping I was exhausted, while drinking a cup of tea or coffee needed two hands as one was no longer strong enough to hold a cup by the handle.
After reading through the leaflet in the packet of, by this time, my third or fourth prescription, I noted that my symptoms were described as worth reporting to my doctor. This I did and the medication was changed for another brand, but the symptoms persisted, so I told my GP I would abandon the statins and watch my diet; cutting out, or reducing my intake of foods considered most detrimental.
The one I most lamented was cheese, all varieties of which I love. Now, I indulge only on rare occasions when I have guests to lunch or dinner – and as that is such an uncommon event these days it might indeed be classed as a rarity, which is why I relish the visits of my son or daughter as an excuse to splurge when they travel from Sussex or Worcester, staying for the occasional week-end when they can get away. That also gives me an excuse to indulge in my love of cooking too.
So, it was back to my sensible good food diet and long-term tried and trusted food supplements. Gradually my mobility returned as the swelling, and the pain in my joints disappeared. Now I can trot up and down stairs; walk unaided; kneel in the garden – on my kneeler it’s true, but crouching to pull out the odd weed presents no problem, while strolling behind the petrol-driven lawnmower is a doddle, and the glass, or two, of wine I allow myself afterwards tastes all the better.