Lost in Translation...

I learnt a lot about gout on our family holiday on Dorset last week. Like I thought gout only made its appearance in big toes, for example. No, it can attack any joint. This time it targeted my Dearest husband's wrist. He manfully ignored the pain before the holiday, saying that he had probably strained it whilst lugging a legal tome round London he'd purchased, alongside a few other must-haves from Daunt's Book shop. He cursed on the four-hour drive to Lyme Regis. But no more than usual. The wrist was, upon arrival, pink, swollen and extremely painful.
Don't ask me why, that in addition to the kitchen sink, I had brought a roll of crepe bandage.. In a matter of minutes, I had the squishy cool pack out of the picnic bag and had very proficiently strapped it to his wrist. This provided temporary relief until we could see a doctor on Monday who would prescribe jumbo-sized Naproxen pills.
At night, I suggested that he slept diagonally across the bed, supported by a pillow under the poorly paw. I took the couch and slept like a log. (Like every good night nurse.)
He really was heroic. By day three we were making progress and had discovered that liberal glasses of fine Provençal rosé  were helping enormously. After several of these, I toasted,
"A chacun son goût!"
Which I found extremely funny. (Not so much, by the time I'd explained to bewildered children that it meant Each to his own..)
That is probably why I found myself back on the couch that night.
Gout is no laughing matter.

Hanging out in Dorset . (A junior's leg)