Yeasty goodness

The GP poo-pooed my self-diagnosis of PF, though I tried to explain that it was improved due to the Nizoral shampoo. Instead, a new prescription for a different antibiotic was administered for the lingering plukes, but you can be sure I'll be secretly carrying on with Nizoral. The NHS is v. v. keen on lifestyle advice these days. At the last consultation my spotty back was ascribed to smoking, and this time it's alcohol. As for the black dog, paradoxically the GP said he could see the improvement. Make up your bloody mind, Patricia Spewitt.

Could he be right, in a roundabout way? Those Diet Doctors, whom I've always considered quacks, say that eating fermented foods predisposes towards fungal overgrowths. This always seemed like bollocks to me, since you're digesting the fungi, not smearing them on cutaneous areas, and your gut is designed to keep the inside separate from the outside, dummies.

But empirically, on an n=1 basis, the null hypothesis for diet and skin can't be proved. My diet is heavy on yeasts and moulds; bread, wine, cheese, pickle with some soup and yoghurt represents the perfect meal. However, I plan to carry on regardless with the fermented food diet, and KO the cutaneous yeasty buggers occasionally with the topical Nizoral. With an 'O' blood group and celtic phenotype, it could be argued that creatures like me are evolved and adapted for the cheese and beer diet, and this represents destiny.

Splendid day yesterday with Girl on a Motorcycle H. and Reekster. Reekie and I played ball on the green under chestnuts and beeches for a half hour, while H. had some stitches removed. Then they two braved the blustery sands at Portobello and then Musselburgh in sequential walks. I lasted 100 yards at Portie, then retired to the car on the grounds of unsuitable dress (summer trousers) and the loss of my cashmere hat on the bus that week. There go my plans to be a professional dogwalker. H. and Reekie are made of sterner stuff and strode on in the salt-sand blizzard, while I watched the white horses from the warmth of the car, dizzy from the wind. At Musselburgh harbour (to visit Clarkes' fish shop), the lanyards of the boats were clanging and gonging in delightful clamour with the gale. Later, our matching green wellies were admired by workmen outside the Chinese veg shop, who wanted to know where H. got them. Learning that H. had never eaten chestnuts, we roasted a few handfuls while we were cleaning, but at too high a temperature. Two of them exploded, mimicking the soundtrack to an urban shoot-out movie or an early Bonfire Night.

Musselburgh in summer

Musselburgh in autumn