Low Life | 4 October 2008

‘My life’s over, doctor,’ I said. ‘A young man like you! Nonsense!’ he said, peering at me over his half-moon glasses. He was that wonderful combination: a fat man squeezed into an old-fashioned waistcoat. Occasionally, he mopped the perspiration from his brow with the handkerchief he kept in the outside breast pocket of his jacket.

‘How old are you?’ he said. I told him. He wrote the figure down. ‘And how old is your partner?’ I told him. He raised his eyebrows and wrote this figure down underneath. ‘How long have you been together?’ ‘About three months,’ I said. ‘And how long have you been having difficulties?’ ‘About three months,’ I said, and he wrote that down as well.

‘Do you smoke?’ ‘Yes.’ He ticked a box. ‘Has the problem occurred before?’ ‘No.’ ‘Any heart problems or illnesses such as diabetes?’ ‘No.’ ‘Right, let’s have a look at you.’

Panting, owing to the exertion involved in bending down, he measured my blood pressure, timed my heart rate and carefully examined my private parts, paying particular attention to my testes. Then he ran his handkerchief over his brow and said, ‘I have excellent news, Mr Clarke. As far as I can tell, your difficulty has no physical cause and is therefore probably psychological. And I am happy to say that in this splendid, pharmacological era in which we now find ourselves, I can prescribe something that will immediately and spectacularly cure you. Ever heard of Viagra?’

I was hoping he was going to say that. I didn’t want a song and dance about my health. I simply needed a chemical nudge to get me over a psychological hump in the road. If it could get me over it once, everything would be fine again, I was sure of it.