MEDICINE
Among my souvenirs
JOHN ROWAN WILSON
When I was young I was often told that the mustard manufacturers made their money, not out of the mustard you ate, but out of what you left on the side of your plate. I suppose it must be pretty much the same in the drug industry. Certainly, on careful ques- tioning, I have never met anyone who doesn't admit to some twenty or thirty pounds of obsolete medicaments stacked away in the bathroom cupboard.
I went through my own collection the other day. I should really throw them away,
of course; I know that. Yet somehow it is like those old suits I keep in a dilapidated wardrobe in the attic; I can never quite bring
myself to get rid of them. It is partly a feeling that they might come in useful one of these days. But more than that, those old dusty bottles hold memories for me. They bring back recollections of crises overcome, of nasty turns successfully negotiated.
The antibiotics, for example. I started twenty years ago with penicillin and grad- ually increased my range to encompass a most formidable armamentarium—strepto- mycin, chloromycetin, achromycin, penbritin, erythromycin—there is now practically no bacterium known to man that I cannot rake with a murderous barrage of fire. Countless are the number of boils, dogbites, septic fingers and attacks of bronchitis that my little army has gallantly vanquished for me. And not only for me. I recall certain ancient therapeutic triumphs in exotic parts of the world. There was the Jamaican boxer I cured of fulminating gonorrhoea, the British solicitor I found expiring from diphtheria in a seaside cabin on the Costa del Sol .
On the top shelf, beside the antibiotics, stands the intestinal squad. Here sulpha tab- lets bear the brunt of the attack, supported by a highly constipating kaolin mixture as a temporary stopgap until the tablets have time to work. I always buy a fresh bottle of kaolin every time I have food poisoning, but for some reason I am reluctant to pour the old ones down the sink. As a result I have a variety of vintages. They range from the '69, still a little young for serious drink- ing, to the '65 and '66 which threw rather too much sediment for my personal taste. And then there is that dateless pre-phylloxera vintage at the back which I fear may be past its best. It has recently developed an unfor- tunate tendency to blow its cork out in the hot weather.
On the second shelf are my travel med- icines. They carry with them a whiff of the hot, dank, dangerous air of the tropics. Paludrine for prevention of malaria, together with innumerable remedies for sea-sickness and bottles of sun-tan lotion. There are creams for eczema. impetigo, and urticaria and for soothing the bites of poisonous insects. There is mosquito repellent. There are also some strange Japanese devices which are man's last line of defence against the insect kingdom. They are like small dead snakes which one sets fire to at one end. They burn throughout the night and the re- sulting fumes are guaranteed to cause asphy- xia to all small living organisms. Their effect on human beings, in my experience, is hardly less lethal, The bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet contains my 'miscellaneous' collection. For most of these the function is obvious. The aspirin and codeine and alka-seltzer require no explanation. Nor do the bottles of cough linctus, mute testimony to the ravages of a vicious series of British winters. As for the four different varieties of slimming tablets, the reminder they bring me of my own self- indulgence and lack of will-power is only too timely. I really must get back on that diet again pretty soon.
But there are other medicines whose pre- sence is unexplained and, it seems, unex- plainable. Where, for instance, did I get those tiny, almost microscopic tablets of hydro- cortisone? For what purpose could I' pos- sibly have used them? How on earth did I come to lay out good money on a jumbo pack of fizzy Vitamin C, a confection I have been ridiculing for years both in conversation and in print? And if somebody had asked me, on oath, whether I had ever possessed preparations of witch hazel and friar's bal- sam, I would have had no hesitation in denying it flatly. Yet there they are.
But most mysterious of all, tucked away in a dusty corner, is a small metal receptacle, the size of a box of safety matches, stamped with the effigy of a heraldic beast and some scattered characters in later Sumerian script. It contains half a dozen obscene pink waxy globules. of a totally enigmatic nature. Only the French label, and the fact that each one is wrapped in a thin wisp of cotton wool, give a clue that they are destined for one of the less conventional orifices of the body.
The solution of the mystery is to be found in a small enclosed leaflet. It is headed Lab- oratories Quies, Paris, and begins: 'Escape the Torment of Noise! Modern civilisation has much to answer for, especially in respect of the destruction of all quietude and calm by the introduction of motor traction . .
Ah yes, I remember now: ear plugs. I bought them the last time the GLC had the
road up outside my house. And from the preparations that seem to be going on just now, I may very well be needing them again quite soon. It's really a great mistake to throw anything away.
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