For those of my readers of a certain provenance and age, the name Les Dawson will need no introduction. For the rest of you, I need to explain that he rose from a working-class Manchester background to become a very popular comedian and entertainer on British TV in the 1970s and 80s. He had several strings to his bow, but the one relevant to this week’s post is that a regular feature of his weekly show was a sketch consisting of a conversation between two Northern working-class women in their sixties, played in drag by Dawson and his male sidekick. Their conversation often turned to what Dawson referred to as ‘woman’s trouble…down below’.

Spoiler Alert: The next paragraph contains a trigger warning. If you don’t want to discover where we’re heading today until the perfect dramatic moment, don’t read the next paragraph. [It occurs to me that most trigger warnings should probably carry a spoiler alert.]

Trigger Warning: Our theme this week is ‘man’s trouble…down below’. While I promise to spare you explicit detail and, indeed, illustrative diagrams (other than in a link you are free not to follow), if this is not a topic you wish to read about, however obliquely worded, I’ll see you, God willing, next week, in what will probably be the last update that I can squeeze from our Portugal trip, from which we returned in the small hours of this (Monday) morning.

Right. Now we’ve whittled you down to the strong of stomach and the (frankly) slightly perverted, and before I get cold feet, let’s press on.

Just over two weeks ago, I awoke to a dull ache down below. Since this was not accompanied by any other symptoms, and since pursuing this further was bound to be a complicated and time-consuming process that would take us away from the boys for precious hours, Bernice and I made a joint decision to monitor the situation, in the hope of limping through until, two weeks later, I could nestle in the comfortable surroundings of our own family doctor’s surgery.

This was, as it turned out, a less than wise policy. However, hindsight is one of those things that you never seem to be able to benefit from until it’s too late.

From Sunday to Wednesday night, there were ne developments, other than the fact that I rather lost my appetite. However, when I woke on Thursday morning, I discovered considerable swelling and hardness, and we both agreed that we could postpone no longer. Tslil and Micha’el are not particularly impressed by their family doctor, and so Micha’el agreed to accompany us to a walk-in and out-patient clinic in a small city – Covilha – a 45-minute drive away. We were very grateful to have him with us.

After Micha’el explained the situation to the receptionist, and requested a doctor who spoke English, we had a not unreasonably long wait before a charming young doctor saw us. In a fashion typical of educated Portuguese of his age, he claimed that he spoke only a very little English, but, in fact, the entire consultation was conducted in English, and his only hesitation came when he couldn’t recall which of the words ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ was which.

After a brief examination, he diagnosed a bacterial infection – epididymitis. (Just now, my own doctor corrected this diagnosis to something that sounds even more like one of the lesser dinosaurs – epididymo-orchitis – follow the link or don’t!) The Portuguese doctor referred me to a urologist, who would be holding surgery the next day, and who would be able to give me an ultrasound to confirm the diagnosis. Meanwhile, the GP was confident enough in his diagnosis to start me on a two-week course of antibiotics, rather than waiting another day.

Before setting off for the clinic, I had called our medical insurers’ emergency number to explain the situation, and the agent I spoke to had unlocked the credit card they had issued to us in Israel. I was therefore able to pay for the consultation using this card, which was certainly convenient.

The following day, Micha’el and I went back to see the specialist. Curiously, despite having made an appointment, we had to wait far longer than we had the previous day. The urologist was less the gentle provincial Portuguese and more the cosmopolitan Coimbrian, hailing from Portugal’s distinguished university city, famed throughout medieval Europe. Finer featured, silver-haired and refined, when asked whether he spoke English he declared scornfully: “Of course!”…and indeed his English was excellent. He swiftly and efficiently confirmed the diagnosis.

I then asked him for a written summary of the consultation, a request he absolutely refused to comply with. I explained that my insurer required it. He arrogantly dismissed the very idea, claiming that he had treated many French and German tourists who required no documentation other than a receipt. He patiently explained that the information he had entered into the computer was not in the form of a file, and it was not possible to extract it in any file format.

He further explained that Portuguese patient confidentiality laws prohibit extracting or printing any patient information. When I protested that I needed to be able to present this information not only to the insurer but also to my own family doctor, he questioned what they would do with a document in Portuguese, for all the world as if AI were a figment of some sci-fi author’s imagination,

I then asked him whether he could give me a handwritten summary. This he was prepared to do (Where had the law disappeared to? I wondered, though not out loud), but that this would be considered an additional consultation, and so there would be a second fee of 90 euros. This was clearly his final offer.

Despite all of Micha’el’s persuasive powers, the administrative staff were no more help, and so I left the clinic armed only with two receipts for the two consultations. To further complicate matters, I discovered that the initial activation of the insurer’s credit card had been for 24 hours only (a fact that the agent had not thought to mention to me at the time) and so I had to pay with my own card. Obviously, I will be claiming this back from the insurer.

For the last eight days of our stay, I was certainly not firing on all cylinders. The antibiotics did not kick in quickly, as I had hoped, and my energy level was well below par. On reflection, I probably tried to do more than I should have. In addition, I also started developing (possibly as a side-effect of the antibiotics) some acid reflux, which kept me awake for half the night last Saturday night.

Then, on Sunday morning, on 3 hours’ sleep, I had to face a 15-hour door-to-door journey, starting with a three-hour drive, through intermittent rain, followed by the route march that is navigating a major airport, followed by a five-and-a-half hour overnight flight in an economy seat in which I could find no comfortable position for my down-belows, and consequently I did not sleep at all. This was followed by a second major airport route march. As I remarked to Bernice when we boarded, I should have requested wheelchair assistance. There’s that damned tardy hindsight again.

I did catch half-an-hour’s sleep in the back of the taxi from the airport, and another five hours from 5:00 to 10:00 this morning. However, now that we are back home, I rather think it has all caught up with me, and I have spent most of today sitting on the sofa with my feet up feeling sorry for myself, and fretting over not having written this post.

Which I have now done! And, cleverly, I have the bulk of the insurance story to delight you with at some point in the future when it is all resolved, one way or another. Until then, and if you have made it this far, I admire your tenacity.

I must stop here, since I have to leave for an appointment with my own doctor, who has, I know, the stomach for a considerably more detailed account.

Quick update. My doctor feels the antibiotics are doing a good job, but, since he is extremely cautious, and since there is no emergency urologist, he referred me to A&E, so that they can run a bank of tests and another ultrasound and just confirm that everything is on track. No need to rush in tonight, but he wants me to go tomorrow. So, instead of going to see Raphael, I shall be sitting in a hospital waiting area…waiting, for most of the day, no doubt.

At least now, if you bump into me in the next couple of days, I hope you will understand why I don’t exactly look like I am just back from a luxury winter holiday in Portugal.