On skin - perfect and not

When I was a GP, I held a post as theatre doctor to the Forum Theatre in Billingham. It is a huge theatre, with a stage second only to Drury Lane. It was built by money from ICI in its glory days when they were the town's biggest employer and poured money into social amenities for the town. There, they used to design and build sets ready to open in the West End, but the various shows always rehearsed and played to Billingham first, so we saw many great plays and performers. One such was Barbara Windsor, who starred in the title role of the musical Calamity Jane. I was called to see her one afternoon before the show opened, and was taken up to her dressing room. She stood there, 4ft 10 inches of blond beauty, wrapped in a dressing gown, describing her symptoms of a sore throat in her laughing cockney accent. Suddenly, she threw the dressing gown wide open, and said with her innocent grin, "do you want to examine me?" Underneath, she was completely naked. I managed to reply, "I only need to look at your throat," and left after giving her a prescription. I followed her career with interest after that, and was sorry for her death, but she leaves a wealth of great films and memories.

I was called back to the same show a couple of days later to examine Henry Miller, the bar tender. He had gone down with measles, so they had to find a replacement at short notice. Fortunately it was not a singing role, so they found an actor who could read his lines. They taped the scrip to has tray, so he could read it as he went round serving drinks and clearing tables. I was called back several times after that, as various cast members developed odd rashes or spots and worried in case they had measles too.

It is 4:00 a.m., and I am awake scratching. My skin is the opposite of Barbara Windsor's perfection: it is covered in pock marks, open sores and bleeding scratch lines. Despite taking Night Nurse, and using some new emollient Ann sent for, I have been woken  each hour with severe itching demanding to be scratched. I can only think that people who have constant pain must be worse, but it is a terrible state to be in. It is now the whole body, from scalp to toe, and I am scratching in my sleep, covering the bed with blood. My arms seem to be not under my control, and I fight them to try and stop them scratching, but they always win. The bed shakes, and poor Ann has been sleeping in the spare bed downstairs this last week. I take antihistamines, and am very tired through the day, unable to concentrate on work or find energy to do much. It is a dreadful state.

Outside is not much better. It is dark by four, and has rained most days so the paths are mud and I have to wear wellingtons to walk the dogs. Although the Prime Minister has graciously allowed a few days remission to see friends and family at Christmas, Italy and The Netherlands have joined Germany in enforcing a strict lockdown over Christmas and New Year, so all family gatherings are banned and Boris is under pressure to do the same for England. Whatever happens, it is doomed to be a gloomy time. People have already made plans for gatherings and reunions; to ban it now will trigger much frustration, and we are already talking about if we dare break such a ban, and if so wondering if our guests would also be prepared to come. 

Now I have made a cup of tea and will get back to bed to attempt another hour's sleep before waking for the next bout of scratching.