On a scale of 1-10, where 10 makes me think of amputation as a realistic cure, I started last week with a left hand experiencing a flare up to level 8, which has now reduced to a level 4. It’s still sore but is mainly limited to one finger – the hand is just about useless but doesn’t hurt when at rest. The right hand started at around a 6 and has reduced to 2. It’s still not great but, as I proved at work today, if I have the right size of box and am able to get it at the point of balance, I can still lift a decent weight of medallions. The left hand is less good – I came close to letting an empty plate slip from my grasp when moving it tonight without proper planning.

What I consider level 1 has changed over the years. For many years I didn’t even think about my fingers and it was a bit of a shock to suddenly find myself with the hands of an old man, which happened virtually overnight. A bit like my white hair. One day it became shot with grey and after six months of pepper and salt I woke up one morning to find it had gone white. Of course, that was better than the events of a few years later, when I woke up and it had just gone . . .

Fortunately my self-image doesn’t revolve around my looks.

It’s methotrexate night  on Saturday (a far  cry from the Saturdays of my younger self). I take it on Saturday night as it allows me Sunday to get over any possible digestive consequences. Methotrexate can be a strange medication and the effects are still a little random.

It is ironic, as I may have observed before, that pills to treat arthritis, which in my case causes stiff fingers and much diminished grip, should come in the form of tiny pills and, often, in a bottle with a fiendish child-proof top. I intend to have a small laugh about that as I wrestle with them.