It would be death by Sabretooth tiger. Or wolf. Or rat.
I have been struck down by gout this week. It got so bad that I had to call in sick on Friday.
Gout is a metabolic disorder really. Basically, the body is unable to process (or metabolise) a type of protein known as purine, which is commonly found in seafood and meat (does the cat food brand Purina ring any bells?), when the protein is not metabolised, it turns into an acid in the blood stream. Over time, these acids build up and crystalise at the body’s extremities. These crystals are like tiny needles that encrust around the the joints, and any movement of the joint results in severe sharp pain against your nerves. I visualise it like the smashed glass embedded into the tops of security walls that you find in third world countries – Nasty.
I have always somewhat measured my own personal fitness based on what I believe to be the basic minimums. Such as the survival strength and stamina I would need to outwit a prehistoric predator. Needless to say I feel sheepish and hopeless every time I am struck down by the ‘Rich Man’s Disease’. At the end of the day it is a sore foot. An excruciatingly painful experience that leaves me in an existential crisis every time. A sore foot that incapacitates me to the point that I could not crawl away from a rat gnawing away at my warm flesh. True story.
But a sore foot none the less.
Luckily I was not born 11,000 years ago, because today I have painkillers and aluminium crutches.