CREAKING AT THE SEAMS

I already know what my first act will be tomorrow. I will rise from my (barely) double bed at 7.30, pick up a small plastic container, take it to the bathroom opposite and, as requested, fill it with only the finest, freshest, dew-picked, top o' the mornin' urine. A brief washavedress later I shall stumble downhill to the insalubrious Centro de Salud where I shall doubtless be evil-eyed by unnaturaturally diminutive elderly Spanish ladies who are well prepared for queue-jumping 'guiris' (foreigners) like me. Then perhaps a bleary-eyed nurse who neither knows nor cares why I am there will make vague, stabbing attempts to encounter a vein whilst regaling her compatriots with her weekend escapades, punctuated by cries of "Joderrrrr tia!". I shall attempt to interject in reasonably fluent Spanish that this is one bodily fluid best extracted from me in a reclining position. After all, nobody really wants a repeat of those embarrassing incidents where a surprised medic is propping up my unconscious frame, syringe dangling from my arm, whilst calling for help. Hopefully she will hear my pleas.

Why so much interest in the liquids sloshing around my insides? Same reason a nurse in radiography chose to gesticulate bizarrely at me last week as if I was deaf, stupid and understood no Spanish, whilst pressing my hands down on the X-ray plate. They think I might have arthritis. I think I might have arthritis. It's no big deal right now. I can dance for hours, walk for hours around town and make love for hours with no perceivable ill effects. But if I push the boat out - like going for one of those long mountain walks I love - I am crippled with joint pains out of all proportion to my years.

That's 42 years right now (this being the first time we've met, you wouldn't know that). It's a point in life where everything still seems open to me. I feel smarter about life than in the past and still have the energy to enjoy it to its fullest. But the ghost of this news has been like a rifle shot to remind me This Is Not A Rehearsal. Nothing is to be taken for granted.

To have arthritis would be, well, crap to put it plainly. I'm in good shape, look after myself, relatively young, eat well and have no history of it in the family. However, if it did prove to be true I could hardly claim to be the one with the real problems among my family and friends. And they deserve an introduction:

SOME SALIENT FACTS
So, you know I am a 42 year-old English writer (and director) living in Madrid after the swift ending of a promising relationship (just one year) with a Spanish woman. What else would you like to know?

I live smack in the middle of the historical centre of Madrid, with the Rastro market below my window. No, I don't own any property either here or un the UK - I share with two very simpatico Spaniards.

Yes, I was married for 12 years and have a tall, handsome, laid-back, intelligent son of 16 years to show for it (I'm not boasting - that's pure envy). He used to live half-and-half between his mother and myself when I was in the UK, but now he is mainly with her. Currently neck-deep in GCSEs.

My 85 year-old father lives alone near London after the death of my mother nearly 3 years ago. He's in good form for his age, but lacks company and stimulation. He's increasingly living in a blurry land of sleeping and waking, made worse I think by the advent of 24 TV news (his addiction). At least the lunchtime, afternoon and evening bulletins demarcated the day more clearly.

My brother is also without his wife since her death from cancer at 45 last year. She was one of my oldest friends. He is not alone and is weighed down with the care of his two sons - 15 and 11. We are close. I miss his company and feel the pull of both him and my father. These forces may well eventually pull me home. I am also aware of my brother's envy of my perceived freedom from responsibility.

My love life, you ask? I do so hate to be a cliche, but I have to admit that my last relationship appears to have robbed me of any enthusiasm to fall in love again or involve myself too closely with anyone, even now that more than a year has passed. Still this will almost inevitably change eventually, given my enthusiasm for the opposite sex. The last year has, indeed, been the busiest for dating, wonderful random encounters and explosive sex of my whole life. I would thoroughly recommend having your 20's in your late 30's-40's. You know yourself much better (hopefully) and can enjoy it with less stress. (After all, people are becoming parents later and later - how about a campaign for the reverse?) Hence right now there is:

A - a French woman of 29 in Paris who believes I am the right man for her. For her life, that is. We have spent a few wonderful weekends together, but the burden of her romantic idealism is heavy and I'm unsure how/whether to proceed.

E - a mid 30's Spanish woman who is equally wary of deep involvement but has seen me as perhaps the first man with whom she could have friendship and sex, without too much more. We talk and meet every few weeks and enjoy an intense chemistry which she finds a refreshing antidote to the usual routine of work responsibilities and single parenthood.

C - a mid-30's English woman, who lives in Madrid but travels the world a lot for her job. We meet sporadically for what can only be described as mad, intense S&M-style sex. That, and a bloody good English-style laugh.

So, I'm clearly hoping that the results of tomorrow's test are not going to impede this complex lifestyle, which I currently feel remarkably relaxed about. Because despite the many difficulties just described, I find much in life to make me happy.

Just off to drink more water.