My physic says I should cut down on the mead, decrease my intake of fatty red meats and increase my carbs. I should indulge in strenuous cardiovascular exercise for at least 30 minutes, three times a week. Sound medical advice, I’m sure. He also prescribed a weekly bloodletting and a daily sacrifice of a cockerel to Thunnor. Also, he advised that I rein in my naked lust when it comes to ‘dirty’ Jutish wenches. He says that my member will burn and itch somewhat awful. My physic is the best in the land and is undoubtedly a wise man, at least amongst us untutored, rude barbarians. I did say that the itching and burning I can live with, tis the nagging I can’t abide.
He has a constant regime of fasting and a total abstinence of lewd women. He peels the skin off his boiled chicken before feasting and eats much fruit and root vegetable.
Anyway, I did point out that the median survival time for an Anglo-Saxon man in 9th century England was 25. He laughed so, and proffered his age at just 25 summers. I explained that life is inherently pointless, futile and full of pain. He was about to come up with a sage and witty rejoinder when I terminated the discussion by stabbing him betwixt his vitals with my trusty sword, ‘Arse, big fat arse, biter.’ Where is thy wisdom now, physic? For those who ponder life’s sad conundrums, the irony will not be lost.