Make mine a cranberry, I have the Big C-ystitis

IF men got cystitis the way women get cystitis, it is without doubt that within 24 hours a state of international emergency would be declared.

Cystitis would be designated the same status as that other Big C, and laboratories would work tirelessly for a cure; Bill Gates would overnight abandon his anti-malaria work and pour billions into cystitis research, and the World Health Organisation would leapfrog it to the top of its hit list. Progress on finding a cure would make regular global headlines, with cystitis Special Correspondents nightly updating humanity on the dogged hard work, tenacious experiments, and bold breakthroughs of cystitis-fighting scientists.

But because it’s only women who get it, instead we just wince our way down to the chemist where we are infantilised with sachets of cranberry flavoured salty stuff that doesn’t work and given a vague warning off bubblebath. Cranberry flavoured because cranberry is supposed to do something to alleviate cystitis, and so drug companies think if they flavour their useless salty stuff with a chemical that mimics the taste of little red berries, our little lady heads will be tricked into believing we are purchasing a product that may actually get rid of our cystitis.

And yes I am in very bad mood indeed, because I have had cystitis for a week now and am on my second lot of antibiotics in a month. And yes I do know that taking antibiotics means that if I ever need them again in the event of contracting flesh eating necrotitis, they won’t work, and along with the rest of our antibiotic abusing society, I will die a slow agonising death. But frankly when you’ve had cystitis for a week, death seems like quite a reasonable solution.

I have cystitis, I tell people, when they remark upon my furrowed brow and clenched jaw. Men look blank, while women frown in sympathy and relive their own cystitis war stories. Anytime after lots of s-e-x, says one friend, whispering the word, in case it brings on another bout. Anytime I drink more than two glasses of wine, says another. Anytime I have too much sugar, a third.

Imagine the male population being struck down with burning, itching pain, mild fever and the feeling of peeing boiling vinegar everytime they had (a) a bonk (b) a pint or (c) a Mars Bar. There would be mass sick leave across the planet, and populations would fall because everyone would be too scared to have sex. A cure would be found by morning.

But I’m only a woman. And once the antibiotics temporarily banish it, I’ll have thrush to look forward to, and lots of helpful people telling me to insert pots of live yoghurt where pots of live yoghurt should never go. And hey, have I tried cranberry juice? Really? Cranberry fixes cystitis? Great. Thanks.