Challop (noun) – plural : challops
Pronounced “chah-lop’
1: A portmanteau term for a challenging opinion.
2: An irregularly published column on website Good Food Revolution.
Around two weeks ago, my eyes began to become increasingly light sensitive, to the point that two Sundays ago I admitted myself to Durham Hospital’s emergency department, as I was extremely concerned at what the hell was going on. This was followed by another trip to Markdale ER and then an ophthalmologist the following day.
To cut a long story short, we are still unsure as to what is behind the inflammation that is causing this acute light sensitivity, particularly in one eye, but I am now in the possession of some cortisone eyedrops that appear to be relieving the swelling somewhat and are a welcome alternative to crunching ibuprofen (à la Max Payne) every three or four hours to keep the headaches and excruciating pain at bay. Looking at screens, as I am at this moment, is particularly difficult, so working on this website has been somewhat challenging.
I’ve spent the last week wearing a pirate patch (not a good idea, according to my ER doctor, plus it buggers up one’s depth perception beyond belief) or behind the darkest of shades, even in the darkness of night. It got to a point where even nightlights dotted around the house after midnight were causing such piercing torments that it made me want to scream out loud and weep on a few occasions.
Now, this isn’t supposed to be a sob story about my currently ongoing ocular issues, but a personal insight into how the temporary loss of one sense allowed me to experience something rather wonderful when it came to the others due to what I put down to some transitory neuroplasticity.
So there I was, in complete darkness, sitting on one of the basement couches, wearing very little but a pair of my wife’s dark sunglasses, and listening to some of the lesser-spotted of Debussy’s orchestral stuff. I never really suffer from red eyes, and yet there I was with eyeballs looking like pickled onions in beet juice. I certainly wasn’t in a good way, but the serenity of my immediate surroundings was certainly helping somewhat, the music sounding particularly rich and crisp. Perhaps I should have already twigged that things weren’t quite as normal.
Feeling a little peckish, I had a small ceramic bowl full of Kirkland pistachios to hand. Now these are by no means the best quality pistachios in the land, but the very moment I crunched my first one, it tasted like the finest nut I had ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Not thinking too much about this, I happily munched my way through the entire procurement, my tastebuds fully satisfied through the tasting of nothing more than some Costco own-brand nuts. “That’s curious,” I thought quizzically. “Why not have a glass of wine?”
I stumbled through to my ersatz cellar in the utility room and, due to my compromised eyesight, grabbed one of the first bottles I could find. Because of its particular position, I knew that it wasn’t going to be something particularly special but would probably be reasonably drinkable nonetheless.
I struggled a little, opening the bottle (screw cap) and pouring into my stemware, but long-term muscle memory triumphed, and I sat there inhaling the bouquet of what, for all intents and purposes, was a pretty standard entry-level wine.
But here’s the thing: it smelled utterly exquisite. Now, this wasn’t exquisite in an overly complex fashion, far from it, but the immediate beauty and purity of the fruit were seriously something to behold. I must have spent a good few minutes studiously inhaling these fragrant aromatics before the penny dropped.
What with my vision being relatively out-of-action for the nonce, had my other senses all upped their game and were working at way above their usual sensitivities?
Grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat, I lay back into the enveloping couch, drowning myself in Debussy’s ocean of sound and savouring every last fruity drop of this vinous ambrosia.
My wonderful wife descended the staircase to check in on her invalid spouse. “Are you okay? I’ve been worried about you,” she asked.
“Losing” one of my senses appeared to have greatly enhanced every one of the others, as when she caressed my hair and gently kissed my head, I registered and relished each millisecond of that brief contact with explicit detail, as if I could feel such tender pressure on each hair follicle.
“I’m feeling slightly better, thanks. I think the wine may be helping…”
