Whether you are looking for the current time in Timbuktu, the molecular structure of diamonds or be gobsmacked by the Free Church’s new Facebook page, it is all there waiting for you on the internet.

A font of all knowledge, it is there to keep us right, to amuse us, to transfer our funds and to order these potions for all these embarrassing conditions that we don’t want chemist staff or anyone to know we have.

Buying certain products makes even me blush. That halitosis spray, for instance. I was mortified when I handed over the cash for that. Of course, I said it was for Mrs X. No way was I going to let John in top Stornoway pharmacy Kenny Froggan, Chemists, think I had stinky breath.

Some people get really embarrassed about medical conditions. Some are too timid to go into a chemist to buy dandruff shampoo. Goodness knows what they would be like if they had my trapped wind. I had another delicate condition too that caused me piles of problems. However, the ointment is helping.

So when a man who lives not far from me noticed that he had nasty-looking dry, flaking skin circles down the side of his leg, he did what everyone else does. He googled it. It didn’t look good. All the guides to symptoms were pretty much of the same view. It looked like a condition called discoid eczema. It could mean months of treatment with antihistamines and steroids. The poor fellow was at his wits’ end.

Still in deep shock from seeing the pictures of the fate that awaited him, he summoned a helpful neighbour to show him his withered thigh with the dry skin curling and falling off like rats off a sinking ship. Yuck.

“Nonsense,” said the man from next door. “I know what that is. That’s ringworm. That could quickly spread and you will soon look like a monster from a horror film. You’d better get that seen to straight away.” Within minutes, our man was traipsing up to the health centre on Springfield Road where Dr Anne Finlayson agreed it was like nothing she had ever seen before.

She asked him about his diet. Did he, for example, eat a lot of sweets and when, she asked. He liked fruit pastilles and had some last night.  “And did you have the fruit pastilles in bed?” inquired the kindly GP.  Indeed he had. Hang on. How did the doctor know that? “Because those are not patches of dry skin on your leg. Those are the remains of fruit pastilles. You must have slept on them.”

Being a very kind fellow myself, I have not named the relieved patient so I think that’s another favour I’m owed.  I myself also went on the internet when Mrs X was encouraging me to cook. I thought I’d make a spaghetti bolognese for tea. Google found a recipe with a photo that looked tongue-drippingly tasty.

However, food photos always look fantastic. You have no way of knowing if that is how that recipe will turn out or whether they have just used a photo of a creation by Gino D’Acampo, that Italian fellow that Mrs X currently coddles her eggs over.  There must have been something wrong with the recipe because despite all the time and effort I devoted to it, it turned out the opposite of wonderful and delicious.

Somehow I must have burnt the bottom of the pan when I was cooking the mince and everything tasted of charcoal. The spaghetti itself went wrong too. It went into a lump and I didn’t notice at first. I then tried to pull it apart but it was too late and it came out in sticky lumps that were doughy in the middle. Not nice.

Having made it, I of course declared it scrumptious and invited the family to tuck in. Ach, they won’t notice. Sadly, they both gave up in less than 60 seconds and opted instead for the gastronomic delight that is beans on toast. Manfully, I kept on shovelling the morass of stiff pasta and frazzled black beef into my gob. I couldn’t let them see that I too had concluded it was inedible. Pride was at stake.

There were consequences. On the loo all night, I must have used a fortnight’s worth of tuggable, huggable softness in the one, albeit very long, sitting.
That unfortunate episode explains why this week I agreed to take some basic lessons in cookery from Mrs X. It was nothing fancy – she just agreed to show me how to make bangers and mash.

Patiently, she demonstrated how to prepare, boil and mash the spuds and then how to make perfect sausages. Just when she was doing that, the daughter came in and overheard some of her instructions. “Mum. Did you say ‘prick with a fork’?” I heard her ask. “That’s right,” says Mrs X. “I’m teaching your dad how to cook sausages.”

“Oh, right,” came the reply. “I thought you were still on about him pretending to enjoy that awful spaghetti.”