Rhodiola, I salute thee!

Sit up straight, pay attention, stop playing with yourself: I am about to transform your life. Let me start where I usually start: in the middle. Sometimes, when I am feeling lacking in list and feck, I buy a bottle of Metatone Tonic, retailing at about a thousand pounds a litre. I have no idea what is in it. Well, ok, it says on the bottle what is in it - thiomine hydrochloride, calcium glycorephosphate, potassium glycorephosphate, manganse glycorephosphate and some other potions, but if you are like me, you any none the wiser. It's all a matter of faith. But I take a slug before each meal in the belief that it will put the vroom back in my motor, or, in my case, the muscle back in my shoulders so I can cut the side hedge with an electric hedge-cutter (Funny how your priorities change as you get older: I have never felt this way about hedges before).
But now, stout yeopersons, prepare thyselves for a
REVELATION:
I have discovered
TARA!!!!
Rhodiola exclamation mark
Hm. Hell, how I detest an anticlimax. It reminds me painfully of the reaction to most of the jokes I tell.
But, bear with me.
Rhodiola! bold and italics.
According to my daughter Sarah, who is to alternative medicine what Galileo was to planetary motion, Rhodiola is the bee's knees, it is the dog's bollocks, it is the lodestone, it is the alchemists' chrysopoeia, it is what puts the imperial lead back in the imperial pencil.
Once again, I can tell you what it says on the bottle, but to hell with that. Check it out here if you want (mainly because the print is too small for my rheumy eyes).
I take a capsule every day, and I can tell you that I have never been so randy, which at 71 could be dangerous. I also stay up later and hack the hell out of the undergrowth in my garden borders, so Rhodiola - or something - is working.
It's not available in the UK, so in about three weeks' time, I will run out. So, if I lose my sex drive, get to bed early and let the garden go to hell, you will know why.