Hello you, how have you been? Well, I hope. If I were telling you this story in person, this would be the pre-story part where you're sitting with me by a fire place and I'm smiling gently and telling you what's to come. What's to come is fairly vile, so please don't read on if you're offended by anything less than spick and span. OK, now we're done with the cozy fireside bit and your vision will go all wibbly now and we'll jet into the story with my voice talking over....
**:…§())))((((^$%£@* (that was my attempt at keyboard induced wibble)
It's the week before Christmas, as you know, and everyone is running about preparing for the big day next Wednesday. A monumentous day when both the birth of Christ and 2 for 1 cinema tickets will coincide spectacularly with outstanding results. Unfortunately, for the major part of this week I have been quite unwell. I picked up a tummy bug from my sisters sproglets at the weekend, and about an hour into my 4 hour train journey back to Brighton from my visit to her, I started some pretty impressive oral pyrotechnics.
Carriage B (the quiet carriage) were, in turn, sympathetic, shocked, appalled, violent, frightened, aroused, and dismayed by the machinations of my troubled innards. I kept it well contained to the bathroom but I think most people between Southampton and Brighton heard me begin my journey into hell.
Now, of course, throwing up is a glamorous thing to tell people about. We love throwing up so we've got anecdotal evidence of our unwellness. It's the golden goose of sick notes. What's never excellent is when it comes out the other end. Obviously, I was caught unwell on a train and so spewing from both ends like some kind of horrendous, moist cheerleading baton was not quite an option - toilet space is limited... and so, I took a pre emptive Immodium to make sure all stayed put.
I eventually got home (after I'd cried on 2 members of the public and actually crawled through Brighton station - I have no shame) and continued vomiting, sleeping and crying for a day more.
The only trouble is, that it's now 5 days later and everyone else that's had the tummy bug is feeling better. Everyone's stopped puking, stopped feeling groggy and dizzy and stopped feeling like their tummy is a puffer fish. Except me, I still have fairly severe lingering tummy unsettledness and queasiness. Why? Why me? Well... when I sat down with my VERY PATIENT boyfriend last night (who has had it and recovered) and chatted with him about it, I realised that my innocent little Immodium may be working too well. In fact, I have not "deployed" since I sank him on Monday.
I HAVE NOT POOPED FOR FOUR DAYS.
What the hell did I take? Super immodium? Was I just meant to rub a pea sized amount into my gums or something? Jesus. I'm terrified.
Once I'd stopped throwing up, somewhere around Wednesday, I started to eat normally again like any carboydrate addicted normalton. I HAVE A FOOT LONG SUBWAY INSIDE ME FROM WEDNESDAY - THIS IS NOT NATURAL. I am only five foot myself. One whole foot of me is currently delicious sandwich.
When will it end? Is there a lever I am supposed to release? Something I can rub? Am I going to have to birth this thing and raise it as my own? I tried taking a Berocca to make my body realise we're healthy again and that signalling problems are over, but nothing has happened so now I'm fairly confident what I'm waiting to arrive is some form of glow stick.
Now, I know most people are panicking about travel arrangements, turkeys, presents, etc etc but I have a distinctly less festive, much grosser kind of worry to deal with. Such as, will I ever poop again or am I going to die like a poop pinata with a very uncomfortable expression on my face? This will not be a merry Christmas at all.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Thursday, December 12, 2013
The train sped quickly into the heart of Somerset like an arrow going into the heart of something else. There was a girl on the train like a bacteria on the aforementioned arrow. The bacteria girl from the simile was happy and excited to be going to Somerset because when she was there two great things were going to happen:
1. She was going to see The Hobbit 2.
2. Her sister was going to turn 30.
Aw, how lovely, I hear you think... this girl on a train is happy that her sister is going to have a nice birthday. No. Either you were right and I just heard your thoughts wrong, or you were wrong and it turns out that's not why I'm happy!
I am happy (I'm also the girl and the bacteria from the train and the arrow in case you weren't following) because for a brief window of 2.75 years I will be able to smugly say about my older sister,
"Oh, you know, she's in her early 30s." and the same will not be true about me!
These are the golden years of younger sisterhood. All those times she failed to help me get dog poo off my foot, told me to jump off the climbing frame carrying a plastic bag because "it would act as a parachute", cut all my hair off, laughed hysterically when I pooped myself at Disneyland, called me a Witch, told me Martin Crow would never go out with me, wouldn't let me have Robbie Williams as my boyfriend in the Take That game and made me choose Gary Barlow or Mark Owen instead, insisted I was the captain of the aeroplane when we played in trees while she was the mechanic and had the freedom to climb all over the tree while I sat in a fork and did nothing, had two beautiful kids and a wedding while I still live in sin with a partial career... SUCK IT SARAH YOU'RE IN YOUR EARLY THIRTIES!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA.
ps I love you very much