Continued.
Saturday was a good day. Emphasis on the day part. I made a one man assault on the food stalls of the Continental market after not eating (and not even being able to) all the previous day. Free range Chicken Breast burger (grilled), Jerk Pork, Currywurst...hugely expensive but worth it, in my book. Well. Was it? I also purchased a new Trilby for myself, having lost the other one to the top of Lorna's car that time she gave me a lift home. I ended up crowning my day's culinary adventure at the Mad Moose, with THE MOOSE BURGER, not actually made out of Moose. Handmade beef burger, cheese, a slice of bacon, a plate full of chips, a little red onion salad on the side. Lovely. Super duper. Cool cool cool. I find myself uncharacteristically full after finishing though, take it a little easy and sup some Staropramen, a fine Czech lager. What happens over the course of that evening, all starts from there. Mark it well.
I'm sat there with Julian of Norwich. Over the course of the night, we discuss various happenings, persons and deeds that have occured in the week previous. I recieve a small but not undeserved dressing down, but no hairs are split. Also there's a small rebuff about my emotional outburst on Friday. Anyway. We have a good meal (...), a good drink, and a good laugh. In a moment of complete brilliance, we decide to go to the Funfair that was set up for the bank holiday weekend in Chapelfield Gardens. We went on Monday while Toon was here, so why not go again? Exactly. The whole place was a rip off, but aren't they always? If you're offended/surprised/taken aback/&c just don't even think about it.
We take on a ridiculous spinning ride first, that is all the spinning, all the time. No problem. Not for £2 a time anyway. Next up? DODGEMS. Oh yes. Some little shite keeps driving into everyone ALL THE TIME and the first time he crashes me, he hits me at the perfect angle to smash my knee into the steering wheel. Suffice to say, I find that rather painful. Did I say rather? It came so keen I had to swap legs to use the pedal with! The cars were extremely short though. Good though! At £2.50 a car I think one round, especially with that kamikaze ankle biter, was more than enough. Not quite as fast as the Old Hunstanton cars either.
We wander off through the fair and scout out two possibles. One which spins both backwards and forwards on a horizontal plane, and another that spins the individual on a vertical plane, in a cage, on some sort of ferris wheel arrangement. Folly. We went on the other one, which was absolutely brutal. The main problem was the hydraulic arms that threw the carriages out didn't follow the track exactly, and extended slightly behind the curve. Folly. To say I, or indeed my companion no longer felt at our best after that would be, er, a lie. Ha ha! We crawled back to the Mullberry unit for a nightcap. And by nightcap, I mean glasses of Coca Cola. Going back to J of N's to pick up my Tan Messenger, I start the journey home, at a resoundingly early half past ten. I run into two of my Choral Scholar fellows on the road (one of them lives in the same street, go figure), chinwag complete and the Captain continues on. Feeling distinctly dicky. I mean, terrible.
On the way I try to get the Waltzer on the line, but to no avail. No problem. Keep walking. Urgh. Home is pretty close in the end though, and urgh. Now really, we come to the part of this story where my digestion really turns into a warzone, my intestines go into open revolt, and my toilet gets sat on for a long time, and very often. I am concious that by sparing details I will often be not believed when I claim that things are as drastic as they can be, but allow me to assure you beyond all shadow of doubt: I WAS DREADFULLY ILL. The Germans call Diarrhoea 'Durchfall' for a reason; it translates directly as 'Through fall'. People call up German for being a harsh and unromantic language, obsessed with efficiency. Except for its word order, obviously. I love that little gem in the lexicon, and always use it over the English expression, usually because I can't remember how to spell the English word! Folly.
And, at twenty five to two in the morning, I finally managed to stop being sick. Not that I had been violently ill since I got back, but I don't remember when I started, because I was slightly more bothered about being violently ill in the toilet, rather than in my bed. Turns out it was a good and well carried out decision, as I was sick so hard I had to check the floor for stray vomit. Even remembering it is making me feel sick again. I'd best not be, or my mother will go insane, and I will be straight round A&E. I was only sick for one round in the night. I brought up the last thing I had eaten (and obviously drank)...which just turned out to be a metric fuckton of...*drum roll* BEEF MINCE! BOOM. Yes, that's right. The Moose Burger gracing our screens again. Delightful. The chips seem to have disappeared, but the burger? It had been knocking about at the top of the pile all night, and I don't suppose that the high-velocity rides did my stomach any favours. Whatever the cause, I have to call up God on the big white telephone. Like I said, one round only. At night. Fitful sleep occurs, and I feel like shite. I don't get up until it's time though, and like a good little idiot, don't tell my mother about it when she gives me a courtesy call to make sure I'm up and getting ready. I shower, shave hastily, and put on my best suit. Instead, the first person I tel about my chronic vomiting and digestive problems is my good friend and all-round mensch, Djinh. I discussed that I thought I'd be able to shake it off, if I just get on with it, I'll be fine. Mistake.
I lasted an hour into the rehearsal. A mere sixty minutes before I feel a projectile coming on. Thankfully La Directa gets wind, and gifts me a sit outside with a glass of water. This "glass of water", however, turns out to be a lukewarm plastic cup's worth. Blegh. Shortly after, MD lets me back in, and I cheerfully report that not only do I not feel any better, but that I was going to go and be sick again. And yea and verily, I was. Boom. There wasn't much. Bile, and warm water. Well, slightly warmer than it was served to me, anyway. I had to go home. I needed to. After surviving the taxi journey home, I went straight back to bed, for a good five hours, missing three texts and only waking up to a phone call...from Jody! Hah! No, I would not be joining you for evensong. That day was characterised by the most violent illness I have suffered and survived since...(notwithstanding last year's food poisoning)...I can't even remember. I had the flu, in one form or another in my first and second years, and now in my second and third years I've had terrible through falling through and vomiting episodes. I slept, off and on, for the rest of the day, and only managed to sit up properly by about 8pm. However, that didn't stop me from being very ill. Very sick. Really. Terrible.
Sunday night? Don't even go there. Every three to four hours I'd get up and take up residence in my en suite, and hold on for dear life, and then consequently retire as best I could again. Waking, doused in cold sweat? To wake to sit through your intestines having an argument? Fuck. My. Life.
Unholy week is over. My insides? Tender. What about that chest x-ray? Next time. There's always next time.
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