Ok, so this should be the triumphal, post-Easter shakedown, the end of Unholy Week. Pictures to follow. However. It is not. It is the inevitable "Oh God I HAVE BEEN SO ILL". Top stuff.
Funny, well, not really. See, the thing here is I'm pitching it as food poisoning based on a dicky packet of cous-cous. Mmmm, a whole 61 pence worth of Tesco cous-cous. Prepared, as per the packet's instructions, in a bowl with boiling water. Lovely. Super duper. It's late at night, I needed to eat after a long Maundy Thursday, but it was too late to make a big meal. I should have made a bowl of rice instead. Anyway. For some reason, unbeknownst to all mortal men, my usually cast-iron digestion takes up some umbrage against this token offering. I probably offended it, with all my talk of curry before and then changing my mind. Obviously my fault for not following through. Ho ho. I had a really bad night that night. I didn't sleep til at least gone 4am, my legs felt weak, my bones were pained, and my back, particularly the base of my spine was in agony. Tcham.
Arising on Good Friday, I found myself wanting of a little breakfast, and in dire need of a shower. I shaved the night before. Tea was high on the agenda as it always is (the most benign addiction ever?), so I saw to all of these while brewing the blessed cup. Until Monday evening, that was the last cup I had. Deep folly. Another spurious factor to the failure of my health. Anyway.
Good Friday's "All Age Service" rolls on. God knows I absolutely deplore the style and substance (or perhaps the lack thereof) of the breed of 'hymns' contained therein. Indeed, the lack of particularly the spitting, if not the nails and the cross from the average all age shindig leave me feeling a little lacking. I think you will find that this is a perfectly fine opinion to have, and is shared by many others and if you don't agree, then frankly I don't care. I'm not here to pander to your opinion, especially not on this blog. As much as I snort and snoot about, I respect your opinion if you take the opposite view. I like to think Voltaire's statement should always stand. Anyway. There was more than one straw that broke the camel's back that day. The first was that the choiristers, the young children of the choir were offered (and I quote) "percussion instruments" for use in the final 'hymn'. What? Christ Almighty. What really happened? The honest truth? They were forgotten. The crate revealed, then swiftly left well alone. Somehow it just didn't fit in with the coreography of the end of the service. You know what? Actual act of God. Proof of the Lord working right there.
Rehearsal before was the greater life shortener. I am going through a rough patch at Choir, where Glorious Musical Directorship Leader believes most wholeheartedly that I am not watching. That in a rash spate of amateurism (Oh ho! Don't start yourself boy) and possible early-onset megalomania, I deliberately make sure my voice rings out after everyone elses. Rage ensues. To say that my blood boils is nothing short of a grave understatement. Seriously. I will stand for an entire Friday night's rehearsal so 1) I can keep my air column straight and keep working on my support and posture and 2) I expend as little effort as possible watching. Haha! That's right. I'm so apathetic, I can't be arsed to sit down in case I get into trouble for not watching, as other people have, and often do. Whatever. Brrr! ANGER.
Breaking free from the bounds of the mighty Spamcroft, I have some anger to burn. There's a continental market in town, and after a few conversations with a scholar and her housemate, definitely fetch some notes from the bank and hit the Paella stand. For a fiver, I got a little shortchanged as far as the meat content went, having but one small piece of chicken and 4 slices of Chorizo Fort for my trouble. Digging in all the same, just as enjoyable, I begin to feel weak. Weak at the knees. Literally. I make a dash for a bench, betwixt the aforementioned scholar and her housemate. I end up ditching the paella without even clearing half of it. What? I crawl up to the nearby Tesco Metro, and purchase a bottle of Tikka Masala, and a bottle of Fentiman's Victorian Lemonade. I figure, "I feel ill, so I might as well splash out". I bought the curry in anticipation of the planned meal later that day, which I swiftly postponed. A wise decision.
After landing at the good ship Nelson Court, I retired. Immediately. No shit. I must have slept for about five hours without being disturbed. Like a good little idiot, I decided to keep silent about this. I woke up groggy, sweaty, dehydrated, and feeling decidedly off-colour. The terrible thing about my room is that it seems to be far too hot. My evidence? That if you sit a pint of water with a number of ice cubes inside, after a while you will have no ice cubes and slightly more water, and if you wait longer, the water gets warm. Mmmmm.
The night was ill-spent, trying to sleep and fending off terrible digestive disturbances. Absolutely terrible. I ended up sleeping for about nine or ten hours though and feeling...a little better after heaving myself out of the pit. No Tea though. Oh dear. Deep Folly. This tale of woe is a two parter, I'll be surprised if you have the patience to read it all, so good luck to you all.
No comments:
Post a Comment