29.09.2006 11:01 - Poo and Vomit Woe.
WARNING : This is not a story for those of a nervous disposition, or a weak stomach. If you are easily offended, then you'd better go back to googling for "cute kitten pictures".
Right, are we all sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.
There is a breed of dried polish/italian sausage that is widely sold in Aldi. This sausage is evil, and is basically akin to playing Russian roulette with your stomach. I don't think Aldi UK sell them, as they quite possibly contravene UK food regulations, not to mention numerous treaties on bacteriological warfare. I once ate one of these sausages, and regretted it for a week.
This particular sausage, you see, was home to a colony of bacteria. The bacteria in question were initially quite surprised at being eaten, but soon got accustomed to their new home. This was made apparent to me by a growing pain in the gut, and gusts of foul-smelling wind that kept coming up. Imodium didn't help. The next two days involved lots of drinking water, lying in a foetal position, rushing to the toilet, and subsequent baths to cool the relevant evacuation port.
Two days after the initial infection, the bacteria decided to hold a housewarming party, with the bacterial equivalent of loads of alcohol and loud music. The landlord ie my stomach, decided, at 3 in the morning, that enough was enough, and decided to kick out the tenants. Immediately. I just about managed to make it to the porcelain altar.
I always find, in moments of extreme vomiting, that my consciousness divides into two halves. One is the animal half, which is hard-wired into going bleurgh. The other, being the more intelligent half of the act, sits at some distance, watching the process with as much detachment it can muster, occasionally commenting on the process as my stomach muscles knotted themselves up yet again.
"Oh, that's an interesting colour. Bright red."
"Not so much red this time. I think we've nearly got rid of it."
"Oops, that was through the nose, wasn't it?"
"Oh dear, there's nothing left but we're still spasming. If we're not careful the next one will..."
Oh. My. God.
In my last, spectacular convulsion, I had not only thrown the remaining squatters out the front door, so to speak, but also a couple of stragglers via the back. Fortunately I had had the presence of mind to wear underpants, which limited the field of fire somewhat, and acted in a similar manner to a Davy Lamp, otherwise the door would have been blown off its hinges.
I spent the next hour under the shower, groaning softly.
Her Maj complained about the noise waking her up.
It could have been worse.
She could have been standing behind me.