Last weekend, Fliss and I both took ill after eating a suspect steak pie on Saturday evening. Fliss was first to feel the effects on Sunday, seeking shelter under a duvet on the sofa before sprinting for the bathroom a couple of hours later to eject the contents of her stomach.
In between splutters she gasped “I haven’t been sick in a while.”
“Yes”, I offered, “It shows, too – the quality of your wretching isn’t very high.”
A few hours later and that would join the long history of smart ass comments that have come back to haunt me over the years, as I too ended up doubled up on the bathroom floor. Fliss noted that the quality of my wretching was indeed of a good standard. Touché. I ended the evening shivering and curled up in bed as my lips went blue and my body thermostat went all over the place.
The 48 hours that followed weren’t pleasant at all – whatever we got I seemed to end up with a far worse dose than Fliss. I had headaches, stomach cramps, and times when my body temperature would just drop for no apparent reason. I’m still not quite over it towards the end of the week, but I came back to work all the same. That’s something we’re both suckers for – you get people who kick the arse out of sick leave and somehow get away with it, but if either of us have any more than a couple of days off the guilt just adds to the suffering and we both struggle back in.
Anyhow, I’m hopeful that I’ll be feeling a bit better by the weekend, as Fliss is fine now and off on a night out tonight with her work mates. I’ll be hoping that Elisha takes it easy on me – she had her first batch of inoculation’s yesterday, so she’s a little bit under the weather herself.
