Saturday, 5 February 2011

By the time you read this, I'll already be dead

Well, I'm pretty sure I've got plague at the moment. My plague, incidentally, has rabies. And the rabies has typhoid. And the typhoid fever? It's got ebola. And this ebola's not sick with any old other illnesses, no sir - this ebola's healthy, live and kicking. What it's kicking, to be precise, is my immune system, hard and painfully. This ebola wears steel toecapped boots.

Perhaps I should go back to the beginning.

It was Wednesday when there I sat in my lesson, my stomach churning somewhat uneasily. I don't always have the most quiet of stomachs, but I know the warning signs, and I felt suddenly like there was a strong possibility I was going to be sick. I quickly excused my self from the lesson, and found the nearest toilets. They were staff only, but, hey, any port in a storm. I'm sure anyone would be understanding.

By this time, I was starting to feel slightly more normal, so I walked into the toilets thinking, well, maybe I won't be sick. Maybe I'll just stay here feeling slightly foolish for five minutes, I thought, heading into a cubicle, and everything will be...

I never finished that thought, because I projectile vomited literally everywhere. I was standing about six feet away from the toilet, and I managed to get some in the bowl. That's an achievement. In general, however, my aim was less good. The floor, the walls, the door of the stall I'd been about to walk into, were splattered with what, a few hours earlier, I'd called 'lunch'. 'Lunch' was more fun the first time round. I'm pretty sure I actually took out a small passing fly with my vomit, drowning it in mid air, in what is undoubtedly the least noble death suffered by any living creature ever.

You know how, when you throw up in someone elses' bathroom, good etiquette is to clean it up as well as you can?

I did not follow bathroom etiquette. I finished throwing up (unbelievably, there was still more to come) in the other, non biohazard, stall, and left quickly and very, very quietly, after cleaning my shoes,the only bit of me to be remotely affected. The cleaners are going to think one member of staff has satan in their stomach. The staff are going to be rounded up and shot. The room will, no doubt, be flooded with bleach.

Since then, my symptoms have been varied - feeling lightheaded and detatched from the universe, also known as "free drugs!", further (less artistic) vomiting, and that wonderful moment earlier where half my face decided the only reasonable course of action to take was to swell up cartoonishly so that one eye was held shut. This is obviously the way your immune system is supposed to respond to a stomach bug.

So if I never post again, don't be surprised. I might have died from my consortment of ailments. I might be in a hospital bed, tubes in every orifice, breath given by a machine that looks like the result of R2D2's torrid love affair with an accordion.

But probably, I'll be found, some weeks later, in a back alley, lying on my front. As I'm rolled over, the dog walker who finds my corpse (it's always dog walkers. I think they're up to something) will notice two things. Firstly, the mad, staring look in my eyes. And secondly? The cloth soaked in bleach hanging from inside my slack, dead, jaw.

I'm worried now. I'm worried about ninja cleaners.


  1. I laughed out loud, very loudly.

  2. Please don't die I've only just discovered your blog and I want to read more!