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.

Messages on the Telephone...

You know what they say: your life isn't complete until you have a stalker from Ireland accidentally calling you every now and again.

Do they say that? On second thoughts, maybe they don't. But if they do, I'm pretty sure my brother's life is complete.

Let me explain. About a year ago, my brother got a message on his voicemail. Dialling the number, he was greeted with this:

"Jeff? Jeff, it's Brian." And so it began. I can't remember, off the top of my head, what that first message was, but it set a precedent. It's not regular, but, every few months, Brian tries to call Jeff, and my brother hears his half of the conversation.

"Jeff? Jeff, it's Brian. We haven't met for a while, and I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink?"

"Jeff? Jeff, it's Brian. Look, I still owe you a fiver for mowing the lawn last week..."

"Jeff? Jeff, it's Brian. Are you still looking for work? 'Cause if you are, the Ulster Farmer's union is hiring..."

I don't know who I'm more sorry for. On the one hand, there's Brian. Brian likes Jeff. They were good mates once, and, gradually, that's slipping away. Brian just wants to hang out, to help out with Jeff. Brian's sitting there, thinking to himself - why doesn't Jeff ever call back? The calls themselves give this sad little picture - Brian's hanging with Jeff occasionally, but never seems to initiate contact. He reluctantly does a favour for the guy, and all of a sudden, he's offering him money. He wants to hang out, he wants to help fix all his problems.

Brian's kinda creepy.

I mean, isn't it telling that he hasn't noticed he's got the wrong number? Maybe Jeff gave him the wrong number on purpose, but Jeff hasn't been returning Brian's calls for a while, whatever the situation. Brian doesn't comment on it because he's used to it.

Brian's a sad, lonely man, trying desperately to strike up a friendship with Jeff. Jeff's obviously got a job, if he's not claiming that five pounds. Jeff's moving on to bigger and better things, and Brian's just not a part of that. Brian's left behind.

One day, if I hear of a bloody murder near Ulster, I'll know exactly who did it.

EDIT:

Just a quick note, but Mozzy and I are having a lot of fun over at Grey Matter at the moment. Go take a look!