bubbling enthusiasm for $arbitrary_topic
Not much in the way of blogging lately – spent all of Tuesday night throwing up with a nasty touch of gastro enteritis, or something equally foul. I hate throwing up. Always comes out my nose, which is highly unpleasent. The only enjoyable part of yesterday was that I spent so much time feeling like shite that I didn't have the energy to worry about anything else. Still feel ropey today, but at least I can actually sit up now.
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Well, Henman went pretty much the same way as the contents of my stomach did on Tuseday night. I watched part of the match yesterday from the midst of a hazy blur, and the rest of it today whilst recovering. Had no energy to cheer, but then, there wasn't much worth cheering. Pity to see him go out, but then, it's not a huge surprise. Grosjean really is a fast mover – he got to some shots that you really wouldn't have bet anyone could get to. Well, that's the Wimbledon dream over again.
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I've just had my first meal for almost 48 hours. Now my stomach is doing its best impression of a concrete mixer, although hopefully this doesn't presage a return to yakking up all night.
Now, I'm a big fan of the concept of the NHS, particularly the idea that if you're incapacitated, they'll come and see you. But jeeze, do they employ some stupid people. I rang the surgery yesterday and explained what was wrong.
Me: “I've been vomiting and suffering diarrhea all night, I'd like a doctor to come out.”
Brainless secretary: “Can't you come to the surgery?”
Me: “Well, no. I've just spent twelve hours throwing up.”
BS: “Oh. Are you sure you can't come?”
Me: “I don't have a car, I don't know anyone with a car, and I can't barely get as far as the kitchen. It's a 20 min walk to the surgery, I don't think I'd make it.”
BS: “Well, I can't say whether or not a doctor can call round. Are you absolutely sure you can't come in?”
In the end a quack phoned, told me it was a virus and that I should go to the nearest pharmacy to get something over the counter. Hm, I'd really like to see these people walk 15 mins to the nearest pharmacy whilst suffering from an explosively unsettled digestive system. Instead, my dear father came up from Dorset and went to the pharmacy for me whilst I shivered all feverish under my duvet, with a rather concerned cat looking on. (For the first time in our two year long house-sharing history, I was the one that kept her up all night, rather than the other way round. She looked quite befuddled and not a little concerned about the whole thing.)
Now, I'm left bemoaning the fact that I really didn't need to be ill this week, wondering which part of my life is about to implode next (I'm putting money on the business) and whether or not I should just give it all up and become a nun. (Can I be an atheist nun?)
Oh, and by the way, my holiday in the States went for a burton – I had to cancel it. It was going to be my first holiday in 13 years. Looks like I might have to wait a bit longer for that particular luxury.
UPDATE: Ok, dinner was a really bad idea. Ugh.
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