I needed little inspiration this week to start penning another Calm Down Dearest. Have there been any hilarious events occurring in my real life this week that I want to share, you ask? Has there been a news story that really wound me up? Nope, neither. In fact I’m writing this from the same old computer chair that often lays witness to some creativity, only there’s one slight difference… I’m clinging to the arms of the chair in a desperate attempt to avoid shitting myself. That’s right boys and girls; I’m suffering with a severe bout of diarrhoea and vomiting. It’s so severe in fact, that I’m tempted to ring NHS Direct to check whether or not I might have actually contracted the really bad AIDS.
I managed to muster about three hours sleep last night. It’s difficult trying to juggle my REM sleep pattern whilst in constant fear that I might fill my pants unless I’m able to tense my bum cheeks hard enough together to stop it. It was a risky game last night in even daring to drop asleep but luckily for me, I was able to wake up just before the point of no return so that I didn’t do something I haven’t done since I was in nappies. To make matters worse this morning I naively thought the worst of it was over, only for me to have to make a weaving run through the house to my toilet where I quite literally had to make a slam dunk that Michael Jordan would have been proud of.
I don’t think I’ll take a firm stool for granted ever again. Such is my love for a firm stool that I think I’d almost embrace it if one were to arrive at some point today. In the mean time however, I suppose I should just be grateful that I can sit upon my throne safe in the knowledge that when I need to be sick, the sink is within touching distance. Who said men can’t do two things at once?
Given that today could well be a long day in the life of Teddy Long, can anyone clarify whether or not shitting yourself is still socially unacceptable when you’re poorly? It’s not like I’ll want to or anything, it’s just that I’ve already come pretty close and the day is still young. I fear for my pants.
I’m not one to normally make a meal out of being ill, but having consulted the Bristol Stool Chart (yes, there is such a thing) I’m at the very wrong end of it. Type 7.
And if that isn’t bad enough, research from a well known reliable source of information tells me that I might die. Shit the bed. It was nice knowing you one and all. If you find my body, please excuse the mess.