In which a poorly defrosted piece of steak floors me for a day. I spent most of Sunday night in a heap on the bathroom floor, writhing around for hours as wave upon wave of stomach cramps twisted me up. There may have been some manly screaming. Unpleasant things poured from both ends of me. It was not a great deal of fun.
Monday was spent in bed, trying to sip water, cramping up every time I did. It’s Monday night as I type this, and I’ve just knocked back a couple of glasses of diluting juice. It’s a challenge to my system. If the juice bends me over with more cramping, I may seek out some medical assistance tomorrow. If it doesn’t, may try to eat something solid before bed tonight.
In the meantime, things may have happened since Sunday night, but I have no idea what they are. I have a feeling we now have a trial housekeeper, for example. Certainly, the flat is exceptionally tidy. I seem to have some catching up to do.
Edited to add: it’s the next day. A nurse has been seen. Slow recovery commences.