Saturday 28th March & Sunday 29th March
What a difference 24 hours can make. Yesterday I was swanning round Whipps Cross, practically high-fiving the consultants in celebration of my speedy recovery, and just a day later I feel like the hand of death has slapped me sharply about the back of the head several times before slipping down my throat to deliver a well executed Chinese burn to what little is left of my large colon. Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration, but in my defence, I am only a man. Anyway, I don’t feel well all weekend.
Yucky fluey feeling
UC flare up
The weather (yes, the weather, not entirely sure how an overcast sky can cause stomach ache, but the weather was mooted at one point by my girlfriend.)
At bedtime on Sunday I kiss my girlfriend goodnight and lay my pounding head on the pillow. Then for some reason my tired mind turns to Spike Milligan’s headstone, which famously is inscribed with the epitaph: I told you I was ill. After a few moments mulling this over I feel compelled to say something, “You know, if anything happens to me in the night, then I don’t think it’s the weather, okay.” Out of the darkness a response, “Goodnight, Martin.” It’s then I decide if I’m still alive in the morning, sorry, still feeling the same in the morning I’ll make an appointment to see my GP. I give it another go, “I was just saying that if anyth…” “Goodnight.”