I am currently travelling through the land of the unwell.
I say travelling, but I'm hoping it's just a day-trip. Dodgy stomach, a migraine and a general sense of feeling a bit, well, off.
It's nothing a good night's sleep won't cure, I'm sure (1). Admittedly there was a moment today when I thought a curious throb in my left arm might be a heart attack. But it – the throb and the thought – passed quickly and, for the most part, I am the opposite of a hypochondriac. It's nothing, I tend to think. It will be gone by the morning.
When I was 12 or so I read a James Herriot book. At one point he tried to put a sickly dog down, but underestimated the dose because, after a good long sleep, the poorly dog was up and about and not feeling quite so poorly. I've turned that anecdote into my default medical position: when in doubt go to bed.
Someone once told me that men between the ages of 20 and 45 visit their GP least, so I guess I'm typical. I reckon I've been to the doctor 10 times in 20 years. I've been in hospital overnight twice, the last time when I was 10 to get my tonsils out.
And yet J tells me I'm always moaning about feeling rubbish. Maybe, but I clearly don't feel rubbish enough to bother a professional about it.
In fact, I can only really remember being properly sick twice as an adult. I had the flu once. We all say we've had the flu but it's only when you get a proper dose that you realise sniffles and an itchy head aren't quite the same thing. That was the nearest I've had to an out-of-body experience, as I thrashed about in a constant feverish shiver.
But the one etched into my memory is when I ate some reheated rice in a Stirling Indian restaurant (thankfully no longer there). I was working in a bookshop at the time. Between starting to feel unwell while sitting on the till and pebble-dashing the storeroom wall with regurgitated mushroom curry took about 30 seconds.
I vomited for the next three days. Even when I had nothing to throw up my body was still retching. Not even an injection stopped it. By the time my body finally decided to end its impersonation of a geyser, the blood vessels around my eyes had burst. I looked like a zombie in an advanced state of decay. I could have appeared on The Walking Dead without make-up. Unfortunately vampires were in that year. Shame. Could have been a nice little earner (2).
Anyway, time for bed. See you in the morning. All being well.
 If my self-diagnosis turns out to be a bit off please tell the funeral director to play Bjork's All Is Full Of Love and Sandy Denny's Who Knows Where The Time Goes?
 It took 15 years before I could go to an Indian restaurant again.
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