What battle rage inside my insides

Trip Start Apr 17, 2006
Trip End Jun 14, 2006

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Tuesday, May 9, 2006

All is not well again in my intestinos: last night I must have produced enough gas to heat an average UK home for a year. Whatever chemical processing plant had established itself in my bowels was causing me a lot of pain and I didn't sleep much. By morning, I was convinced that I had irritable bowel syndrome. I started to contemplate the impact it would have upon my life and whether my friends would still want to know me, or whether I would become a revolting social stink bomb and be forced to retire into lifelong seclusion in a well-ventilated shed on a windy Scottish hillside. I miserably presented myself to my kindly Grandma host, who forbade any further travel and sent me to the doctor.

He saw me almost immediately, and once I'd explained my predicament he lay me down and started drumming on my stomach. It sounded alarmingly hollow. Should one's guts sound hollow or not? Still, looking for a silver lining to the cloud that had settled itself tenaciously over my head, I did reflect that my bowels had a pleasing acoustic quality, a small comfort should I have to come to terms with this ailment on a permanent basis. The doctor paused thoughtfully. Perhaps he was contemplating the commercial value of my complaint and considering the feasibility of connecting me up to the mains and mining the contents of my insides to sell to the gas board. He stood back and pronounced his judgement: "it's the water - nothing more. Very common." What, that's it? You mean I've been worrying about nothing?

He gave me a small sheet of paper with a "dieta astringenta" printed upon it. I was to eat boiled carrots, mashed banana, grated apple, toast, and quince jelly (this translation, courtesy of my dictionary, did not help me - do you know what "quince" is?), and drink only mineral water. I left swearing to stick to the diet religiously. Passing a bakery a few metres down the road decided that a nice danish pastry was just what I needed to cheer myself up.

That afternoon, I got fed up of being fed up and decided to vists Nono's principle attraction, the Museo Rocsen, a warehouse attractively packed to the hilt with every different sort of object you could possibly care to present. Sadly, I was in no fit state to enjoy it or, indeed, its toilets, and decided on reflection that being fed up was probably the best option for the time being.

I returned to the old grandma's home and boiled myself up a nice meal of carrots followed by mashed banana, before presenting myself to my bed, which after last night was hoping never to see me again. I awoke in the night feeling horrendous, downed a paracetamol, and bored of lying in bed feeling terrible, decided (quite innocently, as it happens) to take a trip to the bathroom - a fortunate course of events, for when I got there, I immediately threw up the paracetamol and undigested remains of my bizzare dinner. At this point I decided that I really wasn't having fun.
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