A bug that’s hard to stom­ach

The Peterborough Evening Telegraph - - Thornton on thursday -

Some of my crit­ics may think this col­umn is about as in­ter­est­ing as the back of a fag packet. The sim­i­lar­i­ties are even greater this week as this col­umn comes with a health warn­ing.

I have de­cided to share my ex­pe­ri­ence of a hor­ri­ble bout of the dreaded norovirus. I hummed and aa­hed, but at the risk of be­ing ac­cused by our lo­cal MPof writ­ing a col­umn for chavs what fol­lows is my ver­sion of Em­bar­rass­ing Bod­ies.

Di­ar­rhoea is a hor­ri­ble word ( and a swine to spell) for a hor­ri­ble con­di­tion and there­fore I shall hence­forth coyly re­fer to it as an episode.

The dreaded bug ap­peared swiftly and vi­o­lently and as un­wanted as that DIY En­doscopy kit Great Aunt Mil­dred bought me.

Within hours of first feel­ing a bit un­der the weather I was con­fined to my bed en­dur­ing fierece bouts of sweats and shiv­ers punc­tu­ated by sev­eral mad dashes to you know where.

I would wish it on my worst en­emy – but not on any­one else.

For­tu­nately, I was not alone and Mrs T stood back and was counted. She im­me­di­ately set up an ex­clu­sion zone around my sickbed as she trans­formed into an odd mix of Florence Nightin­gale and Bev­er­ley Al­litt.

She takes the “in sick­ness’’ part of our mar­riage vows very se­ri­ously. If I was be­ing un­char­i­ta­ble ( not like me I know) I would sus­pect a small part of her likes me weak and de­fence­less.

In my fevered state as I slipped in and out of a fit­ful sleep I some­times woke to find her at the foot of the bed like Kathy Bates in Mis­ery – car­ing but sin­is­ter.

Slowly, I started to im­prove, the episodes started to be­come less fre­quent and I ten­ta­tively added dry toast to my water and re­hy­dra­tion tablet diet.

Five days in and I was won­der­ing whether to sug­gest to Mrs T that she pops down to Ann Sum­mers in Bridge Street to see if they had any “nurses uni­forms’’ in the New Year sales. She quickly cooled any stir­rings with a line of de­tailed ques­tion­ing about my cur­rent state of health that would have won her the ap­proval of poo ex­pert Gil­lian McKeith.

Now the bug has fi­nally re­leased its grasp on me I can start to look on the bright side.

I man­aged to shed half a stone and talks are al­ready un­der­way for the video – Nigel’s Norovirus Diet... re­sults guar- an­teed in days.

The wine rack is look­ing in much bet­ter shape than it nor­mally does at this time of year hav­ing been spared its usual New Year bat­ter­ing. Ditto the Christ­mas boxes of choco­lates.

There’s also room on the Sky Plan­ner on the telly in the bed­room. Although I’m not sure how I’m go­ing to ex­plainto Mrs T how the Downton Abbey Christ­mas spe­cial got deleted.

And as a Bru­cie bonus the bug has been the in­spi­ra­tion for this col­umn mean­ing me and my crit­ics can fi­nally aggee on some­thing... it’s a load of ****!

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