It's been a rough old 24 hours. Let me explain.
Around about this time last night, I finished up writing my daily dose of rubbish here before thinking about heading downstairs for dinner.
And, all of a sudden, I started to feel a bit queasy. Nothing dramatic, just not great.
It was Vanessa's turn in the kitchen and she arrived shortly afterwards with a plateful of prawns and noodles in a spicy tomato sauce. It was one of her newest creations but I'd had it twice before in recent weeks and liked it. So I began to eat.
But the more I ate, the more sickly I felt although, ever the trooper (what?!) I kept going until my plate was clear.
About half an hour passed by and I didn't feel any better so decided to go to bed. But I wasn't there for long.
Because, within a few minutes, I had my head down the bog barfing my ring up (or, to translate for those of you not fortunate enough to come from the fair Province of Ulster, I was "violently ill").
And I repeated the trick again a short time later.
What then lay ahead was a night of almost no sleep and a feeling of awfulness, particularly at around 3am when Jamie started playing up.
Despite all of this, I did go to work today but am looking forward to a proper snooze tonight.
However, a question remains in my tiny little mind. If it wasn't the food that made me barf - Vanessa was fine after eating the same meal - what did?
The only answer I can think of is that my body (wrongly) preempted that it wouldn't like what was about to be shoved into it, feared it was going to be ill and decided to get the whole thing out of the way as quickly as possible - hence it forced me to feel sick before I had actually eaten anything.
A sicky-bokey early warning system, if you will.
Or I could be totally wrong.
Or I might have just have nothing better to write about tonight.
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