Statutory Warning: The frozen processed-meat produce sections of all stores contain cryogenically frozen animals that have been stored there to be revived by some future generation that would have evolved a cure for their disease.
D-DAY………
....nestled in their polythene packing “Costas Sausages” looked endearingly up at me through the glass door of the ‘Farmers Choice’ freezer. They wiggled their fat, glistening, perfectly-shaped little cocktail fingers at me, ‘Take me home,’ they said, “We’ll show you such a good time!”
I took them home!
I HAVE NOW EXPERIENCED THE BARF OF DEATH. THIS IS NO ORDINARY EXPERIENCE : not the kind that feels so good the morning after you’ve tied one on with the guys at the local Pink Pussycat Pub, when you head feels like a balloon, and your cell phone when it rings, sounds like Big Ben doing cartwheels inside your skull.
No, this particular strain must have an official name, something like “Shock & Awe” or “Terminal Velocity”.
The main symptom of food-poisoning is that your insides turn out and your lungs collapse,(well they don’t really collapse, you just run out of breathable air from all that retching.)
Another symptom is that your mouth tastes like a sewer.(I’ve never actually tasted a sewer, but if I had, I’m sure that’s the taste I would have got). So you start to brush your teeth, but your muscles don’t respond and you just have to lie down on the bathroom floor while toothpaste foam dribbles out of the side of your mouth, which hardens into an adhesive paste and bonds your ears to the floor tiles, which is where the coroner may eventually find you.
Then you get a fever and you spend a lot of time lying still and thinking morbid thoughts. One scientific fact is clear though: air is definitely made up of billions of atomic particles. I discover this since I can feel each and everyone of them striking my skin like homing bullets, at supersonic speeds, especially my eyeballs. And when I try to escape by covering my head with the sheet, they attack my, by-now, equally sensitive hair follicles.
That rumpled bed- sheet that has lain on the bed now for the last few days and appears motionless except that it makes the occasional effort to reach for a tissue - do not attempt to prod it, because if it does turn out to be me, and I were alive, and you prodded me, it would kill me.
THREE DAYS LATER......
……I am now trying to lead a more active lifestyle. I attempt to crawl to the bathroom three or four times a day. The bathroom is all of 12 feet away, with a great barrage of atomic air particles en route, and at the halfway point I try to curl up and hope for lightning to strike me, instead I meet up with Buffy, also on all fours. Buffy is the cat. She instantly senses that something is wrong, and guided by that timeless and unerring feline instinct that all cats have, gives me a haughty look reminding me that cats have nine lives.
The day just flies by. Soon it is 7.30 pm, time for sustenance in the form of soft boiled lentils and rice, or what Nadia terms “Barf Kichidi”.Then its time to crawl back, past the haughty Buffy, through the air particles to the bedroom, and call it a night.
DAY FIVE....
……“Aah!”, says the policeman when they find me lying on the bathroom floor, “Barf Kichidi!”
D-DAY………
....nestled in their polythene packing “Costas Sausages” looked endearingly up at me through the glass door of the ‘Farmers Choice’ freezer. They wiggled their fat, glistening, perfectly-shaped little cocktail fingers at me, ‘Take me home,’ they said, “We’ll show you such a good time!”
I took them home!
I HAVE NOW EXPERIENCED THE BARF OF DEATH. THIS IS NO ORDINARY EXPERIENCE : not the kind that feels so good the morning after you’ve tied one on with the guys at the local Pink Pussycat Pub, when you head feels like a balloon, and your cell phone when it rings, sounds like Big Ben doing cartwheels inside your skull.
No, this particular strain must have an official name, something like “Shock & Awe” or “Terminal Velocity”.
The main symptom of food-poisoning is that your insides turn out and your lungs collapse,(well they don’t really collapse, you just run out of breathable air from all that retching.)
Another symptom is that your mouth tastes like a sewer.(I’ve never actually tasted a sewer, but if I had, I’m sure that’s the taste I would have got). So you start to brush your teeth, but your muscles don’t respond and you just have to lie down on the bathroom floor while toothpaste foam dribbles out of the side of your mouth, which hardens into an adhesive paste and bonds your ears to the floor tiles, which is where the coroner may eventually find you.
Then you get a fever and you spend a lot of time lying still and thinking morbid thoughts. One scientific fact is clear though: air is definitely made up of billions of atomic particles. I discover this since I can feel each and everyone of them striking my skin like homing bullets, at supersonic speeds, especially my eyeballs. And when I try to escape by covering my head with the sheet, they attack my, by-now, equally sensitive hair follicles.
That rumpled bed- sheet that has lain on the bed now for the last few days and appears motionless except that it makes the occasional effort to reach for a tissue - do not attempt to prod it, because if it does turn out to be me, and I were alive, and you prodded me, it would kill me.
THREE DAYS LATER......
……I am now trying to lead a more active lifestyle. I attempt to crawl to the bathroom three or four times a day. The bathroom is all of 12 feet away, with a great barrage of atomic air particles en route, and at the halfway point I try to curl up and hope for lightning to strike me, instead I meet up with Buffy, also on all fours. Buffy is the cat. She instantly senses that something is wrong, and guided by that timeless and unerring feline instinct that all cats have, gives me a haughty look reminding me that cats have nine lives.
The day just flies by. Soon it is 7.30 pm, time for sustenance in the form of soft boiled lentils and rice, or what Nadia terms “Barf Kichidi”.Then its time to crawl back, past the haughty Buffy, through the air particles to the bedroom, and call it a night.
DAY FIVE....
……“Aah!”, says the policeman when they find me lying on the bathroom floor, “Barf Kichidi!”
