What have I learned? That when you’re a real adult, no one cares if you’re ill
I love the phrase “food poisoning”. It’s perfect, conveying the drama so succinctly: how the food you love betrayed you, luring you into a false sense of security. You see it, sitting there innocently on the grill alongside its harmless friends, the veggie skewers. “These?” the burger says, alluding to its seductive chargrilled lines. “Why, they’re all yours, of course.” A poisoning, a fatal trick. Shakespearean, really.
Sorry: that’s just the food-poisoning fever talking. You think weird things when you’ve been trapped, as I have, on what feels like the longest trip on Earth following a rogue BBQ burger. This is the first time in years I’ve been sick – properly sick, the kind where you can’t sit up because the room is spinning and even daytime TV is too complicated to follow (“But how can Phoebe afford her New York apartment as a masseuse?”). Instead you lie drooling, stuck in an out-of-body experience, where the mundane furniture of your bedroom becomes a kaleidoscope and Bargain Hunt is a sermon from God. Some people go to the desert and take ayahuasca, finding their true self in visions of the divine mother. Me, I just need a dodgy bap and David Dickinson on repeat.
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