Casualty of British Pie Week

I type this while sitting at home with a headache, having eaten 4 slices of toast and a few crackers today. Yesterday all I had was a bowl of rice and 2 crackers. In fact, yesterday more food came out than went in. And it's (probably) all because of pie.

This week has been, and still is, British Pie Week. I love pie. Even the not-really-pie-IMO casserole-with-a-lid types, such as the first pie I had this week: Monday lunch, Porters in Covent Garden, a bedevilled chicken and mushroom "pie".

Pork pie by su-lin via Flickr

My second pie this week was Monday evening. I got home and Ruth had a pie in the oven. When I told her what I'd had for lunch she was a little panicky, wondering if I really would want a second pie that day. Apparently my reaction of shouting "FUCKING EPIC WIN" when she said pie was on the cards was not clear enough. Pfft.

On Tuesday I went for lunch in a pub local to the office with a colleague, and had pie. Game and mushroom this time. Still not proper. This had to change, so on Wednesday I bought a pork pie from the corner shop, plus a packet of "Apple Pie Cookies". They bore no relation to anything pie-like except in name.

Still on Wednesday, I went for (literally) a pint after work, and then home. Prior to having eaten -- in fact, I was unlikely to bother making owt for meself -- Ruth texted me asking if I wanted anything from the chippy. I ordered minced beef and onion pie with chips. It was awesome.

As it happens, the last time I remember throwing up I don't remember throwing up. That's because it was in my sleep. I was at uni, 1993/94. Way way WAY too much to drink one evening, followed by a garlic pizza bread, I woke up the following morning feeling surprisingly fine. Great, even. No signs of a hangover at all. But I also felt wet, and that's because I'd been sick all over the bed and my hair (this was during my ponytail-down-to-my-arse era) and just EURGH HORRIBLE NASTY. I put all the clothes, bedclothes, etc in a black sack ready to take to the laundrette, and had a shower. Walked to uni and ran into a couple of the people I'd been out with, who were both hungover to fuck and angry at how good I was feeling. Granted I could have fucking died, Bon Scott style, but hey.

Anyway, that's no longer the last time. The last time I threw up was yesterday morning. I woke up feeling hungover, which a single pint should never do. And then when I sat and stood up, my guts had a word with me and my head was pounding. Fuck that, I thought. Went and got a pint of squash and logged on to email in sick. Then the loo called. Back to the laptop, and then the bathroom again: that squash did not want to stay in my stomach. :-(

I still felt awful, so I had some more water. Half an hour later that came back out 'n all. So now I was in a bit of a state. I consider myself to have an iron constitution. I suffer from hangovers, but I pretty much never get dodgy stomachs or anything like that. I once went to India (albeit for only 50 hours or so) and had curry for 7 meals running without getting the shits. So this was a bit worrying and I was considering phoning my GP's surgery to get an appointment -- but before that I tried NHS Direct.

NHS Direct's self-help system is great, like the books I had as a kid where at the end of each page I had to choose what I wanted my character to do, and my decision determined the page I had to turn to next. And just like those books, when the first series of answers I gave came back with a large, bold GO TO A&E message I thought I'd start over and see if I could get a better answer. Mercifully the second attempt gave me some "it's safe to treat this yourself at home" advice that mostly involved drinking very little, eating fuck all, or very bland food, and getting some stuff from a pharmacist.

I went to the pharmacist, slowly, feeling wobbly, just generally not coping with feeling that bad at all. I bought 2 types of medicine, some tablets and some super-rehydrating soluble stuff. They told me to avoid milky stuff, avoid acidic and sugary stuff, in fact just to sip the soluble stuff and take a tablet after each time I went to the loo.

Got home, went to the kitchen ready to make a sachet up when the bathroom called, and that's when I properly threw up. God damn it that's one fucking rank experience. It having been so long I'd pretty much forgotten how it felt and was not that well prepared. Eurgh. After cleaning up I had a shower, made some Dioralyte, and sat on the sofa. That was pretty much it for the rest of the day. I had the laptop open and the TV on but neither were doing wonders for my headache. I dozed a lot. I supped water. I felt really ill. Gah.

In the evening Ruth made me a bowl of plain rice, which stayed down. Then I ate a couple of crackers, which did likewise. But my headache got worse, the paracetamol I took didn't seem to do much good, and Paris Hilton's British Best Friend came on TV so I went to bed. Didn't wake up properly 'til about 11 hours later, which is a huge amount of sleep for me. Didn't feel much better though. Well, I felt/feel less sick, but still dehydrated, a bit weak, and hungry but without much of an appetite. Worst of all my head still hurt.

It got a bit better this morning and, as I opened with, I felt well enough to try some toast at lunch time. Eating it seemed to make things worse -- thankfully not my guts, but my head for sure.

I wish I'd never had that beef and onion pie.