“This jerk chicken wrap is very disappointing,” I’d unwittingly understated to my friend, not realising the jerk perhaps referred to the convulsing it would have me doing a bit later. “It’s cold, it’s tasteless, but I will eat it all anyway.”
That was on Thursday night. By Sunday night, I had been able to eat no more than a couple of slices of pizza and three Weetabix. Hence, I had to forego Easter eggs and the Easter roast.
Within a couple of hours of having eaten, the vomiting had begun. I’d managed to make it home with only a couple of street vomits, and so began a long night of trying to lie as still as possible – the slightest shift in my position brought forth more of the yellow stuff. Between you and me, not all of it managed to make its way to the toilet in time.
"Do you think you might have had your drink spiked?" asks my Dad, ever the conspiracy theorist. "Lot's of ne'er-do-wells in that London."
"I wasn't even in London," I reply. "I was in a well-to-do Cathedral City."
"The English!" hisses my father.
When it came to venture home to my parents for Easter, I was not happy. A temperature of 102° and every muscle in my chest and stomach strained made me miserable enough as it was as the wind drove the marble-sized chunks of hail under the covering of Kilburn station and into my fed-up face.
Share a good vomit story with me.
4 weeks ago