Chunder World
For the last few days I have been recovering from the mighty Noro-virus.
This is how the virus works.
1. The virus works best given the temporal proximity of a much-longed-for event, say a holiday, a public performance, a festive event, a party or a family get together.
Mine was a family Christmas, my friend’s was a much practiced for Christmas gig, my other friend’s was a Halloween Party.
Possibly if you are getting married, you should beware. Maybe get a wipe clean dress.
And a bucket; not a bouquet.
(No, I haven’t written the post round that crap pun! How little you think of me.)
2. The virus’s opening gambit is extreme nausea. This will wake you up in the middle of the night but take hours to turn into any kind of relief inducing vomit. During this time you may have visions of the Underworld.
No literally, I was hallucinating that I was in the factory in Coronation Street arguing with Underworld vixen boss, Carla. (Oh, that cow!).
I wasn’t lucid enough to tell, but I may have been Janice Battersby. The Horror! The Horror!
Illness dreams are messed up. It’s like being on bad acid.
W.T.F?
3. Some whining will happen. But beware not to wake your partner, as all they can do is misguidedly rub your back which may make you more nauseous. This may lead to you saying something that might come off like you are less than grateful for their attentions.
And trust me, you’re going to need them not to hate you in the following days.
4. The vomit will hit, ripping most of the muscles in your torso as it surges its way into your sewerage system.
Don’t worry about having time to make it to the toilet, though. You will have been sleeping slumped over it for two hours previously waiting for the event whimpering, “Mu-um….Mu-um…”, even though your Mummy hasn’t lived in the same house as you for some time.
Your New Best Friend
5. The virus will then lull you into a false sense of security by making them think that vomit is the whole of the enterprise. However, it will go on to hit you with a headache that makes you want to claw your own brains out. I actually saw the pulsing graphic circles that they have in headache adverts come from my own head.
6. When you finally manage to sleep, the virus will wake you with cold sweat soaking your jammies and sheets and sleeping partner. It’ll feel like that scene in Flashdance but not as sexy.
Replace Jennifer Beals with naked Uncle Fester and we’re onto something
7. Once the vomiting and headache subside, you will be unable to even see a photo of food in your line of vision. Even if someone takes out a camera and says “Cheese”, you will feel dizzy. Mind you, this is unlikely as no-one will want to photograph you as you will look like Skeletor from “He-Man”.
Me, on Christmas day. I was going to be wearing that outfit anyway.
However, now that I am better I am willing to share one of a possible three funny* stories during which vomit has played a part.
None of these will show me in a good light, so you can choose from the following options with confidence:
1. The Spotted Umbrella Vomit
2. The Long-Lost Goth Friend Vomit
3. The High Velocity German Vomiting Boyfriend
4. Misssy, we’d rather not hear any more vomit stories. I mean this is the second one you’ve done. Tell us more about the kids and Meeester and stop the madness. We didn’t sign up for this.
Just let me know which option you’d like and I’ll work myself up to it.
* I say “funny”, but how gauche of me, really.
From Hull to Rotterdam via Hades
Little did Leo realise,he would spend the rest of the night
holding Kate’s hair back
The Flying Martinis are off once again. Except this time we’re not flying. We are, in the words of craggy-faced, fake-Scotsman, brunette-shunning, lothario Rod Stewart, sailing.
Cross the water, cross the sea to the Netherlands, as it happens. I am really looking forward to it. At least I was until French workmate’s response to me telling him that I was going on a caravanning holiday to Holland was a simple and deadpan,
“God, that sounds terrible”
We leave on Saturday departing from Hull, as sailings to Holland from the far closer Rosyth are twice as expensive for no good reason. Maybe the expensive air and ferry fares in my country are a ruse to keep us Scots firmly within our borders. We do have a tendency to kind of take over. (Waves) Hello wee Gordy from Fife!
It has occurred to me that I haven’t been on an overnight ferry for a very long time indeed. There is a good reason for this. And that, my friends, is the theme of today’s Misssive.
At age sixteen my childhood friend Helen and I are allowed to go on our own on holiday to visit our other friend Julie whose parents have taken her to live in the Hague. We arrive in Hull 10 hours too early for the ferry and spend the day being skittish and nervous of other people as we are only 16 and from the sticks.
That night we board the ferry and we excitedly find our “couchettes”. Couchettes are wipe clean (and this is important, folks!) armchairs set in rows in a large lounge area. They are not designed for comfort in any way. But they are the cheapest option for wee lassies on a budget.
The journey is underway and after skittishly checking out the vessel for teenage boys, who we may lust after but won’t approach, we make our way back to the couchette lounge to play cards. Outside the rain and wind lash the boat, “Poseidon Adventure” style. The boat starts to lunge.
As darkness falls and the storm outside gets worse, we begin to upset the Dutch gentleman behind us. He apparently cannot stand the excited chatter of annoying girls and complains bitterly to us every five minutes. He is a pain in the arse. So, when he starts to vomit loudly and constantly into a plastic bag, we laugh our asses off. He is well aware of our mockery and scowls at us in between gagging.
“Yaaaaaaarrrghhhhh!”
“Heeheeheeheheheeehheheheheheee!”
“Yaaaaaaaarrrgghhhhhhhh!”
“Hahahahahahaaa! Heeeheheheheee!”
Within 15 minutes it seems that everyone is vomiting and plastic bags are becoming a real commodity. The waves are crashing over the front window of the ferry and at times it feels like the boat is on its end. Despite the hurly-burly, we are still laughing our asses off every time our Dutch friend retches. Sixteen year old girls can be right bastards.
Then it hits us. Repeatedly. We are both sick as dogs for 8 hours straight. We can’t even make it to the bathroom, as we will get flung all over the ship. We do try, but some near misses with falling in the vomit of the many people who tried before us, forces us back to our seats. The couchette saloon becomes the Vomitarium. The walls are spattered with it, the couchettes are covered in it and the floor is swimming in it. It is absolutely vile. Projectile doesn’t even cover it.
The only thing to do is try and sleep on the plastic couchette, clutch your plastic bag and threadbare blanket, pray and wait for morning.
When morning arrives, the place looks like the pits of Hell, the passengers look like the residents of Hell, and our Dutch friend is silent. As are we.
It is 7am, the Tannoy bing bongs,
“We would just like to remind all passengers that the restaurant will be serving breakfast until 9am”
*Collective heave!*
