A Rumble in My Bumble

One day you’re trotting along wondering how everyone else got so weird and thanking God for your lucky escape and then something happens that proves you’re just as bonkers as everyone else.

On Tuesday, the stomach ache began. On Wednesday, the niggling pains with occasional toilet visits. On Thursday, I could have flown to Boston and back during the time I sat in my bathroom wondering if I’d ever step outside again.

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have eaten anything at all but I did. I ate cheese crackers (intended for Chickie’s party), I ate vegetable crisps (for Chickie’s party) and I ate a mini bag of Haribo (yes, for Chickie’s party).

When the gurgling began, I knew it was bad. My digestive track churned in outrage and on toilet visit No 24, it punished me accordingly. Things turned nasty and a worrying colour. As sensitive as ever to my delicate state, Accountant eased my pain by trying to gas me with solvents, spraying an entire can of Lynx Africa under the bathroom door, before scurrying off to gag down the hallway.

As I sat on the brink of hyperventilation, struggling to breathe from the fumes and blind panic, I wondered whether I should phone Glam-Nan or an ambulance. I opted for Glam-Nan, who was thrilled to hear from her hysterical daughter at 11pm on a Thursday night. Whilst Glam-Nan and Snowy rushed over in their dressing gowns, I rang the on-call doctor. “It’s red. Am I going to die?” I squeaked pathetically. “I doubt it” said the doctor drolly. In no mood for sarcastic medical professionals, I explained again how it was red in case he’d missed it. “That can happen in situations like this” he said “or it could even be haemorrhoids” he added helpfully.

Unconvinced that the doctor had fully grasped the ‘redness’, I resigned myself to a malpractice suit and bid him farewell, looking up pathetically at Glam-Nan and Snowy who had arrived in their pyjamas. They tried their best to control my sobs and convulsions, as I broke down, convinced I was going to die soon, with a camera up my bottom.

“It’s fine” they said, exchanging worried glances as I shook uncontrollably. “It’s not” I wailed. “It’s really not”. They began whispering. “Don’t whisper. I hate it when you whisper” I ordered from the bed.

An hour of placating later and I was ready to risk a snooze, on the strict condition that Glam-Nan remained by my side. Glam-Nan eyed up my 15 togger miserably, used to sleeping in nothing hotter than an 8 herself. “Do you always sleep with this over you?” she asked 22 times before asking a further 22 times “don’t you get hot?”. Followed 22 times by “I only have an eight tog”. I was beginning to wonder whether I’d made a mistake and whether it was too late to swap her for Snowy who lay curled on the lounge floor, his 67 year old frame having a creaking competition with the floorboards.

The next morning, calmed by the lack of action during the night, I felt brave enough to drink a glass of water in bed whilst Glam-Nan endeavoured to scrape Snowy off of the floor and dealt with an exuberant Chickie. Forbidden to leave me alone, Snowy and Glam-Nan took it in turns to return to the comfort of their own home to clean their teeth.

Later that day, Glam-Nan heard three little words she wasn’t looking forward to, as I summoned her from the top of the stairs. “Mum, I’ve been!”. As Glan-Nan trudged up the stairs for her role as colour consultant, my mind cast back to the vegetable crisps I’d eaten the night before. The beetroot crisps. The red beetroot crisps.

Getting the bag out of the bin, I found a small remnant. Never a great fan of science, I decided, just this once, to conduct a little experiment. Dropping the crisp into a glass of water, I watched with interest as the water turned pink, gradually deepening to a dark shade of claret. A very familiar shade of claret.