I am suffering from complete and utter writers block. Every time I sit down to write something that I had thought would make a good post nothing comes out but wordy and dull drivel. In fact it is worse than drivel. Drivel I would take right now. Drivel would be Shakespeare compared with the crap I am writing. I have been having this issue for a few weeks now, since returning from my holiday. I enjoyed my holiday greatly, so it can't be that but I was slightly ill (a phrase I seem to be using with far too much frequency of late. Take note illness, Go The Fuck Away. You have been warned) and haven't completely gotten over it. However, I have a theory. It's a terrible theory but it's all I have, so I am running with it. I feel that by perhaps sharing with you the horrendous misfortune of my holiday I may free up my mind to be able to write again. So here goes nothing.
Two major incidences happened this holiday which have resulted in my mother, Sister and The Country One almost insisting on me going to the doctor; I shall start with the less embarrassing one. When finishing our holiday, my mother, father and I stayed in Sitges, just South of Barcelona where an annoying twunt of an insect poisoned me with its venom . I turned out to be allergic to this particular venom and the underside of my left arm decided that the end of my holiday would be the perfect time to swell up to the size of Russia. Well, we were in The Gay capital of Europe and I was with my parents, I was hardly going to enjoy a holiday romance so I guess it thought, why the hell not. I have only ever had one other allergic reaction to a bite before and that bite mark decided to stick around on my arm for about four years. It was a sexy time for me. Luckily, this bite has already almost vanished and it hasn't even been four weeks. "Get In!" is what I believe my Essex friends would say.
Although my mother was urging me to see a Spanish doctor each time the swelling decided to edge its way closer towards my elbow, I was being stubborn. It was not that bad and after reading a horror story relating to a Spanish doctor hacking off a perfectly good limb because it looked 'iffy', I was having none of it. I was staying as far away from the doctor as I was from the nudest beach (why is it, by the by, that nudest beaches only ever attract the very elderly and seriously perverse!? I remember walking passed one along the French Riviera and being shell shocked after witnessing a man - who was no spring chicken - asleep on the beach with a full on erection, teamed with his wife's utter lack of shame at this public display as she waved me a 'Bonjour'. She looked positively proud. And people say I over share!?). However, three days after the insect had infected me with his poison, the swelling was still expanding and I was beginning to lose the feeling in my fingers. Dammit! My bite had won. I begrudgingly went off to the only place in Sitges that was always open; the pharmacy, and queued up nervous that with the smallest amount of Spanish I had I may have to explain my situation through mime. Luckily, the man in charge spoke pretty terrific English and there was no mime needed. Which now I think of it is a pity, as I had spent so long waiting that the prepare mime I had rustled up in my head would have blown the whole shop away. Oscar winning, I'm telling you.
The pharmacist explained that the allergic reaction had caused my fingers to numb because it was in a 'bad' place. The way he kept repeating the word 'bad' made me feel as if I were a naughty school girl and I couldn't work out if I should reply 'thank you' or 'sorry', and so 'sanks' came flooding from my mouth before I had had time to stop and think, and for some baffling reason would not stop coming out. What's worse is that I could tell as soon as I had said the word 'sanks' that this was not the correct response and so it also became slightly stuttered and turned into a sort of 's-saaanks-s-s-saaanks-sanks'. And so as I stood there looking half dazed, half perplexed, stuttering away, left arm swelling as the man drew - with semi permanent marker, I might add, which only faded after three days - a line on the underside of my left arm indicating where the swelling was allowed to go before I had to rush myself to hospital for an injection to stop the 'bad' reaction from infecting my immune system, I was suddenly overjoyed that I was holidaying with my parents and not The Nice One or anyone else remotely handsome. Several antihistamines later, the swelling was unnoticeable but the drowsiness was in full swing. I'm still not a hundred per cent sure how much of my alarming concern for The Nice One's safety when I heard the BBC World News reader inform me that the riots in England had reached The Nice One's Northern quarters, was due to this drug and my allergic reaction and how much was my rational self. The Nice One didn't seem too alarmed by my sudden concern so perhaps under my legal drug high I managed to play it cool. That would be a first.
Sister, in the dramatic way she does, has now decided that I would be a simpleton if I were not to carry an epipen with me whenever I step out of the house in case such an incident should occur again (the allergic reaction, not the alarming concern for The Nice One's safety). I am risking life and limb with every step I take without carrying such a life saving device with me At. All. Times. OK, so she wasn't quite that dramatic, but two allergic bites does not an anaphlaxic sufferer make. Shit, actually, this would be the third allergic reaction but if I share that with Sister she may drag me to the doctor herself. She may be small but she's freakishly strong and I wouldn't put it past her. Let's talk no more about that then.
So you have heard of my less embarrassing health related story and now to the one that leaves me shuddering with shame that I can't believe I am going to write it down for all to read. To break up the Spanish part of our holiday, my family and I boarded a cruise ship to take us across the Mediterranean. On the first night of this cruise, when dining with perfect strangers from Atlanta, I became rather ill. With a history of low blood pressure I have always had a tendency for fainting, it used to happen so frequently that I am now degree level at stopping myself from fainting before I ever actually do. If you ever come across me sitting (or if you're truly blessed, lying) on a kitchen or toilet floor (cold surfaces are the key) then fear not, I have not fallen in love with the toilet or new kitchen cabinets, I am merely keeping myself cool until the fainting spell passes. However, sitting on this table with a middle aged American couple, a sudden wave of warning hit me with such strength that there was no way I could escape in time. This particular on board restaurant was huge (it bloody would be, wouldn't it), I had no idea where the toilets (my beloved cold surface) were and frankly, I had barely enough time to inform my mum that I thought I may be about to faint before it was too late, so the chances of getting myself to the desired location in time were slim to none. With my head already on the table my arms apparently fell from my sides and tried desperately to reach for the floor and take me with them as I passed out right there at the table. By the time I came round I was struck with not only the embarrassment of fainting in public but also with the fact that I had managed to throw up whilst passed out as part of the show. What can I say, remember I have previously warned you all that when I do something I put my whole self into it. I have never been more mortified, relieved and confused leaving a restaurant in my life. What could possibly be worse!? Oh, have I yet to mention that when on a cruise ship you dine with the same people and have the same waiters throughout? I was personally happy to never eat again, but bizarrely my parents insisted we still attend the evening meals. Rude and selfishness personified.
The one saving grace of it all was that the other couple (beyond lovely couple) there on their honeymoon who were also dining with us had not made it to the restaurant on our first night and so missed my spectacular pyrotechnics. Thank Mickey Mouse himself. Although I mentioned the fainting to my new favourite Americans, the whole vomiting incident was swiftly forgotten. I don't know how that happen.
And so, I hope the sharing of this humiliating story has now banished my writers block. If not, I'm definitely moving to Leeds. Where nobody knows my name and I will become oblivious to any such story. Vomiting!? At a table!? Whilst passed out!? Who!? Nope, never heard that story before.
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