A fright on the tiles and a lost weekend hitting the water bottle in NY
I have had two bad experiences recently. Two weekends ago, I was bringing breakfast up to the wife and daughter when I slipped on the tiles in the kitchen and went flying. I landed on my head, concussed myself and sprained my hand. I was on my hands and knees on the floor amid the broken breakfast plates when my wife came down to check whether I was dead or not. Later that evening I had to fly to London for work. I felt ill in bed that night and the following day had the worst headache in the history of headaches.
The second bad thing happened the day before I went to America for work.(Do you honestly think my wife would let me go to London and then America if it wasn't for work? 'Here, dear. Mind the baby. I'm off to Long Island for the weekend to hang out with Billy Joel.') I contracted some sort of stomach bug and was violently sick. This sickness continued on the plane to America. In fact, it got worse. I was unable to eat or drink anything other than water. At 35,000 feet, I was starting to get paranoid about what the passengers near me might be thinking of this ghostly-faced person who was leaving his seat every 30 minutes on an eight-hour flight to go to the bathroom.
That night when we went for dinner in New York after meeting the aforesaid Billy Joel I couldn't touch the food in the pricey five-star establishment. I spent all of the following day horribly ill, and not a little depressed, in bed in my hotel room. I found myself awake at 4am, Googling solutions and ringing down to reception to order litres of water, whereupon I sat in bed, jet-lagged and ill, drinking litre upon litre in an attempt to kill the mystery bug causing havoc in my stomach.