It’s Monday afternoon and I’m finally starting to feel human after roughly 36 hours of a vomiting frenzy that rendered me bed bound for the duration. Thanks to a banana and chicken pasta broth, I think I’ve turned the corner and I’m returning to wellness; an infection-free state at least.

The little dog is now becoming impatient with me after not having a walk since Saturday afternoon, however his behaviour yesterday was impeccable, especially during those scary moments when it must have seemed like my face was being devoured by the monster dwelling at the bottom of the sick bucket. At one point, the sick monster took the form of a harp seal: black eyes and nose formed from large bubbles within a face of foam, the result of a guttural explosion of sparkling water.

The aches and shakes that accompanied the first 24 hours of illness have now gone, but for that time, my joints screamed at me, begging me to at least attempt some placebo paracetamol to ease the pain and fever. Alas, I’m one of these pathetic creatures that can’t hold anything in my stomach, so I just had to ride the storm.

So the question is this: where did I pick up this infection? I hadn’t to my knowledge been vomited on the previous few days, nobody I knew had been suffering similarly. Then it dawned on me, the brief visit to my GP on Friday morning. That Mecca for the diseased to trudge to and insist on help, rather than staying the fuck in bed and riding it out like the rest of us do. In a Sixth Sense scenario, I could be that little boy, looking around the waiting room, “I see norovirus… everywhere”. You can’t avoid touching things while you’re there: the exterior doors are automatic, but the next set aren’t; you walk past two sets of toilets on your way into the reception; you confirm your attendance using an touch-screen log on; you sit in the waiting area, surrounded by illness.

Once the sickness subsides, I absolutely need two to three things to get me back on my feet: fizzy water; chicken pasta broth; orange Fanta. Salt, sugar and water. I’m going to phone the shop over the road to see if they’ll bring me a can of pop. In the meantime, here’s a photo of Rocky, wondering if he’ll get to go for some fresh air today. Later, boy, later.