Digestive incompetence

Ugh.

It's half eight. I should be at work, or at least making my way there. Instead I'm drenched in sweat, and in bed.

I experimented on Saturday night with acting like a normal person, having a meal out, and a couple of beers. I had planned carefully, and selected a Polish restaurant (home to well-cooked vegetables, potatoes and meat). I chose a pasteurised beer. I wasn't expecting to have any issues.

Sunday morning I had some diarrhoea. Just a few bouts, and nothing too alarming. I was a bit peeved at its re-appearance after a fairly successful week of digestion, but figured it would probably settle down if I treated my guts with kid gloves for a day or so. I went easy on them at lunch with a vegetable soup, and had no immediate problems. I went easy on my guts at dinner, with boiled to death vegetables, rice and a recovery shake. I thought it'd be fine.

Overnight I've realised that something has upset the gut gods and they are showing their displeasure.

I haven't slept much. Too much running to the loo and pain from those blasted cramps that I thought I'd left behind. They are miserable things, those cramps. It feels as though my intestines are the gut gods' spaghetti, being stabbed, pulled out and then twirled on their forks. The gut gods are never in a hurry to eat. They play with their food. I wish I wasn't on the menu...

So, anyway. In between trips to the loo this morning, I've called work and explained that I have a bout of gastric incompetence. They are already aware I have the digestive age of a newborn baby - I've previously had to explain why I was slumped over my desk and clutching my guts whilst contorting my features into an expression of agony in a professionally unbecoming manner. Rather me than them, apparently.

It's a bit odd that I'm drenched in sweat. The window was open all night and the room a pleasant temperature. I shouldn't have been oozing buckets. I'd like to change the sheets but have that feeling of weak grimness which easily persuades me that changing the bedding is too much effort at this moment in time, and that turning over the pillows and duvet would be a far better (if grimmer) plan.

Tired.

Sick of the symptoms.

Would like someone to be able to tell me what's up, so I have a better chance of controlling it. Right now I'd also like to turn the clock back, politely decline Saturday's social event and have another jacket spud with tuna yoghurt and a few pints of water instead. But I can't do that. I might be able to sleep, though...