Do, or Do Not. There Is No Try.

The diet goes well.

The diet goes so well that I manage to prostrate myself, smack-bang in the middle of hosting a dinner party for 12 on Saturday night.

I’ve given this some serious thought, and I think it might have been either the copious amounts of codeine I was swallowing to negate the considerable pain from the first period I have had since the miscarriage, or the fact that I’d eaten near-bugger-all for 3 days, or the fact that I’d been on my feet working hard for 36 hours interspersed with a lousy sleep, or the large, heavy meal I was half-way through troughing, or the fact that my frantic diet has evidently shrivelled my stomach down to the size of a particularly under-endowed Dik-dik scrotum, or the large glass of fizzy lemonade cut with 1/4 white wine that I had convivially sent down to keep the opiates and the Heavy Meal company, or, and this is just a wild stab in the dark, all of the above? At no point was I surprised to feel suddenly, acutely, painfully unwell, you understand; I knew I’d been a spectacularly daft twat. 

My stomach accepted the starter without a murmur

(Warwickshire asparagus spears in camembert, with beetroot jelly, wrapped in leek, based on this) and was happily half-way through the main course (Chicken stuffed with wholegrain mustard, mozzarella & cheddar, Alastair‘s (who first fed it to me) veg pie, potato dauphinoise, roast courgettes & baby tomatoes, carrots & peas) – when I received the sudden and distinct impression that Capacity Had Been Seriously Exceeded. This was a completely new experience for me. I prodded my plate listlessly, but could summon no enthusiasm at all; in fact, the unambivalent message coming up from the Dik-dik scrote was that Immediately Ceasing To Eat Forthwith would be an awfully good idea. I managed to half-heartedly heave some dessert (apple strudel, slightly-disaster-stricken-sunken profiteroles with simply the nicest & simplest chocolate sauce ever) into assorted guest bowls, before sinking into my chair with a badly-stifled whimper.

I’ve never not been able to polish off a plate of good food in my life. Ever! I now know exactly what a gastric band must feel like, and I’ve acquired a fair insight into pyloric stenosis, too. The sensation was appalling, yet I struggled womanfully to keep it all down, purely because I was becoming convinced that the effort of ejecting it might actually kill me dead, given that I was freezing cold, shaking like a leaf, and having a degree of heart arrhythmia that I would normally associate with a brutal gym session.

I am fortunate in possessing kind and competent girlfriends: I progressed from Sofa to Bed, where I cuddled a bucket just in case, shivering, occasionally groaning at a particularly vicious stomach spasm, whilst other hands cleared the table, served coffee, and located the fudge and mints. John, having missed my subdued announcement of departure, eventually noticed that his wife had disappeared some time before, and, given that it was a murder-mystery party, came on a search & retrieve upstairs. He found me bitterly and just-audibly fulminating on fizzy drinks, codeine and sugar levels, and, taking squeamish alarm at the sight of my – redundant, as it happens – bucket perched atop his pillow, backed out and retired downstairs again.

By 2am I felt tentatively certain I would live, and by 4am I felt sufficiently invested in the new day to take some cautious sips of water. By 5am, when Harry woke up for the day, I actually felt in considerably better shape than John – who had been been on the red wine, by the look of him.

Yes, the diet goes well.

And speaking of things going well, you remember that blogging awards thing you very kindly nominated me for? The MADS? Yes?

Well, you’ll note that t’badge up top now reads ‘Finalist’. I have, to my astonishment, emerged as one the five finalists for best MAD blog writer, for which I thank you all very, very much indeed. I am exceedingly and sincerely touched. Mind you, coming as it does on top of a post purely about my inability to digest a meal, I give you ample leave to erupt with uproarious, disbelieving laughter and vote for one of the other talented contenders, especially given that one of those others is a verrrry fine writer and damn good buddy of mine.

I was evidently not paying an awful lot of attention at the beginning of all this, as I now discover from the press release (a press release! To all the national and local press! Ummm. Errk!) that there is a proper awards dinner at which the winners are announced, and furthermore, I have heard a fairly solid rumour that there will be… gulp… TV cameras. The funk that the thought of the resulting publicity has sent John and I into: I will spare you; there is some urgent bloggy housekeeping in the immediate pipeline, is all. The thought of appearing on camera I have not yet let my brain examine properly, lest it recoil in horror right up its own fundament.

In short, I am absolutely delighted and grateful for all your nominations, and should you wish to vote again and propel me further forward, and tell all your friends! then… well, that’d be just grand.

And awfully nice of you.

Tell you what, just on the off-chance that feeling sorry for me’d help your voting finger, here’s a picture of the poor old wreck that is I, tonight, wearing a sinister-looking ECG heartbeat-tracker machine-thingy. It’s ferociously itchy and digs in me and I have to sleep in it.  Boo-hoo.

That do any good?!

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14 Responses

  1. And no, I don’t know why all of the sensors are nowhere near my actual, you know, heart.

  2. It looks, um, fun.

    You do get that this is a competition, right? Now go away and write some stellar prose on, um, the election? Harry’s latest self-harming endeavours? You’ve got to compete woman!

  3. If I wrote stellar prose, they’d think they’d arrived on the wrong blog!

  4. When when when when WHEN is my invitation to dinner going to arrive?

    WHEN?!?!?

  5. Sorry – you lost me after the picture of the entree … drooooooool….
    (Mind you, hope the ECG shows everything in working order)..

  6. Sorry you are feeling grim. How much codeine have you been taking? You know that stuff can do weird stuff to the workings of the gastric system. It left me with a delightful combo of (TMI alert) constipation and vomiting. Water and more water.

    I’ve voted already – competition be dammed.

  7. You don’t look like you need to be on a diet to me!! You have a flat stomach! Makes me green with envy. Nothing worse than that horrible in between feeling of wanting to vomit and not being able to. And the sweating and shaking is horrible. Glad it didn’t last long for you 🙂

  8. Poor Wifey. What an episode. I can identify, once after a HUMONGOUS (lookee, speaking American, I am) Thanksgiving dinner, I too, felt as if I had ingested a freeze block. I hadn’t eaten all day and.. I don’t know what happened. Never experienced the like! Stomach failure, who ever heard of it!

    You look really slim in the photo. Where is the extra insulation? There is none.

    I am excited to see you on the telly! Ooh. This is fun. Cool!

  9. Glad the stomach rejection episode seemed to arrive and leave relatively quickly. Nothing like that terrible sensation of your immune system doing it’s damnedest to expel what it has identified as an alien invader. And it has so many joyful variants on how to do it!

    An awards ceremony. With a red carpet for sure. That’s fan-bloody-tastic. I have voted as ordered. Just make sure you get my name right when you thank everybody on the night.

    And like May, I scan my inbox for that elusive dinner invitation.

  10. As soon as you ladies get on those planes, I shall stick the oven on!

    And I assure you, the photo is taken at a peculiar angle. The tummy, she protrudes an imperial mile.

  11. Dinner sounds delicious – too bad you didn’t get to enjoy it. Can you get some dry ice and send me the leftovers?

    Off to vote…because I now want to see you have to face a TV camera…

  12. Ugh. I feel your pain.

    Something similar happened to me on our honeymoon in South Africa. We were at the FABULOUS restaurant Le Quartier Francais in Franschhoek having the tasting menu, my brand-new husband having scored us a prized reservation. After my first course I became Distinctly Unwell, and I spent the rest of the meal getting up and heading to the bathroom every time a new dish was brought to the table. I’d keep returning each time I felt marginally well enough to sit at the table, but each new smell sent me dashing off. It was AWFUL and my husband still talks about how I ruined what should have been one of our Best Meals Ever (Of course the bastard ate both his dishes and mine!). The owner/chef, who walked the dining room, kept shooting me dirty looks – I think she was worried that other customers would think something was wrong with the food! (Personally I think some rhubarb was snuck into that first course – horribly allergic to that.) Can you tell that I still regret missing that delicious meal? *Sob*

    I hope you are feeling much better (and that you lost some weight as a bonus!)

    Also, I voted – you ARE the best!!

  13. Top congrats to you. I knew you could write the moment I met you.

  14. I am a fellow MAD finailist and have to say I have just had a good trawl of your blog and you really deserve that position. I had not heard about camera’s – eek

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