No one likes being sick.
Well, there may be the odd (in all senses of the word) hypochondriac who enjoys it, but among normal people, no one like being sick.
However, if you have to be sick I suggest that there are a few conditions that you would insist on to make the ordeal less gruelling:
- Ready access to a clean toilet; preferably your own.
- A nice comfy bed to lay about in feeling sorry for yourself.
- Peace and quiet to aid in recuperation.
- And, unless you are self employed, it is always a bonus if it happens on a work/ school day.
Based on these simple criteria, I would suggest that we would rule out a weekend at a music festival as the optimal time to be sick.
Yes, this is another tale from my recent music festival experience.
Before I go on, I am conscious that this is my fourth blog inspired by my recent festival attendance and they have all, in one way or another, focussed on negative aspects of the experience.
This is really a bit unfair. Despite my whinging and moaning, I greatly enjoyed both festivals, it is just much easier to be inspired by tales of pain and hardship than of fun and enjoyment. Or maybe that is just me being a grumpy old git.
I would therefore advise you to read and enjoy my tales of suffering, but don’t be put off – if I still enjoyed the festivals just think how much fun you’d have if you weren’t a moaning curmudgeon!
Anyway, back to my tale of woe.
We arrived at the Ramblin’ Man site on Friday afternoon, got ourselves set up and then headed into town to find food and drink.
All went well and we ended up back in the cricket club near the venue for more beer.
After a while I started to feel uncomfortable: the beer was not going down well and my stomach was feeling decidedly odd.
Shortly thereafter I was sick. I mean projectile. Luckily my early warning defences were operating sufficiently to ensure that I was able to push my way through the crowd to the toilets, but it was close.
I emerged looking green and my friends suggested that a return to the campsite may be wise.
When an event such as this happens there is always an assumption among bystanders that the cause of the problem is too much drink. Strangers point and laugh knowingly about the loser who can’t handle his drink; friends, although possibly more sympathetic, suspect this as a likely cause; you even have a nagging concern in your own mind that you are that sad individual.
However, I was pretty sure this couldn’t be the case.
It is years since I have been sick due to drinking too much – and I have put it to the test from time to time.
Also, my distant memories of such occasions suggest that when you are sick through drink, once you get it out of your system you feel better and head to the bar for another pint to take the taste away.
This didn’t feel at all like that.
Clearly it was something I’d eaten.
The trouble is I hadn’t eaten anything that at least one other person in the party had also had, and everyone else was fine.
But there was that one pint that seems a bit suspect. Obviously it was that. It’s always a bad pint to blame.
That night wasn’t much fun: just me and a bucket in the awning.
The next morning I was still feeling decidedly fragile.
Here is a test of your constitution: whilst feeling distinctly queasy and fragile take a bucket half full of your own sick and dispose of it in the chemical toilet disposal container at a festival. I don’t recommend it.
Anyway, from that point on things slowly picked up. By Sunday the sun even came out and I was feeling much better.
Still not better enough to enjoy the eating and drinking aspect of the festival, but better enough to enjoy the bands.
And on the plus side, it saved me a fortune on food and beer.
On Monday evening we got home, and within a couple of hours my wife was ill. The bad pint had a reprieve: clearly it was a bug.
At least she had the good sense to wait until all of my conditions above were met.