I check not just once, but twice, about the ingredients in the mashed potato and I am assured not just once, but twice that there is neither milk nor egg within its crumbly matrix. As I swallow my first mouthful of it and feel my throat burst into screaming flame, I decide to allow the slight possibility that I might have been deceived not just once, but twice.

I run into the kitchen and start swallowing water hoping that the mash simply contained a whole bunch of needles and I would be able to flush them out. In between futile gulps I manage to yell something in the general direction of the chef. My stomach churns depressingly as he casually mentions that by the way I probably shouldn’t eat the mashed potato as a couple of gallons of milk have just been emptied into it.

Bother!

I sprint to the Medic and cooly inform him that I am going to be very, very sick and would he mind terribly making sure I don’t die? He watches me throw up everything I’ve eaten over the last two days into a nearby bin.

Five minutes pass.

My pulse is normal.

I try and throw up some more, but there is nothing left to evacuate. It hurts.

Ten minutes pass.

A disturbing rash appears all over my body.

I continue to hurt.

I begin to palpitate.

Five minutes pass.

I try and throw up some more, not expecting any miracles. Blood fountains from my mouth.

I begin to worry.

The medic takes this opportunity to ask me if I’m OK.

I respond by spraying some more blood in his general direction.

I have a stabbing pain in my stomach.

The medic decides to call an ambulance.

I do not fault his decision.

I stagger into the Ambulance and sit down. They begin to drive, but do not turn on the siren. For some reason this really upsets me.

Half way through the journey I realise that the stabbing pain in my stomach does not signify impending death. In fact it signifies an urgent need to poo.

“Hello Paramedic! I need to poo.”
“OK.”
“No, you don’t understand. I need to poo. Right now.”
“We have no facilities for that here.”
“I feel I should inform you that I am pooing right now.”

My mind boggles at the revelation that ambulances have nowhere for sick people to defecate. Am I the first person ever to poo on an ambulance? Surely a small toilet is a useful design feature to install? Hell, a barrel in the corner would do. Even prison cells have toilets.

I cannot stop myself from squeezing log after squishy log into my pants. I cannot remember a time when I have pooped anywhere but a toilet. I also cannot remember a time when I lacked any kind of ass control. This is not fun.

Through a supreme effort of will I clench both buttocks into a single horribly stained cheek and stem the brown tide of filth.

The hospital appears to be located several thousand miles away.

I wish desperately for clean underwear.

We finally arrive at the hospital and I waddle determinedly towards a toilet.

It takes half an hour before I am fully purged.

At several moments I need to brace myself against the wall.

I emerge several kilograms lighter and with the sharp pain in my chest gone.

My trousers smell. A lot.

That toilet will need to be condemned.

I get to ride in a wheel chair the full five metres from the toilet to my bed.

I get given one of those neat backless surgery gowns and someone else’s name tag. I try to point this out and in response am stabbed in the finger. A quantity of blood is removed from me.

I do not feel like I am in safe hands.

The rash begins to subside.

My blood pressure is taken and found to be low.

I am feeling a lot better.

I explain that I have low blood pressure.

They do not believe me and leave me with only my effluent clothes for company.

My brother arrives with a car.

I decide that it is time to leave.

I return to the campsite.

Five minutes pass.

I am in the shower, but I will never be clean.