A Disgusting Little Contrivance.

By the time I succumbed to my third overnight stay in hospital back in April, I’d retrieved my appetite from the deep, dark dungeon into which it had been unceremoniously cast during the first two stays. In consequence of this happy circumstance I had a big bowl of Rice Crispies for my breakfast the following morning (actually they were all the same size, but this is a blog.)

It failed to fully sate (which is a deliberate split infinitive, by the way, just to confuse the nice foreigners who are trying to speak English properly) my much improved gastronomic faculty, and so when the food woman came back to collect the dishes I asked whether I might also have some toast and marmalade.

‘There’s some here,’ she said brightly. ‘The man in the corner ordered it, but then he was sick and didn’t want anything to eat after all.’

‘Sick?’ I queried, coming over all suspicious like (which is an example of vernacular English in common usage.) ‘He wasn’t sick… erm… you know…’ pointing at the plate.

‘Oh no, bless you, no. He was sick in one of those (actually, she said ‘them’ but we’ve had quite enough of the vernacular for one night) sick bowls the nurse gave him. I suppose a bit might have splashed, but it won’t be much.’

I really, really wish that had really, really happened, but it didn’t. I just thought of it when I was having a slice of toast and marmalade at around midnight. But, you see, if life won’t give you the jokes you have to manufacture them yourself. And it pleases me to note that my sense of humour seems to be improving even if my health isn’t.