My stomach is grumbling. I’ve just had the worst weekend ever. And that includes when I had my first sclerosis and smashed my shoulder to pieces on a tennis court.
I mentioned last week that I didn’t want to write about C. diff., but this appalling infectious bacteria has decided to give me little choice.
My doctor had put me on the antibiotic metronidazole to counter it for two weeks. I was feeling better. I left my pap diet of white bread, white biscuits, and maybe white anything.
Hot cross buns — mmm. Which I had, of course, enjoyed immensely. It is obviously incredibly bad for you, but there is still the allure of white toast and marge that takes you back to being 6. We know now that it is not a good diet, but boy was it fun to be forced into it.
Things had improved immensely. I went back to joining the family for dinner. All was well.
Then the gates opened. C. diff. was back with the vengeance of a pernicious stalker, and having had one of the latter, I’d prefer it to C. diff.
As ever, this tide of effluence hit me over the weekend. In the U.K., I could call the NHS 111 service, which sends out an emergency doctor over the weekend. But as I am obviously heavily shielding due to COVID-19, I endeavored to ride it out.
This was undoubtedly a mistake, especially for my wife, who had to clean up the mess on my bed and, indeed, me. Romance is not dead, yet I think I’ve killed it. My wife, by the way, is having to type this for me for the second week running.
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