31 The Sausage Incident

It's Christmas Eve and I've finally found my Christmas spirit. I really hadn't been bothered this year until now. In fact, I've been very 'Bah! Humbug!'

Perhaps it could be down to the fact I'm remembering what happened last year. Last year was the year of the afore-mentioned Sausage Incident.

Christmas had started innocently enough. All the family were together. Presents had been opened. Everyone was happy. We all sat down for a full English breakfast.

I'd just taken a bite of sausage and then....

I was suddenly lying on the floor. How had that happened? I felt like I was in a weird dream. A weird dream that involved having fingers in my mouth. Not the chocolate variety, but real human ones. I wasn't even sure whose.

I asked 'What on earth are you doing?' Or at least I tried to. It's hard when your mouth is full. As well as it being bad manners.

Everyone seemed to be ignoring me anyway and talking/panicking amongst themselves. I heard my uncle on the phone calling me an ambulance.

Good lord, no!!

I had no idea what on earth had happened or what was wrong with me but I knew I did not want an ambulance. All I could think about was the fact I had an enormous spot in the middle of my forehead and I was wearing unmatched pyjamas.

Why hadn't I taken note of the old adage that you should make sure you wear clean underwear incase you get run over by a bus?

I know it's not quite the same. Particularly as I was inside where you presume you are safe. It appears not. You should always make sure you are looking your best. I'd received nice pyjamas for Christmas so I didn't even have an excuse.

The ambulance arrived. So I was told anyway. I couldn't see much from my position on the kitchen floor.

I asked if the paramedics were good looking. I must have been feeling a bit better.

They came in and asked the various family members, stood around me, what had happened.

Turns out after I'd taken a bite of sausage, I exclaimed 'Oh!' and then slumped on the table.

A bit like a balloon with the air escaping, they said.

I then seemingly started having a fit and they thought I was going to swallow my tongue (which would explain the fingers in my mouth...)

The paramedics couldn't work out exactly what was wrong with me, so decided to take me in to A&E.

Brother was bored by this point and sat back down to finish his breakfast.

Mum went with me in the ambulance while my dad followed up in the car. I couldn't decide whether they just wanted to get out of peeling spuds or whether there was something seriously wrong with me and it was their duty to be there.

I asked the paramedic if it was anything to do with the big spot on my head. He said it definitely could be and that the weight of it might have made me light-headed.

I decide that the fact he was joking with me probably meant I wasn't dying.

Arrived at the hospital. All the doctors were busy having their photo taken with the mayor who had popped in for a visit.

I was taken to a room and told someone would be in to see me soon to do some tests and ask me some questions.

I started panicking again. What kind of tests? What kind of questions?

Bear in mind my mum and dad were sitting with me.

What if the questions were going to be about sex? Or worse...about periods.

There are some things you don't want to talk about in front of your parents.

On the other hand, if I said I wanted to be examined and questioned in private, I was worried that would make my mum and dad think I had a rare disease that I just hadn't told them about.

I really didn't know what to do.

While I was contemplating, the doctor came in and launched into the tests. Things like walking in a straight line. Nice, parent-friendly tests. Phew!

I get the results there and then.

Turns out they thought the sausage had just gone down the wrong way.

And the pain had made me faint.

Yes, you read that right.

That is flipping all.

Yes, I'd wasted a couple of hours of Christmas Day in hospital, just for that.

And OK, it got me out of helping with the dinner preparations but I really don't recommend it as a good skiving option.

Not unless you can put up with your family joking for ever more about how you have to be supervised around sausages.

Merry Christmas everyone!!

13 Tell Tale Tits

One of the concierges greeted me with, "Talk of the Devil", as I arrived home yesterday.

I was quite excited because I love being talked about. If it's something good obviously. It's not so smashing if it is just someone moaning about you.

This was neither. Was actually a bit boring. Turns out it was just that they'd ran out of sugar and discussed that their favourite resident* should be home soon and would probably be able to lend them some. (*That's a title I've given myself by the way. I haven't actually won an award or anything. Yet.)

I suppose it is slightly odd that my concierges know so much about me. They would certainly kick my friend's asses in a quiz about me if the questions were things like...What hours does she work?...What mood was she in on Thursday?...What are in those little brown boxes she has delivered?

I love having concierges though. It makes me feel that someone cares. Even if it's only someone that is paid to. Every good home should have at least one. They sign for your parcels. They call you taxis. They ask how your day has been. They even tell you if it is time for you to dye your hair again cause it is looking a bit shit. Those essential things.

I must admit, there was one occasion though when I wasn't so keen on the whole service...

I'd come in to the Tower late one afternoon to find that the fire alarms had been going off and the lifts were grounded. The concierge told me they probably wouldn't be in use for another 20 minutes so suggested I either walk up the stairs or wait.

Walk??? Did I hear him right??? Walk up 40+ flights of stairs??? I don't think so. I decided to go to the pub instead...just for one mind, while I waited for the lifts...

It can feel a bit weird going to the pub on your own but I'd been in no time at all when a guy started chatting to me. He bought me a drink. We chatted a bit more. He then suggested having another drink. I suppose one more wouldn't do any harm? I mean I wouldn't want to go back until it was almost definite that the lifts were working again...

A few hours later there was a worried woman in Scotland. My mum. I'd said I was calling her that night because I needed some information from a letter I'd been sent up there. Not only had I not called but I also wasn't answering any texts or calls to my phone. This wasn't like her normally reliable, daughter.

More time passed and she was starting to really panic. Particularly as a few months earlier she'd witnessed me collapsing at the dinner table and ending up in hospital (yes, I promise to reveal every detail of that embarrassing story in a future post. It will be called The Sausage Incident..). She decided that that must have happened again. Or I was dead. Or worse.

She instructed my dad to call the concierges. (Ah yes, much better if someone else hears I'm dead first?) Asks them to go up to my apartment and check on me. I'm unsure whether she gave them permission to give me the kiss of life.

"That won't be necessary" they said to my dad. "She went out. She came back in hours later. She chatted to us. She told us all her problems. She's now gone upstairs. She's safe. She's going to have a very sore head tomorrow though..."

Tell tale tits.

The next day wasn't very good. Hangover from hell, in the bad books with my mum and dad and very embarrassed about seeing my concierges. Half expected them to tell me they'd had a good chat with my parents and had all decided it would be best if I was grounded for the foreseeable future...