So there I was, minding my own business, travelling from home to work one fine Tuesday morning, and as I stood on the train (sitting not an option on account of all the other commuters in the way) I started to feel sick. Really sick. Nasty-sick.
Oh, I said cleverly to myself. You haven’t had breakfast yet, you foolish child. Here in your pocket are two clementines. Eat them when you get off at the Big Station and you will feel ever so much better.
This was a mistake on so very many levels.
I draw a veil over the following deeply unpleasant twenty minutes.
And then I went home again, pea-green in the face and unlikely to consider anything citrussy in any form ever again.
I bumped into H heading TO the Nearest-Home Station as I staggered AWAY from the Nearest-Home Station (his bosses not being nearly so funny about Being On Time and Early Starts and such other meaningless abominations), and he promptly turned round, carefully watched over me as I staggered the rest of the way home, and then cleaned both (both, people!), lavatories so I would have something nice to throw up into. And then he went to work.
By lunch-time, after some unfortunate lower-digestive-tract action and a brisk attempt at dry-heaving, I felt quite well again. And feeling quite well, so quickly, gave me furiously to think. And having thunk, I fished out the leaflet that came with my Napalm Antibiotics, and read therein the careful caution that these pills really do not agree with empty tumkins.
May, you colossal fool. Eat your bloody breakfast next time.