Poisoned by breakfast

I have been uninspired. What with the world apparently going to hell in a handcart coupled with the fact that my life has settled into a quiet routine of work – new job – and – well, not much else, I’ve found myself rather lost for words. There’s so little point commenting on terrorism, war and politics because already, too much is being said. And so, taking the advice from that old adage, “if you can’t say anything nice”, I haven’t said anything at all.

Instead, I’ve focused on January minutiae – getting childcare sorted while the childminder is stuck out of the country for visa reasons (backlog at the Home Office), sorting out activities so my children don’t lapse into Minecraft zombies (climbing, Cubs, and because they got a key board for Christmas, piano lessons – the cheapest lessons locally being at Netil House) and watching House of Cards on Netflicks.

All the while, I’ve been on best behaviour while I get settled into my new ten minute commute and long screen-based day, grappling with hundreds of print outs and stacks of new information, I haven’t had much time for anything else, except running down the fridge, early morning yoga (in my living room) and crashing out on the sofa circa 9 p.m.

Of course, the new job adrenaline has got to me – 3 a.m. wake ups have seen me and Tom move semi-permanently into separate rooms to cope with our at-loggerheads sleep patterns, and of course, trying to shift the Christmas pounds has seen me subsisting on olive oil, brown rice, rye toast, boiled eggs and grapefruit, not through any grand dieting master plan, but that’s basically all we have in the house, and as yet, I’m too shy to take a proper lunch break at work.

So that’s how I came to poison myself with organic eggs. It had been porridge and raspberries all week, made with water, and served, with honey, to unwilling kiddies as an antidote to last month’s sugar overload, followed by rye toast and peanut butter if they ate it all up, though not for me – I saved that up till lunchtime.

By yesterday, we’d run out of incentive, so instead, the kids got Weetabix (no they didn’t, they got Lidl’s perfectly acceptable, half price alternative) and I blitzed up the remaining raspberries into some orange juice to boost their vitamin C. For myself, seeking convenience during the morning rush hour, I added two raw organic eggs and swallowed it down amid getting dressed and checking my messages.

I’m not crazy. In an ideal world, raw egg should be perfectly fine to eat. It’s cheap, nutritious and an easy way to get a protein hit in the morning.  I’ve done it for years, even enriching milkshakes for the kids, although now I suspect my confidence in the organic food chain (given my new role specifically working in this field) may be misplaced. I’ve never, so far, been caught out.

Yesterday, as pains began to shoot up and down my back and through my wrists, and my stomach, not entirely happy since my before my diagnosis of IBD, began to forcefully rebel, I realised my luck may have run out. That or the kids had brought home norovirus from school without succumbing themselves. Trapped behind my desk at work, there was nothing I could do but silently ride it out, gratefully shuffling off early when my computer was taken away for updates.

Back home, Tom was ministering to the Friday night routine of taking the kids to Cubs, and thinking about dinner with nothing to cook, mooting the idea of Indian takeaway. I vaporishly acquiesced, flopping into a bath, then onto the sofa awaiting their return.

Discomfort set in after a few small, optimistic bites, then abject pain, which alarmed both the children into being nice to me witj both of them offering soft toys to grip onto; and reminiscent of the early stages of childbirth, I showed the kids some photos of them shortly after birth that I had on my phone.”You look young Mama,” said 9 year old Jonah, to which I slunk further under my duvet, and with added pain relief, fell into a feverish sleep where I dreamt I was lapdancing whilst my mother-in-law looked on disapprovingly.

Six am, and I’m over the worst, though experiments with peppermint tea have proved hazardous at best, and, like childbirth, moments of sentient capability are undone in seconds by the most fearsome cramps imaginable. But so keen am I to have a nice, wholesome, getting things done type of weekend – taking Jonah to buy camping equipment for his forthcoming expedition to Brownsea Island with Cubs, buying kids new shoes and generally restocking the cupboards – that I have boshed a handful of tablets – probiotics, ibuprofen, cod liver oil, and aloe vera juice, and am currently hoping for the best.