A Bad Case of the Llew Shews.

September 23, 2008 at 2:03 am (Uncategorized)

Whilst I was writing yesterday’s post, poor Llewie was lying flat on his back in bed, knocked sideways by what could only be food poisoning. Certainly it had all the classic ‘presenting symptoms’ of food poisoning, and we ought to know. Between us we’ve notched up quite a few dramatic expulsions. The really exhausting thing about food poisoning is that the body’s evacuation of the foul poison of the day is so violent – they don’t call vomiting “heaving” for nothing. There’s really something Herculean about the physical effort involved in getting something rotten out. As vile as that process is, it’s also strangely fascinating, and also, dare I say it, impressive. Just look at the body’s super-defences snap to attention. It doesn’t always feel like it’s on your side, but at the first sign of a dodgy oyster or a plate of rancid mince, you just stand back and watch your body step up. Suddenly it’s as protective as the best friend who keeps you from going home with the biggest fuckwit at the party.

I can’t figure out how Llewie copped a big dose of the “shews” (the shit and spews) and I didn’t. Neither of us can figure it out, because we ate the exact same things on Sunday night. I’d run a half-marathon in the morning (as did Ruben – big props to him for a killer inaugural finishing time), possibly my fastest yet (it might be in the paper today… must remember to check), then stuck around to watch Sarah finish her s-e-c-o-n-d marathon. That’s 42 kilometres of PAIN. I just don’t understand it. I’d kind of like to do one, but at the end of every half-marathon (I think Sunday was my fourth – maybe only my third), the only thought going through my mind is, “I just can’t imagine doing another one of those right now.” Sarah’s now got two under her belt – the New York and the Sydney. It certainly does make you proud. Anyway, the point is I didn’t have the energy to cook, but by day’s end I did have the thirst for a celebratory toast with Llew, so we walked down to the Manly Wharf for a pile of nachos and a couple of beers as the sun went down. 

We have no choice but to deduce that the nachos were the source of “the Llew Shews.” At some point Sunday night, early Monday morning, he fell into a burning ring of fire. That much we know for sure. And at first we thought that was it: a serious case of the trots. He was up and down all night like a new mother, except he had to keep wiping his own arse. As for me, I couldn’t get close enough to the bathroom to check on him, it was Chernobyl back there. I stayed in bed calling out the occasional motivational catch phrase. 

But then came the advanced stage. At first I thought he was just coughing up a stubborn hunk of phlegm, but then came the unmistakable sound of a pretty revolting musical duet – it was time for band practice. Out it gushed. I ran into the bathroom just in time to see Llew – still taking care of business one end – filling the bin from the other. It’s the force of it that’s most shocking. There’s such an urgency to it. Poor thing – he was so pale, and had broken into such a clammy sweat. His eyes were the saddest thing, sadder even than his sitting there naked, shit-streaming and jet-spewing at the same time. His eyes just looked so bewildered and almost hunted. He was in such a lot of discomfort. Besides which, the whole thing is disgusting. Your body is doing you such a big favour getting rid of the trash, but on the way out, the trash doesn’t go quietly. If it’s the fuckwit at the party, it likes to smash a few glasses, start a fight, and grind ash into the carpet before the police arrive. 

The good news – and this is where food poisoning has a small but significant advantage over other types of sickness – is that once it’s gone, it’s gone. Llewie went back to work today feeling if not a hundred percent, then at least a hundred percent better. But phew – what an awful shew…



  1. Rubes said,

    Poor Shewie Llewie.
    There’s a lot of it about.

    Love your PB on the HM. Provisional results here: http://res.championchipaustralia.com/default.asp?id=1235

  2. doctordi said,

    Yes! It is a PB! 1:52:07. Only a minute faster than last year’s SMH half-marathon (different race, same distance), but I’ll take it! Must. Do. Better. Must. Try. Harder. Nice to see it going in the right direction, though… and well done, Rubes, that’s such a great time for someone who only got his socks on this year. You should be well pleased with yourself, mate.

  3. Pete said,

    Sorry to hear about the “llew shews” but that was a very good description. And well done on the PB. Now that summer is almost here I’m keen to get out there myself and post a PB of my own. Now I have a time to beat 😉

  4. doctordi said,

    Thanks on both counts, Pete. And I guess “Couchtrip” doesn’t translate to “Couch Potato” in that case! You’re in Cape Town, right? There must be some stunning runs in your neck of the woods. Haven’t yet been to SA, but I hear all good things about CT. I can see my PB being smashed by you AND Rubes in no time at all – good luck!

  5. Catherine said,

    Did I teach you nothing about food safety girl? Poor Llew, I bet he just loved reading your public description of his pain. Could have been anything he’d eaten in the past week at least. Some of those nasty little buggers can even take up to a month or longer to present themselves in all their wretched glory.

    Good job on the PB. Think I’m going to have to get back into that running thing. Soon. Maybe.

  6. doctordi said,

    He didn’t get it at home!!!!! We weren’t here for any meals at all over the weekend because of birthday/family/running stuff, so I don’t know what we’re supposed to do about food safety once we’re out the door… Llew came home from work last night and got straight – and I mean straight – into bed. Front door, bed. Only detours were to the toilet. Repeatedly. And then he read this post in bed from his Blackberry and yes, he was a little surprised to see such a technicoloured rendering of his pain. But he did burst out laughing, so I think I’m forgiven. My punishment appears more than just: I too am now nursing a very angry arsehole.

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