IBS

Today, I was supposed to travel to North London, which takes an hour and a half on various tubes and buses from where I live, to meet a friend who is 70 tomorrow and take him for lunch, but, once again, my stomach put the kibosh on my arrangements.

I blame it on the egg and cress sandwich I had for lunch yesterday. The crusts was so hard they were inedible and the filling tasted stale, but as a friend had bought it for me, I chewed (wo)manfully on. By the evening I was feeling queasy and couldn’t face dinner. This morning I awoke to turbulent rumblings as the Very Irritable Bowel reminded me of its presence. Several trips to the loo later, with a stomach that felt as if it had been kicked by a particularly bad-tempered mule, from the inside, I reached for the phone and disappointed yet another person. Of course, a couple of hours later and Dr Collis Brown's Mixture and a Yogi tea had done the trick, but by then it was far too late to set out.

This has happened too many times to count during the course of my life, though not always because of my disagreeable stomach. When I was seven, I was chosen from all the little girls at my infants school, to be Rose Queen in the Spring parade. How I was looking forward to it. My mother had made a beautiful dress in satin and lace and sewn it all by hand. Finally, the day of my stardom dawned. I woke up and was instantly aware that all was not well. In fact, that I was not well. Overnight, I had either been attacked by a mosquito – rare in Liverpool, especially in those days, although my dad brought back various strange things from the cargo ships he worked on, including fleas and a praying mantis – or I had developed…. Yes, it was indeed measles.

Crying bitterly, I was left in my bed while another little girl, Gillian, who was acknowleded to be the prettiest girl at school, wore my special dress and got all the glory. (The photo was taken the day after I returned to school. I think I look washed out, wistful and altogether disappointed by life.) Booker Avenue County Primary never did get a red-haired Rose Queen – though when I was chosen to play the Angel Gabriel in the Nativity play, my mother overheard another mother, whose offspring was disguised as the donkey, say: “Nonsense! Who ever heard of a red-haired angel?”

For my tenth birthday, a party was planned. I had looked forward for ages to the fun, the food and the presents then, lo and behold, I woke up to discover that either my bed had been infested with bedbugs in the night, or I had chicken pox. Guess which it was? All my guests were turned away at the door; I could hear the voices issuing up the stairs as I sobbed into my pillow. My wail of, “It’s not fair!” seemed more and more like a motto that had adopted me for life.

There have been taxis sent away at the door because I was too ill to go to the airport (stomach again), dinner parties where I wrecked the numbers by not turning up (stomach or migraine), and I few things that I have struggled to get to, only to have to lie down in a quiet, dark room while everyone else enjoyed themselves without me. Now, tomorrow, I have an appointment with the personal trainer at the gym. I can guarantee that I won’t be ill for that. No such luck!

P.S. This morning my dear boyfriend announced, “I suffer from IBS too.” “Really?” I replied. “I’ve never known you to have stomach problems.” “No, I don’t,” he said. “I suffer from Irritable Bastard Syndrome.” Oh, how true!