Last week, along with many other Gladstone locals, I caught a 24 hour stomach bug, which over stayed its’ welcome by five days. And during a late night workout on the porcelain I recalled that the last time I experienced a virus this nasty was exactly twenty three years ago; on our wedding day.
On that fateful 1990 morning, I woke up nice and early thanks to ‘an all orifices explosion’. By mid-morning my best man was having conniptions about my rapidly deteriorating condition, so he hustled me off to a chemist where I flopped across the counter and begged for a bullet between the eyes.
Just then a cheery woman called out, “Hi Greg! I’m really looking forward to your wedding today!” I couldn’t see who she was, but the astonished chemist asked, “You’re getting married?! When?!”
“Four hours…” I mumbled, “where’s your dunny?”
The chemist dropped several pills into my mouth, rubbed my throat til I swallowed them, then propped me against the contraceptives shelf where I stood muttering incoherently and drooling on myself. It’s a wonder I wasn’t arrested.
But they worked! Half an hour later I cartwheeled out the door, with a free packet of contraceptives in my top pocket, courtesy of the smiling chemist.
I wish I knew the name of those pills, because the ones I took last week were useless. Then Long Suffering Wife got crook too, sending our hopes for a honeymoon commemoration weekend at Agnes Waters down the gurgler.
So, we spent our anniversary lolling around at home instead, and the highlight of the day was when I whispered to my wife, “Well, things haven’t always worked out how we wanted, but I’ll always be here Little Mate.”
She must have heard me, because I could hear her crying through the toilet door.