Sick

Last night I dined at a Turkish place and then went for ice cream. The lone waitress at the Turkish restaurant doesn't speak much English, so it's best to point to what you want on the menu. I ordered a falafel and a small Arab shawrma chicken pizza thing. As the waitress doesn't write down the orders, you pray that what you get somehow resembles anything close to what you ordered. The Arab shawrma chicken thing, for example, consisted of cooked chicken and french fries, wrapped in a pizza base, all served with mayonnaise and BBQ sauce. Close enough, I figured. After all, it tasted fine.

Turns out it tasted worse this morning. There's nothing like waking up in the morning and, after only a few minutes, be greeted by what you ate the night before.

I quickly told Phin that I wasn't going to work today. He was good enough to take my lesson plan in with hopes that a substitute would be found. Amaniel came in before he left and presented me with three black pills. Charcoal pills, he assured me, will soak up whatever is left inside my stomach to cleanse the body of whatever bacteria is making me sick. Thanks, I tell him, secretly knowing that I'll need to feel a lot worse before I swallow 150mg of charcoal.

For now, I'm confined to my flat. As I lie in bed, my current state looks a lot like the opening scene of Apocalypse Now in which Martin Sheen lies there, sweating heavily underneath a useless ceiling fan. Outside, I can hear the noise from the street below. Cars beep their horns often, friends shout at each other from across the road, and the tuk tuks sound like fast moving weed whackers that only slow down when you hear a voice shout out, "ruckshaw!"

I should be back on my feet soon, but for now, I know one thing: I'm not going back to that Turkish place anytime soon.