(Warning: this post contains gratuitous descriptive imagery of bodily functions. Look away now…)
After a hard day exploring Camden with my friend, what better than to retire to a local hostelry for some fine food and drink? The bright lights at The Crescent beckoned us forward, with its clean environment and reasonable menu. Nothing fancy, but nothing grubby either.
My beef rendang curry arrived, and I remarked at the time it was slightly undercooked. But hey, it came from a posh pub kitchen, it must be fine, right?
Two hours later, while at a friend’s house, I started feeling quite ill. I tried to make my excuses and leave, but just when I leave the flat front door, I started spraying copious vomit everywhere. And I mean everywhere. By the time I manage to put my face in the bathroom sink, I’ve sprayed an orangey liquid with rice and flakes of meat all over the landing, the hallway, and the white walls.
It’s quite a sight. I never quite realised how much my stomach could hold. I have to hug the toilet for another three hours before my stomach subsides to the point when I can hail a taxi home.
I spent the rest of the evening in the tiniest hotel room ever to exist at easyhotel.com – all seven square meters of it. In hindsight, trying to economise this much was probably a bad idea. And then the fire alarm goes off.
Suffice to say my London trip was not the most successful ever.