Tuesday 5^th March, 2019 1730

Not entirely my fault it has been a while.

One reason is because for two weeks now I have been suffering from what I thought was constipation but eventually came to dread was something much more sinister. I found myself almost hoping it would be something so “simple” as a twisted gut, the alternative didn't bear thinking about. However when it comes to seeking medical attention I can procrastinate for England. And long-term readers will know I have a pathological aversion to Chinese hospitals anyway.

I did resolve to go to one yesterday morning but on waking I felt fine (well, not as bad as I had been) and so went shopping for the Monday meal. When I returned I started throwing up. Considering all I had eaten in six days were two small bread rolls and a couple of chocolate-covered wafers, there was nothing to come up. I was woken regularly last night with a dash to the toilet for the same reason.

The other problem is, and indeed means I have no idea when this will be posted, the Great Firewall is rampant as never before. Indeed, Adriana informed me they had a lecture on vpns and I am guessing threats of imprisonment for getting caught using one. My firm is currently working to get around the problem but already it has been three days.

So anyway, this morning I decided I had no choice but to seek medical attention. Not easy when nobody speaks English and annoyingly the hospital has no wifi – I took the laptop to translate my English but couldn't.

I was relieved of 1200¥, two vials of blood, sent for an ECG, ultrasound scan and an x-ray. To my untrained eye the ECG looked normal with no sign of the palpitations that plagued by job hunting two and a half years ago but the x-ray alarmed me. It showed a belt of black shapes stretching across my stomach, tracing my intestines. Thinking the worst, I immediately asked what they were. “Chitty”. What the hell is Chitty?? Air. Huge sigh of relief. It was beginning to look as if my diagnosis was correct. So basically what I had was a maxim gunbelt of scatter farts interspersed with cluster bombs.

Once all the tests were in, the gastroenterologist was summoned. Nice chap whose first words (via a telephone translation application) were that I should be admitted. Uh uh! Ok, operation on your abdomen. Nonono! Ok, saline enema. What???? Whoa – hold on a minute. I think we all know it's constipation so can I try some medicine first? But the enema will be a catharsis. Keep your catharsis, give me some pills and if they don't work then I'll come back and you can ram a pipe up my sphincter and fill me with seawater. But let's try the medicine first eh?

To assist with the entire inclusive experience, at one point a cadaver was wheeled inches away from me by two black-clad attendants. It would seem the routes from death bed to morgue or mortuary to undertakers do not involve discreet passageways or hidden rear doors, rather it's straight through main reception and into the car park. But not before stopping a few feet feet away from me whilst having a cheery chat with one of their mates. Oh, and just to round it all off, as I was leaving an understandably distraught father carried his son in with a nauseating dislocation/fracture to his elbow. And of course, although he had come to the right room, at that time it was the wrong room because just for me it was then a gastric room. I did not tarry on seeing that, my problem paled, the kid needed more than I did.

And you wonder why I avoid the hospital?

I now have some oral liquid stuff, enough for two days and which seems to be having an effect, albeit slowly, and four teardrop-shaped things I'm supposed to whack up my arse and squeeze liquid from. I may or may not have a go at that in the bathroom later. I'm also not supposed to eat anything until the medicine is finished. I may pass out.

I can only pray that I don't get caught short on campus tomorrow afternoon or it will be a rapid decamp to try and get to the disabled toilets in the hospital next door.