You Can't Run From the Vomit

Something went horribly wrong last night. I was dreaming I was operating on some giant, zombie, possum. Twisting its brain with a screwdriver to restore a spark of life. But every twist generated a stab of pain to my own belly.
'You're twisting the wrong way,' a disembodied voice announced.
I woke up. The pain in my belly was nausea. I galloped to the toilet and it receded somewhat. I burped several times and opened a window to allow cool air in while I paced outside the toilet door.
I tried to give myself the pep-talk. It's not going to go away. Get in there, get your fingers down your throat, vomit, feel better. 123 go.
Nothing happened. What's wrong with me? I, rather oddly, have always prided myself on my ability to tackle nausea head on. Yet there I was, sipping water, burping and walking. They don't fix it! I screamed at myself, they prolong the suffering. Yet every time last night I tried to dodge it. 12:20, 1:50, 4:00 & 6:00am. During the last period I lay on the back couch trying to read Akira. I don't recommend it for those in a delicate state of mind.

Knickers has taken the day off work and I have spent it in bed, a complete dribbling mess. Only now the Noodle has retired for the day am I starting to come good and thinking about having some toast.

And ice-cream.