So, I ate the runner beans on the tube. THe whole thing. And reading went fine, and I was on the way to see someone else I'm doing AT (Autogenic Therapy)course with when I began to feel very ill. At first I attributed my quesiness to being sat on a Bus that was stuck in traffic. And then I began to be pumelled by horrific stomach cramps, and I realised that something altogether more sinster was at play. (I've no idea whether the sausages were the true culprit, or whether raw runner beans are toxic, or whether it was a combination of the two, but at the very thought of a runner bean I turned the colour to match it).
And it became increasingly clear to me also that I was going to be ill. I stumbled off the Bus, (it seemed the courteous thing to do) and cast my eye around for open-topped rubbish bins (contenting myself with the thought that if there were any of my ennemy, the rat, in there to pounce on me, at the very least I could throw up on their heads).
Vomiting in public is in my head just a single step above pissing in the street, but by that time I was too ill to care.
And then predictably enough, I did throw up, and collapsed a few steps away from the bin afterwards crying and shaking and looking, I imagine, not my best. And there, I was approached by a man who seemed somewhat out of it himself, who inquired in concerned tones:
*Are you in withdrawal love?* and offered me a cigarette which I bummed off him with a shaking hand while trying to reassure him that I wasn't on heroin but runner beans.
He left. When the local junkies take you for a lunatic it is quite an accomplishment I feel.
And because I am very stubborn and obstinate when I want to be, I got up and continued to my original destination holding on to the notion that I'd feel better once I got there. I in fact felt worse, so didn't get a lot done by way of AT but I did accomplish something on another level which was to *gasp* *shock* accept help. From a man no less. And a man who is a relative stranger at that.
That men can be kind and caring is still something of a shock to my system. And he was really very nice about it, and for once in my life I stopped fighting and let someone else look after me (without *gasp* *shock* feeling guilty about it! well not much anyway). And after having managed to convince him that I was well enough to be released into the world and I made it home just about, collapsed in the bathroom for the next two hours cursing myself and all vegetables and swearing to God that if He let me live I would never eat beans again. That I would live on salt bread and water for the rest of my life like a hermit.
I can't imagine why I thought this is something God would want, but like my many other moves that day, it seemed like a good idea at the time. ;)
Today I'm better.
And hey, at least I think I've made significant progress towards overcoming my phobia of vomiting.