I've had what we now know was an acute attack of labrynthitis. No, I'd never heard of it either until I did some googling. Initially, I just thought it was my new prescription glasses giving me some jip, but the wobbliness escalated rapidly and within fifteen minutes I was floored. Forty minutes later, I was in a wheelchair being pushed out of the office into an ambulance.
Labrynthitis makes you feel like you're completely and utterly hammered, without any of the preceding fun parts. Your balance disappears and it's as if you're on a dinghy in the middle of the North Sea in a force 10 gale - then you spew everywhere. But basically, it's just an inner ear infection and the only thing to make you better is rest and anti-sickness tablets. I feel like I've had a celebrity illness though, because it turns out Vincent Van Gogh suffered with it in the 1800's, shortly followed by Anne Widdecombe in 2013.
One of the heroes in my dramatic rescue from BBC Yorkshire was my friend and colleague Sarah, who kept me from the brink of hysteria when everyone else was in a Wallace & Grommit style panic. When the paramedics strapped me into a wheelchair, Sarah carried my bag, held the bowl and accompanied me to A&E, waiting patiently until my husband took over with a roll of his eyes.
The next day, my GP confirmed it was text-book labrynthitis and nonchalantly waved away my fears of a brain tumour, stroke or early menopause. So after another a good night's sleep, I thought the least I could do was send Sarah a bouquet of something lovely. But what should have been a simple click of the credit card details, ended up in a middle class social minefield worthy of an entry in Very British Problems.
were due to arrive by 5pm the next day. Perfect, I thought, congratulating myself on my kindness. But by 6pm, I hadn't received a thank-you-for-your-thank-you-flowers text. Now, Sarah is one of the poshest people I know, so I thought it a bit odd (she went to an all-girls boarding school where writing notelets is part of the curriculum). But you can't exactly ring up and say "Er, did you get my flowers (you ungrateful cow)?"
So, there were three options on the table: 1) The delivery person couldn't be arsed. 2) No, that was the only option. Then, I got an email informing me that the driver couldn't find the property so had taken the posy back to base. Infuriating. So I called the track-my-order hotline, cancelled the burst and bobbed round with a bottle instead.
But the next day, some bedraggled flowers appeared on Sarah's doorstep. The only logical conclusion I can draw is that the delivery driver had suffered an acute attack of labrynthitis on the way and was carted off in an ambulance. But who helped him
? And how will he be able to deliver his own thank-you flowers? And will they have a similar note attached?