A day in the life of a Crohn's sufferer

After an eternity of holding the card, reading the card, staring up at me, looking back down at the card and looking at the packet of crumpets now in his other hand he gave the card back to me. By this point, I was cursing the British education system. Perhaps he can't read? Maybe he doesn't understand what the word "URGENTLY" means? Surely this is the only possible explanation for his sloth-like response time?

Finally, he got up and beckoned me to follow him. "At last!" I thought. "Not a moment too soon." My stomach was in knots and playing havoc with my ability to maintain a calm exterior. That's the problem with Crohn's disease - no sense of decorum.

Escorted towards a security guard, I gave a cursory look around me. It became apparent I wasn't anywhere near a toilet. Seriously, did this guy not understand the word "URGENTLY"? It's capitalised! The clerk hands the guard my card and after another interminable period of looking at the card, looking up at me, looking back at the card, and looking back at me - he finally speaks.

"Did you find this card?"

In shock I stutter a pathetic, and rather desperate "no, it's mine. It's my card" and he instructs the clerk to take me to the stockroom where there is, to my eternal relief, a toilet.

Eventually, I was back home. Having successfully procured what I set out to, I began to prepare breakfast. I felt exhausted. And yet, what could I say to my fellow flatmates as I greeted them good morning? As anecdotes go, this was not an easy story to relate. Far easier to stay quiet, focus on some light banter and trying to make those pancakes round - not, as on my first attempt, a reinterpretation of an early Jackson Pollack. The rest of the day was bound to get better...

It was, of course, a beautiful Sunday morning.

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