Through The Eye of a Needle...

I went to The Old Crown, Birmingham's oldest pub (built in 1368), on Thursday for lunch with a friend who has a design studio in the nearby Custard Factory. When they brought my meal (chili with rice and flour tortilla) it was so salty it made me almsot implode. You couldn't taste anything but salt. So I sent it back and changed my meal order to a lamb shank. When this came it was tough - even hard in places - and overdone and generally tasteless. Since I'd eaten nothing else that day and I thought that sending something else back would get me 'special sauce' I ate it. That evening when I got home, having eaten nothing else, I started to feel a bit funny. I began to quiver and quake and my stomach started to do gymnastics. Thought I was imaginging things at first but it got worse and worse until the inevitable Olympic sprint to the toilet, followed by (I'm sorry) extremely high-pressure bum gravy (EHPBG™).
That's been me ever since: Five minutes on, five minutes off - there can't be anything left in me but it's still going on. I'm starting to wonder whether I should be crapping through a seive to catch the internal organs that must be on their way out by now. My arse feels like the raggedy end of a burst balloon. I'm not happy.
This is the last thing I need with the Portrait Party tomorrow. Can you see it?
Me: Hi, thanks for coming
Model: Hey this is great, I'm really excited.
Me: Erm, can you hang on for a few minutes while I have a shit?
Christ.
My 66-year-old ma phoned yesterday and offered to come round and bring me some anti diahorrea stuff. I said no, thinking that a/ I'm too old to have my ma run around after me when I'm ill and b/ she's 66 and has just beaten cancer, I can't have her coming all this way just because I've got the trots.
Now, with just over twenty-four hours to go to the portrait party and over forty hours of gastric meltdown so far, I'm starting to think "Mommy, help me - I'm nearly inside out".