Heavenly Beverley : Beware the "Guns Of Navarone"

Friday night, was as ever, Pub Night. I really do enjoy the chance to get out of the kitchen and have a meal elsewhere. The best bit is leaving the table and walking away from the dishes without a second thought. As much as I enjoy the overall experience, my skirmishes with IBS are ensuring that my digestive system still reminds me who is actually in charge.

Last night, being quite wintry, the option of a glass of red vino won over my recent preference for white. I also ordered the chicken cannelloni, which normally causes no issues. All was well until we returned home. We watched Michael Portillo"s "Great British Railway Journeys", admiring his colourful outfits as we always do. Surprisingly, I had predicted he would be wearing yellow and royal blue. And blow me down, he had complied!

My tummy had experienced an odd rumble, but ablutions had not been too scary, so I congratulated myself and had a couple more glasses of red. Deciding to head for bed after a British train expedition through Wales and the west of England, Michael announced he was staying up to watch the "Guns of Navarone".

I retired to bed, fighting with Madame Cat for a fair share of my side. Unable to get really comfortable, I swallowed a couple of painkillers and turned off my light. Out in the living room, our heroes - the Brits and Yanks - were in full flight against the evil German fortress somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea. Michael, happily inebriated, had the volume at full throttle, thus preventing me from slipping into Cloud Cuckoo Land.

Worse was to come. An almighty crash from the pantry signalled all was not well. I went to investigate. Michael had been prowling for snacks and had dropped the container of jellybeans on the floor whilst searching for other delights. In his haste, he ate as many as possible, whilst picking them up off the floor to prevent the Canine Clowns from vacuuming them up for themselves.

I then asked him to turn down the telly's volume. Which he did. A bit.

The guns continued, albeit at a more muffled level. But by now I was fully awake. Bollocks. I gave up and resorted to a sleeping tablet. Just as I was happily drifting into slumber, the TV quietened, my beloved swayed his way into the bedroom and announced he had a whopping tummy ache.

Pleading with him to remember the direction of the loo in case of digestive emergency, we then tried to sleep. Neither the cat nor I was amused. As he often does after consuming a touch more vino than usual, Michael became very chatty. I tried "good night darling" and "sleep tight, see you in the morning" onward to "please be quiet Michael" and eventually to "SHUT UP AND GO TO SLEEP". All this time, Miss Ruby was continually changing her position on the bed, creating maximum disturbance whilst kneading Michael's bum through the covers.

Michael's excuse for a chat had something obscure to do with Ryan our electrician and the fireplace at the pub. The full explanation remained tantalisingly out of reach, however, I suspect Mr Carrot, the official delegate from the salad, may have been involved somehow. (See a previous post about Michael's night time shenanigans.)

Luckily for Michael, he shut up and fell into unconsciousness before I found a handy sledgehammer. As a result of all this chaos, we didn't wake up until about ten o'clock this morning, which firmly put us behind the eightball for opening the Gallery on time.

And just to top off an eventful night, my IBS reared its ugly head. I was marooned on the loo for what appeared to be an eternity. It was as if the "Guns of Navarone" had relocated to my posterior for the duration. I left the seat of the crime after several miserable minutes.

Red wine is off the agenda for the foreseeable future. I am blaming the "Guns of Navarone" for the whole unsavoury episode.

Postscript:

Later this morning, my neck seized rock solid in agony. I staggered up the street to see if Janet, Masseur to the Stars, could squeeze me in to unlock the problem area. Which she did, over half an hour, with me uttering a few interjections of profanity when she hit the right spot.

I told her to stop apologising for causing me pain. I had chosen to be there, I needed her to weave her magic, which I was fully aware would result in copious swearing. By me, not her.

Then I remembered she had started her career in equine massage. "That's why you never had any f*%king complaints in the past", I told Janet between gritted teeth. "You never massaged Mister Ed!"

I'm sure that, somehow, the "Guns of Navarone" had also contributed to my neck's demise. Remind me never to have it on the telly ever again...