Attack of the weirds

Last Saturday, while fielding, Nicktor failed to get his hands to a cricket ball and it made a bit of a mess of his foot. It seemed fine on the day and he went on to score 23 runs when Liphook III went in to bat. It wasn’t until he arrived home and removed his shoes that he realised he was in quite a lot of pain. The swelling was rather pronounced as well.

He did the right thing by elevating the foot and putting ice on it and, while still sore, he figured he was fine for a Nicktor Night. This goes a long way to proving that self diagnosis can be a dangerous thing.

He turned up at the usual time tonight, changed and showed me his foot. It was clearly swollen and looked decidedly sore. The fact that he could do little more than hobble, was also a bit of a give-away.

The plan was to once more try the delights of the 6 Bells’ kitchen for dinner so, following a cup of tea, we (very, very slowly) limped down the lane to the pub. Because his foot seemed to be growing, Nicktor wore my thongs, replacing the shoes he’d had on most of the day.

At the pub, we ordered beer (Greene King IPA) and food (ham, egg and chips) and headed out to the beer garden. It was still quite warm outside and, thankfully, we managed to score a table with an umbrella. We drank and talked…mostly about his foot.

Dinner arrived and we tucked in, ravenously. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I tucked in. Nicktor grabbed a chip, dunked it into a yolk and took a bite. That was it. Basically, he couldn’t eat any more.

Before I go on, I have to say that the quality of the food has dropped off in the two weeks since we last ate there. Previously, the eggs were free range (no more) and the meal was not too greasy (no more). While it was fine and edible, it wasn’t a patch on last time.

Anyway, I finished my meal and asked if he’d like another beer. Whenever I ask this, he generally, and jokingly, declines with a wry grin. This, of course, means he’d definitely like another. Not tonight, however, the pleasures of a second pint for Nicktor.

He told me he was feeling a bit unwell and, to be fair, he was looking a bit peaky. He suggested we just go back to the house. He tried to stand up. He sat back down, saying he felt queasy.

At this stage, it all sounds like heat stroke (I should know the symptoms, shouldn’t I, mum?). He stayed sitting on the bench while his head returned to his control. We then started to leave the pub.

Outside the back door of the pub, which leads from the garden to the bar, someone had quite generously left a white plastic chair. I say conveniently because that’s as far as Nicktor could manage. He suddenly stopped and fell into it, saying he needed to rest. At this stage I was starting to get a bit worried.

Then something happened that I’ve never seen before. It was like he was a robot and someone suddenly turned his switch off. His head lolled a bit, he couldn’t form words properly and he started dribbling vomit down his t-shirt.

Now I was really concerned…obviously. (Looking back, it sounds like a stroke.) I gently raised his head and spoke to him but it was like he’d left his body to go astral travelling without bothering to leave a note. And then, as quickly as it had happened, he straightened up and declared we should go home.

We staggered back to the house. I was a bit concerned that he would suddenly vomit everywhere and collapse into a bush and I was fully prepared to call an ambulance, rehearsing the emergency number in my head. I remember Season’s Greetings and the need for preparation in these things.

Nothing untoward happened and we made it home unscathed. Nicktor disappeared into the toilet while I calmed the poodles down. When he appeared he showed me his foot which had ballooned to almost twice it’s normal size. I asked him how he felt and he said that, apart from the pain, he didn’t feel too bad.

The rest of the night was spent keeping a close eye on him and working out a number of contingency plans for the morning in the event that he couldn’t drive. We also watched a movie and some Alas Smith and Jones. We were in bed by 11 o’clock having consumed no alcohol at all. (I insisted he drink gallons of water.) All previously unheard of on a Nicktor Night. The poodles were rather confused.

It was a very odd episode and I only hope he’ll be okay in the morning.