24 Hours in A&E...

So, I've finally had my first taste of fame. Unfortunately, this notoriety is limited to the A&E department at St George's in Tooting.

June has been a bit of a wild time for me. A second whistle-stop tour to Saudi Arabia in early June exposed me to 45-degree heat, a 7-hour hike through the desert, and two overnight travel days within the space of a long weekend. But, as I have so often been told, 'no rest for the wicked', so after not even enough time to wash and dry my Saudi-appropriate clothes, I picked up my suitcase full of California-appropriate clothes (best not to get THESE two suitcases confused) and headed to San Francisco with my man.

A few jet-lagging days later we drove to his home town (and nothing in America is ever really close) and began what was a really rather wonderful - but not exactly 'chill' - week, meeting family, attending baseball games, testing America's culinary delights, and generally firing on all cylinders. Then came a long drive back North for an even longer flight home that had us transferring - for the first AND last time - through Dallas, Texas. Cue a final long-haul flight, and some snatched hours of sickly slumber, and we found ourselves finally on home soil. Where we discovered my bag had alas failed to join us. Clearly, she enjoyed Texas more than either of us did and decided to extend her stay.

So, a sleep-deprived couple queued up to lodge their complaint and were told that the bag would be hand-delivered to me within 72 hours. The only saving grace was that I could travel 'hands-free' to my Hansel & Gretel rehearsal scheduled for that afternoon. And with only 2 minutes of sleep and 3 brain cells left to rub together at this point, it was no bad thing that one burden had been lifted.

However, that's where things go from bad to worse - or from jet-lagged to genuinely very unwell. What started as a plane-induced sore throat (or so I thought) and flight fatigue soon turned into a full-blown fever. And I'm talking change-your-PJs-three-times-a-night kind of fever too. I mean, if you're going to do it, you might as well go for it, I guess? Alongside these lovely symptoms, I could count a deliciously swelling throat and difficulty swallowing and talking. Finally, after a few stubborn days, I had to admit defeat and realised I couldn't just 'wait this one out'. I was forced to turn to 111, who bagged me a speedy doctor's appointment and by the next morning I had me some sweet drugs for tonsillitis, and I thought that would be the end of my troubles.

But as you can probably tell from the thinly veiled doom of that last sentence (and the giveaway in the title), that is NOT the end of the story. Despite an initial suggestion of healing, I soon began to deteriorate once more and was forced to turn to 111 again - this time with an interpreter in the form of my well-dictioned boyfriend - who had to translate my garbled, dribbly syllables into symptoms for the doctor. He so excelled at this role that he was invited to accompany me to my NEXT speedily-organised doctor's appointment, where the suggestion of 'Quinsy' first appeared. A strange - and to me unheard of - sometime complication of tonsillitis which requires hospitalization. But, reluctant to send me to a hospital unnecessarily, the doctor tried me on some new drugs and said I was to go to A&E if I got no better, or - god forbid - I got worse.

Alas, god did no such forbidding, and by that evening I was undeniably very, very sick. My stubbornness and real aversion to being 'diagnosed' could deny it no longer, and even my British politeness to be grateful for my supper couldn't force me to eat more than about 3 grains of (what was quite frankly a rather delicious) risotto, handmade by Matt. It was this - alongside beginning to struggle to breathe - that was the nail in the coffin. Terribly poor choice of phrasing. But, I could no longer put off the inevitable, and off to St George's we went.

Good job too. Despite it being a busy Saturday night in A&E, I was seen very speedily. The nurse who checked me in gave a thinly veiled look of horror when he looked into my mouth (which I could only open about 2 cm at this point), and before I knew it I had a cannula in my arm (and yet ANOTHER compliment on my juicy veins'), and was sat on the bed of an ENT doctor who quickly told me that 'yes, I had Quinsy' and I was going to have to be admitted.

His delivery of the diagnosis and cure was perfunctory and to the point: "I'm going to have to stick a sharp needle in there to drain the puss out. It'll last about 5 seconds and I'll have to do it around three times, and it's going to hurt quite a lot...are you ready?" - he said with needle poised - "No time like the present" I replied - or would have done if I had any ability to speak by this point. Instead, I just did a slightly tentative nod and said "uh-huh" and in he went (after a foul-tasting numbing spray) and drained an unholy amount of puss from my face. Apparently - according to Matt - it was pretty fascinating to watch. All I could manage was an expletive when I saw the end result and a syringe full of foul liquid. After a second attempt, all he got was blood, but he seemed fairly pleased with round 1. So, back out into the waiting room before being summoned once more. All in all I was checked-in, seen and received a bed within 2 hours. Which I think is pretty awesome.

I was given periodic instalments of fluids, steroids, antibiotics and painkillers throughout the night and by the morning I could manage a few spoonfuls of Weetabix and a cup of tea, and I knew I was on the mend. The staff were faultless and even in my state of mild delirium they treated me with great kindness and humanity, and even laughed at my - probably quite terrible - jokes. I was very grateful to be made to feel a bit like a person, I must say. The doctors came round again - apparently they'd heard ALL about my mouth in the staff room (it's always nice to be noteworthy, I guess?). They seemed pretty happy with me, but mildly concerned that I still couldn't open my mouth terribly far, so back they came with their numbing spray and this time a scalpel in place of a needle and made a really rather lovely incision in my mouth. I had to endure this trial without an American hand to hold as well! On a side note, there's something really quite visceral about someone coming towards your face with a scalpel and you just having to sit there and take it, polite and open-mouthed in aid. But, took it I did, and a few hours later I was deemed safe for dismissal.

Matt and his best friend James came along to keep me company those last few hours, while my parents winged their way up to Wimbledon, and I was loaded with a hefty bag of drugs for the next week. And out of the door I walked, waving goodbye to my brief - but brilliant - medical companions. And I've been recuperating in the Chalfonts ever since. In between naps and pill alarms, I've been trying to eat and drink as much as possible to make up for the last few days, and people have been incredibly sweet, bringing me ice cream (I'll contract Quinsy more often if it means this much free food!), dropping off fruit (and microphones - don't ask!), and sending well wishes and generally making me feel very loved. Which is the one - and ONLY - upside to this whole horrid affair.

But hopefully, within a few days and with some more drugs, rest and recuperation (my answer to rock & roll's motto), I'll be feeling right as rain and back to my old ways. And drinking a well-earned

glass of champagne. Although perhaps this is a lesson to take it just a *little* easier going forward. Let's see how long I remember that one, eh?

But, all in all, a scary few days for me. Especially since the last time I was in hospital for an emergency of my own I was under 2, so I don't recall much of the occasion. However, I'm out the other side now (hopefully) and well on my way to being better. I'm not there yet, but I'm just trying to take each day - and every pill / swill of antibiotic mouthwash - as it comes.

See you back in the land of the living soon xxx