The horror! The horror! Don't read this if you're squeamish or of a sensitive disposition, or are just about to eat your lunch.

Our toilet door handle doesn't just squeak, it screams. The toilet is directly next-door to my flatmate's bedroom and - being the considerate flatmate I am - I try to keep my late-night toilet-visits to a minimum. But that's difficult when you've got a severe case of diarrh diahrre the shits.

I had to go three times last night between midnight and 2am, trying, in vain, to ease the troublesome door open quietly. And indeed trying, in vain, to ease my explosive bowels quietly.

Half an hour after my last attack, I felt my insides cramp again. I decided to ignore it, to try to sleep through it. I lay there listening to my avant garde intestinal orchestra gurgling, bubbling, chattering and whistling. "Ignore it," I ordered myself, "go to sleep." And I did.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't open my eyes - they seemed to be glued shut. Exploring my face with my hands, I felt something caked on my face. The entire left-hand side of my face seemed to be coated in a thick gummy layer, with hard dried lumps.

I managed to prise my eyes open, and stumbled to the bathroom mirror, only to be confronted with my gruesome reflection. I looked like I'd been tarred, like I'd done a long shift down the pits. "Oh my God! I've shit myself in my sleep! Oh why, oh why, didn't I go to the loo when I needed to? Oh, I'm so stupid!

"But, hang on, why's it only on my face and my arm? The rest of my body seems OK. Oh, wait, it's not shit at all - it's blood. Only blood. Thank God for that - it's just a nosebleed."