It's twenty-past-five in the morning, and I haven't slept a wink. No, I haven't been out partying. And no, I haven't had the shits all night. The stuff my GP gave me yesterday seems to be effective in keeping it all inside. But that doesn't mean my tummy is settled. Oh no, my insides are a seething, writhing mass of angry, hissing snakes; a boiler-room of shuddering pipes with faulty valves and juddering air bubbles.

Lying in bed under the duvet, I am a child listening to a thunderstorm raging outside. Distant low rumbles are followed by faint echoes somewhere over the horizon. A long, lazy grumble snakes across the dark sky. A gaggle of excitable juvenile reports play tag around the hills. A sudden detonation is so loud, so near, I half-expect my dad's car alarm to go off.

I almost wish it would pour again, to relieve the pressure.