Sitting on the bog at 4am, I wondered how it is that my mates get tummy bugs and go down a size, and I get a bug and bloat like a dead whale. It started earlier in the week. A low level ache. By Valentine's night it was an ache and a swelling. "I look like the head's engaged," I warned my date for the evening. "Do you want to cancel?" she asked. I nearly choked. Alone on Valentines? Social death!! In the absence of romance, good conversation will do;-) My partner in crime was a scarily smart lobbyist. I met her and a financier friend for a drink in St James. I was late. Because I couldn't do up my trousers. My belly was tight as a drum. No give. Even when I lay on the floor:-o Flirting was off the menu. Though later, I consumed sushi. And felt immediately worse. Last night, out with the cocktail crowd and my Irish guest. To The Lyric, Hammersmith. For a dreadful production of The Ramayana. "I thought you'd enjoy it," said the outing organiser. "After all, you did set a novel around it." "D'you know," I replied, "I was trying to remember the story on the way here and it was only as I parked that I made the connection." Silence. I'm not sure who felt more stupid. Certainly I was more stupid. Anyway it was awful. And my belly was hurting again. So four of us left at the interval. And went to a Bulgarian bistro on King Street. Where the other two joined us later. By that time I was doubled up with tummy pain. So I bought a bottle of Milk of Magnesia. From the next door shop. And drank the lot. You know the rest.