Pleasuurre, painn, someone somwhere is eating a lot of Muller yoghurt

Saturday night, Francesca and the kids are still in Italy, its time to party. By 1900 hours fellow lawman, close friend and confident, Joe, is at the flat. By 1905 we’ve hit the local bars of TW19, spending over the odds for vodka that would have cost me a fraction of the price two weeks ago.
By 0205 hours the two of us are making the sad slow meandering march back to the flat. In true Northern fashion Joe takes the floor with a few cushions, and I hit my bed with a resounding thud. The following morning I have a pain in my neck. I write it off as having slept too soundly in the same position for far too long. Anyway, I got a good 20 hours to shake the effects of the night off before I’m on duty again.
Next day and the pain is still there, worse in fact. Work is a nightmare, notwithstanding the stupid comments every five minutes about the stiff neck. Definitely no overtime today.
When I get home I ‘drop’ a couple of paracetamols, virtually no effect. The rest of the evening is spent in excruciating agony to the point that I’m walking around with a wrapped up towel around my neck as a makeshift brace. And then I make the fateful mistake; self diagnoses, http://www.wrongdiagnosis.com/ I typed all my symptoms in and… Shit! Bedtime is propped up in a sitting position on the couch. Lying down is far to tortuous. Sleep? Forget it! The next morning at the stroke of 0830 I phone the surgery and get an emergency appointment with my GP.
Not long after I’m sitting opposite my doctor again. A few minutes later he’s recommending that I be admitted to hospital with suspected meningitis. I protest his diagnoses. There is no sensitivity to light, or high fever (I’ve done my homework). He retorts, “There’s more than one type of meningitis, I’ll call an ambulance”. Shortly after I’m in the local hospital being prodded with needles, having lights shone in my eyes, and having my reflexes taken every five minutes.
After what seems like at eternity the doctors return to my cubicle only to announce what I already knew. “Well its not meningitis, here have some Diclofenac. Take one three times a day. If symptoms persist go back to your GP”. Within a few hours the pain has gone completely.
However, within days it’s ‘bang, bang, bang’ three ‘funny turns’ in quick succession over the period of one afternoon and evening. The exact same M.O. as the others. Soul sucked out through face whilst experiencing a strange feeling of deja vu, or rather presque vu (from French, meaning "almost seen"). The sensation of being on the brink of an epiphany. “There’s something at the back of my mind trying to breakthrough. If I can just understand what it is I’ll have this sucker, whatever it is, fully understood, and once its fully understood, its beat”. A sort of ‘mind over matter’, I will have taken away it’s ‘power’.This sensation is coupled with the familiar taste that I don’t recognise, and the background music that I’ve heard so often yet still can’t put my ‘finger’ on. And then ‘schbang’ as my soul slaps back into my face, and the ground reaches up to meet the disorientated me. However, despite the symptomology there seems to be a resounding theme with all these incidents; They’re usually post exercise or some form of exertion, until a few days later.
I’m in a classroom at work being subjected to a training day. It’s a lengthy affair covering the usual diverse topics, from fire pickets to domestic violence. We’ve all just come back from a short coffee break and are now in the final stretch. The end of the working day is in sight. A quick ‘n easy Q and A and we’re just about finished. I’m sitting amongst a small group of colleagues mulling the scenario over when ‘bang’, “You crafty bastard you ‘snuck’ under my ‘radar’. I didn’t see that coming. Did anyone notice?” “Training days over, thank God. Feeling like crap, early dart home on the bus.” Light workout, a few curls in front of the TV before I start dinner, ‘bang’, second one of the day. “Right, stop that. No more exercise until this crap is sorted”. Into the kitchen for a light evening meal, ‘bang’ a big one. “Bloody sniper got me, I’m on the floor”. Panic sets in, I start to phone everyone. I don’t want to be alone. Francesca tells me that she’s going to come back the following morning. I pull myself together and tell her to stay in Italy for the last few days of her sabbatical. After much cajoling she relents.
The next day I feel bad, worse than usual. But then again, I had three ‘spells’ in one day. Travelling to work on the bus is dreamlike. I feel strangely disjointed from reality. I float into the office, boot up my computer, and then realise that I can’t go on…