"I fucks yez and I buys yez pies. What more do ya want?"

* You wanna know what a bogan is? Try here.

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Think about it ... if you're capable of making a 000/111/999/911 call on your own behalf, doesn't that automatically put you in the 'not really an emergency' category? Does the person on the other end of the line take you less seriously because you're the one doing the screaming, rather than the partner/neighbour/bailiff who's just wandered in and found you?

Such were Your Agonised Correspondent's musings as she writhed and moaned on the bathroom floor while waiting for the ambulance on April Fools' Day morning.

Yeah, it was April Fools' Day. The Dreamboat was at work and I was supposed to be driving to the airport to pick up some friends from Sydney who were staying with us over the weekend. Just to thicken that ole plot a little.

So the Dreamboat made it home about two minutes before the ambos arrived and all sorts of fun ensued, culminating in an introduction to Young Jason: Emergency Ward Doctor. He was very witty and proficient -- despite looking barely weaned -- so I thought it would be churlish of me to yell when he less-than-deftly inserted the IV. His zits had made me come over all maternal and stuff.

I think he picked up on this, because he dismissed "miscarriage" and "ectopic pregnancy" as possible causes of my Mystery Illness virtually straight away, but positively dallied on "menopause". When I yelped in protest, he looked at me calmly and said, "Well, you're over forty, aren't you?" To which I could only nod and silently protest: I KNOW I LOOK LIKE SHIT RIGHT NOW BUT THAT'S BECAUSE I'M SICK AND ANYWAY, I'VE ONLY JUST TURNED 43 AND PEOPLE USED TO TELL ME I DIDN'T LOOK MY AGE AND I'M A GORGEOUS, SEXY WOMAN AND I'M TOO FUCKING YOUNG TO EVEN BE THINKING ABOUT MENOPAUSE!

So in the end, after two litres of fluid had made their way into my bloodstream and I'd been given a second ECG because my naughty fingernails had turned blue, the verdict was "viral gastro" and we were all happy about that. The Dreamboat took me home basically intact, apart from a needle mark on the back of my left hand and 40,000 sticky things all over my body, many of which I was still discovering a day later. Our friends made it to the house under their own steam and we all had a rollicking good weekend. Everything was great ...

Except that yesterday morning, it happened again. Not quite the same and nowhere near as severe, but similar enough to make me seriously reconsider my recent decision to give up beer and drink only wine. I never had any of this shit when I drank beer.

I was fatter, however.

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