LITMIR.BIZ

       1: Prologue

      My name is Steve Rudd. I ate a dodgy stir-fry and almost ended up in a coma. Sadly, however, unlike Life on Mars, I didn’t get to travel back to 1973 and drive Sam Tyler’s Ford Capri through the stacks of cardboard cartons on the corners of the rainy, grimy, cobbled back streets of Manchester; nor did I get to meet Gene Hunt and fire up the Quattro. Not any Quattro. Not even Suzi Quattro. Still, from my own recollections of 1973, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, anyway.

      What it did mean, however, was that I spent about five months (give or take a few dreary days) in the care of a major Northern NHS hospital, serving a combined population of many hundreds of thousands of people across the Pennines.

      It had all started relatively innocuously. We were looking forward to our annual holiday on the Isle of Arran, and Debbie, my wife, had been busy getting the camper van loaded and ready. She was extra-busy as well, because she was job searching. She had decided that after 21 years being a residential social worker, enough really was enough.

      In 2009, despite being very ill herself, she had managed to battle through her course and qualify as a teacher of adult literacy. Now, with the summer holidays approaching, she was looking forward to graduating “officially”, and after the holidays she was going to come back and put in her official resignation straight away, thus ending her “day job” after 21 years as a residential social worker, while simultaneously applying for any and every teaching job going, before the start of the new term.

      So, change was in the air, as she spent time packing stuff into the camper van, ready for the off, and I, too, was counting down the days until we could load Tiggy on board, settle her down on her special little dog-bed in the back, leave Kitty once more in the tender care of Granny, and set off on our annual trundle up the M6, leading eventually to the ferry port at Ardrossan, to embark for Arran.

      We’d planned to go on July 19^th 2010. As good a day as any, we thought. On July 8^th, Debbie was doing one of her final overnight sleep-in shifts at Beech, leaving me on my own for the night. So I did what any self-respecting, self-catering husband would do, I decided to use up some leftovers. Leftover rice, from the day before, what’s not to like? Add a can of stir-fry vegetables. Some soy sauce, and turn the heat up. Sorted.

      I must admit, I had misgivings even when I was eating the stuff. Mainly, though, because I hadn’t heated it through enough, and it was a bit cold. I toyed with the idea of putting it back on the gas, but I knew I was going to be busy later, so I pressed on regardless, and had it lukewarm. I offered my leavings to the dog. She declined. Sensible dog.

      The pains started shortly afterwards, shooting pains in my stomach, to be precise. For over an hour, I was completely immobilised by it, just sitting there clutching my stomach, until it eventually subsided a bit. I had no doubt that, somehow, I had given myself food poisoning or something. I managed to phone Debbie on her mobile and let her know I was feeling grim and going to bed, all thoughts of any further work abandoned for the night.

      Somehow, I dragged myself upstairs and got into bed, complete with hot water bottle clutched against my stomach. Eventually, I fell into a fetid, foetal, fevered sleep.

      The next day, I actually felt slightly better. I wouldn’t say I was back to normal, but there was an important meeting at my day job about a potential new distribution contract being scheduled so I did make an effort, braced myself with a strong cup of coffee, and made the journey to the office. I wasn’t at my best, all day. In fact, on reflection, now,

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