Poisoned (but not by Poofter Pete) or: What its like to be allergic to food.

After years of assuring people that my carefully controlled allergies and my strict diet are real, I have actually had an allergic reaction to something. I feel so steamrollered that I have been asleep on the sofa for the past hour. It feels a lot more real to me now. I was on the way home from a stonking weeked with brumcunian; I mean, wow. and what a cat. what taste in films! great sofa and better clothes than me, dammit. I had already accidentally eaten something rather milk-related and suffered almost no reaction whatever, the day before I ended up rushing to A&E in Watford, about 4 minutes after having a single bite of this flapjack. Not in a restaurant, in my home, on the street or in a shop. Or anywhere near safety. On a train.

There was no way I was risking keeling over with anaphalactic shock on a moving train miles from anywhere so, blessed with magical Fiona Luck as always, 2 minutes after I realised that taking an antihistamine just wasn't going to cut it this time, the train had just come into Watford. I calmly pocketed the flapjack and my EpiPen where I could find them both. I made a move and got a cab to A&E right where I happened to be. My throat was burning, my lips and neck were swelling, and I was losing my concentration. Everything was in slow motion, and crystal clear. I was finding it hard to talk as I uttered the immortal words no cabbie ever wants to hear: "take me to the nearest hospital".

I got lucky: sat in A&E feeling like a prize melon, my airways failed to become constricted, the swelling subsided and I was sent home having had steroids and antihistamines because there was no need for resuscitation. I went to hospital because I honestly thought that there would be. I had every single sympton of impending shock. I threw up twice, reacting inside my mouth to whatever evil substance it was, all over again as it was on the way out. Lovely. I puffed up like Marshmallow Man and my neck started to itch. I threw up the steroids they gave me (Tip: never search for tiny white pills in a cardboard bowl of vomit: it makes you look certifiable)

Then Mr Sir D came and collected me in the ultimate mercy mission. I threw up the second lot of steroids, narrowly missing the Car. Then another delayed reaction and woke me at 4am in my own bed covered in excruciating nettle rash. With no strength left to get to the Piriton, just rode it out and scratched until dreaming of cheese graters and emery boards, which is what it feels like I've been swallowing for the past week. Today, my ultimate hero Sir D has made home made bread, soup and plain rice for me, (so I know EXACTLY whats in it) and I even managed to write a wicked sweet potato soup recipe as the ultimate recovery soup.

Good things come to those who wait. And to those who act quickly. Thank you MedicAlert and thankyou Anaphalaxis Campaign. I would never have made it back to Purple Drak Plaza without you :) I now have to write to Virgin and Jack Cakes etc, after much much more sleep.