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| Blogs > titsandsmarts > StillLife (in an old girl yet) |
Too Many BBCs...
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Too Many BBCs... Periodically, I get parachuted into parts of the world that most sane individuals avoid for their annual holidays. Part of the reason for this is because I’m cheap (why else am I on this site after all  ?): I make my income elsewhere, and I do little enough for the rest of mankind that I’ll undertake this sort of venture for expenses. The other part is that I am what my former boss described as “disgustingly efficient” – I can be relied on to get the job done, not whinge and produce the necessary paperwork when required. You wouldn’t think any of these things are rare, but apparently, they can be like hens’ teeth: so I get a lot of interesting – and sometimes, short-notice – opportunities.I’ve been on one of those for the past few days. A part of the world that some of us have been chuntering on about for ages has suddenly hit the news: you’d think it was totally unexpected from the way the politicians are going on, but all that shows is that they never read the paperwork we send them. And actually, it’s been bloody marvellous – I’ve been wanting to go to this part of Foreign for years, but as no-one wanted to send me, and I am perpetually stuck in the time vs money trap (I have one or the other; never both at the same time) I had never actually had the chance. Some of the people I was working with are people I know from other assignments we’ve shared, and some were new to me – so it’s been great catching up with the gang and making new friends. These deployments follow something of a pattern: I am often the only woman, and somehow that translates to being the one who gets to do the cooking (we’re an unreconstructed lot), give the relationship advice (having been engaged four times, I am widely believed to have magical powers in bullet-dodging) and do the expenses for everyone (because, whilst these are a wonderful group of people, with many talents, doing their exes as they go along continues to elude them: and there’s nothing I love more than reconciling four different currencies and having carrier bags full of random receipts to play with. Ahem.). In return, I refuse to touch the generator, the vehicle’s insides or anyone else’s dirty underwear. It works quite well. This time I had a treat. I absolutely love these adventures, but tend to be gruelling, both physically and mentally, and there’s no doubt that a drink at the end of the day helps take the edge off. We had managed to co-ordinate our booze<b> supplies </font></b>in advance this, which is very rare – so we had a fantastic array of duty-free. I have a travelling cocktail shaker, and thus it seemed logical to have impromptu cocktail parties after work. Being travelling queen (and also because I was invariably chained to the stove – and not in a good way) I didn’t have any part in the mixing: to be honest, I am a fan of Between the Sheets, and I never turn down a Pink Lady, but in general, I avoid more imaginative cocktails because of the inherent possibility I will get myself into trouble. And that’s something I really don’t need any help with. However, it was a lot of fun trying the various creations that made their way into the kitchen, though not all of them went well with groundnut stew. As time progressed, I started feeling ropier, but I was convinced that was more to do with very long days, too many cocktails and nowhere near enough sleep, in a challenging environment that was about 45 degrees hotter than home. We decided the last night to push the boat out. Somebody found a chicken (it really is best not to ask) so I spent my last afternoon sitting on a barrel amidst a duvet-full of feathers, preparing it for the pot, whilst the amateur mixologists prepared various concoctions for my delight and delectation. This was where my love for BBC developed. I had no idea what was in it, but it was smooth, sophisticated and definitely not too sweet. I paced myself carefully, primarily to make sure that no-one got food-poisoning, but also because a small plane flown by a homicidal alcoholic Russian who thinks he’s still in the Afghan War is not a recipe for a happy ending if you have anything approaching a hangover. It was as we were downing our latest BBCs and preparing to get dinner out, I felt the first stirrings of nausea. The unmistakeable rising of the gorge. Luckily, I made it out of the kitchen in time. We sat down to eat, and there was plenty of good-natured ribbing. I had some supper, to try to settle my stomach, and, having made a dash for the bushes again, was persuaded into another BBC to follow up the good work. After all, as someone helpfully pointed out, brandy is practically medicinal... It was only later in the evening, after several more bouts of prodigious oral expulsion, that I thought to enquire was else was in them. Turns out the C stands for “cream” – not the best thing for someone who’s lactose intolerant to be sucking down... There was much chortling at this, of course, and as I didn’t feel particularly under the weather except for the moment I needed to throw up, we continued to frolic. Years of experience means I always travel with a camping bucket, so I managed to get through the night OK: wake up, throw up, pass out. But the following morning, I was still feeling under the weather. Our medic, almost sober by now, decided that he would make me go to the clinic before my flight, just in case – it was an awfully long time to be throwing up just from a few glasses of milk, in his expert opinion. It’s kind of a rule of thumb in those parts of the world that when you wake up with a hangover, but haven’t been drinking, it’s time to go for tests. I felt my 4 BBCs constituted drinking, but I was over-ruled, and we stopped off at the clinic on the way to the airfield. The doctor was from Uganda, and young, harried and not overjoyed to see me. “What’s the problem?” “Well, I think it’s just that I’ve had too many BBCs” The doctor nearly fell off his chair: “WHAT?” “Well, I had four last night, and I’m lactose intolerant, and I think that’s what’s making me throw up.” The doctor said he couldn’t really see what lactose intolerance had to do with it, but that it was too early to run an HIV test. I was a bit surprised – I know that HIV/AIDS is prevalent in that part of the world, but this didn’t seem a logical test to be talking about – so I asked if he could give me something at least to stop the vomiting. He looked hard at me, and asked if I thought it could be psychosomatic, as a result of shame or guilt. This sort of stuff isn’t totally unusual in small clinics, which tend to be funded by churches or staffed by religious maniacs (because who else would work in these sort of places, after all?!) but seemed rather an over-reaction. I figured he must be a Baptist. “No, I don’t feel bad about it. Four isn’t that many – and if I hadn’t started throwing up, I would have definitely been able to manage a few more: they’re not that strong.” By this stage, the doctor’s eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. “I just hope you used condoms,” he hissed at me. It was at about this point, I realised we were talking at cross purposes. I reeled things back in, and explained that, whilst of course alcohol should indeed be enjoyed responsibly, I though wearing a condom to do so was rather an over-reaction. The doctor realised he should ask me to clarify what I was talking about. “Brandy, Benedictine and Cream – what are you talking about?” Turns out that BBC means something totally different – and not British Broadcasting Corporation. I always learn something when I am abroad... |
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excellent story... BBC... BBW... LOL... Etc... definitions should always be given early on...
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1/23/2013 2:32 pm |
if you are into BBC's, you should deal with your gagging reflex or spontaneous vomiting. ...I sure talk about British Broadcasting Corporation 
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