The builder boyfriend colicked for a week after eating a falafel kebab as he and I sat up all night with the colicking pony.
And unlike the colicking pony, who was attended to by the vet and given intravenous Buscopan, the colicking builder boyfriend moaned and groaned in agony, untreated. If he had a GP he couldn’t remember who or where it was. He has not sought any kind of healthcare, nor seen the inside of a hospital, since a gang of thugs broke both his arms when he was a ten-year-old boy growing up on the mean streets of Balham. (That was the real Balham, before the independent hipster cafés came with their nut-milk lattes and sustainable sourdough fritters garnished with locally foraged pea-shoots.)
In the time I have known him, the builder b has smashed bones, cut and bruised himself from head to foot, and most memorably, knocked himself out when a garage door fell on top of him, ricocheted upwards and then smashed back down on his head a second time as he tried to stand up.
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