Well, we have all had it. It doesn't seem to matter what we eat or who is eating it because one or the other of us has ended up hugging the toilet bowl. Alan and I went to the local Chinese herbalist and he gave us some miracle pills for Dad and they cured him. The doctor - which is what I presume he was - saw us in the middle of the pharmacy at a big marble table. We told him the symptoms and he produced two very decorative bottles with little round black pills in them and told us Dad had to take 8 out of one bottle three times a day and a whole vial of the other stuff one hour before. Dad bravely obeyed and in a day he was up and at 'em again.
The pharmacy was a traditional one with a line of scales and the pharmacists measuring out all manner of interesting things and wrapping them into paper containers. It was fascinating even though I couldn't help but wonder which eye of newt was in it.
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