On the flight to Belfast on Tuesday I got complimentary extra leg room and no one sitting next to me, I got to the hotel to discover that I had a free upgrade to a penthouse suite, and then I opened my hand luggage to find I’d left a knife in there and security hadn’t batted an eyelid. I also picked up a stash of heavily discounted polos at East Midlands Airport. It was my dream day.

Little did I know that I was soon to be betrayed by one of my closest allies. I’ve written before about the hotel breakfast buffet. How I initially piled my plate high, loosening my belt to take full advantage of the hotel’s generosity. How, over the next few visits, I refined my selection as I tested different combinations of eggs, mushrooms, and potato scones. I had my morning routine down to a T: get up as late as possible, pack every single complimentary tea bag, coffee sachet, and bottle of body lotion into my case (I still don’t really understand what the body lotion is for, but free is free) and scurry downstairs for a lightning round of cooked breakfast before checking out.

Those days are over.

A few months ago I started to go off the cooked breakfast, it was like when you play a song too many times and ruin it for yourself. I branched out, I dabbled in toast and marmalade, I’d go all continental and have a yoghurt, or I’d occasionally nibble on a cheeky danish (pastry). Not this morning. I’d been lulled into a false sense of security by my recent luck and I decided to reacquaint myself with my old friend the cooked breakfast.

Halfway through, something started to feel wrong. The tranquil sea of my stomach was beginning to turn choppy. The mushrooms and scrambled egg tasted the same as usual but something about them started to make me gag, like my throat had implemented a one-in one-out policy. I forced myself to continue nonetheless because, even when I’m making myself feel physically sick, I hate wasting food.

A couple of hours later, I got on the bus to Belfast. I watched the rolling green landscape of Northern Ireland pass by the window, thinking only of the rolling green landscape of my bowels. We arrived at Belfast City Airport and I threw up in my mouth a little bit as we walked through the door. Thank god I had three tubs of polos with me, although even they were beginning to taste a little odd. I looked at the bottom of the container to see that they went out of date in 2018.

The Flybe check-in queue was about 30 people deep because they’ve changed their hand luggage allowance to be 5cms smaller than everyone’s ‘guaranteed hand luggage’ suitcases. We had to stand there as one person after another rammed their suitcase into the metal baggage measurer just to avoid the £50 charge. The line was littered with plastic shrapnel where cases had been scraped and shoved all the way to the red line just to appease the Moaning Myrtle lookalike on the check-in desk.

Finally, we got through security, and only had time to grab a meal deal before boarding the flight. Through sheer willpower alone, I eventually got home with the full contents of my stomach still intact.

And that’s the story of the time I had a bad trip on mushrooms.