Revenge of the shrimp

Preliminary confession: this story is not really about La Gomera, it's a life-or-death story that could take place anywhere. But it happens to have taken place here, so I'm going to relate it anyway.

It's driving me mad, this tickle. A crumb or something on one of my tonsils. I discover that by arching my tongue upwards at the back I can scrape it against the tonsil but that just makes it worse, the tickle becomes a sharp little stab like a pinprick. Strange and slightly disconcerting.

Peering into the bathroom mirror, mouth wide open as at the dentist's, I can't see anything suspicious. But wait - when I persuade my tongue to lie down flat, maybe there's just a tiny glint of something right at the back?

With the bedside torch I confirm the diagnosis. There is a tiny hair sticking out of my tonsil. A cautious probe with a finger fails to make contact but produces a warning heave.

Pause for thought. How did a bit of hair get stuck in my tonsil? Doesn't take long to work it out. This is a summer weekend and we had indulged in lunch at a local café, sitting outdoors in the sunshine. Persuaded by Toñio the proprietor - 'These are wonderful, fresh this morning, a few hours ago they were swimming in the sea' - we ordered a plateful of shrimps. He was absolutely right, was Toñio, really fresh shrimps are a revelation. Subtle, delicate, a sea breeze captured in a little pink body.

You get in a terrible mess mind you, as the pile of discarded heads, legs, tails and carapaces begins to take over the plate, but that's part of the delight, this is hands-on stuff, real food. But (here we're getting to the core of the story) these creatures also have long, spindly whiskers attached to their heads. Not silky soft like a cat's but stiff and brittle like porcelain needles. Ahah.

So the situation seems to be that I have a fragment of shrimp whisker stuck in my tonsil. It can't be left there because for one thing it tickles and for another it could cause - well, who knows, inflammation, infection, swelling. You can choke to death on a swollen tonsil.

Got to come out, but how? Fingers are never going to do the job, the tonsil is just too far away. I take a small pair of tweezers from the first aid cabinet and have a go with those. Holding the tip of the handle I can just about reach the tonsil with the business end, but in order to tweeze I need to get my finger and thumb in there too... As I struggle it suddenly occurs to me that if the tweezers slipped out of my grip and the swallow reflex kicked in, things could quickly get much worse.

I explain my fears to J, who is watching. I realise I'm sweating. 'Longer tweezers?' she suggests with commendable clarity. She hands me the long, pointy tweezers we use for extracting splinters. Better, I can get closer with those. But still not quite close enough, and I can't see what I'm doing because my fingers are in the way and... I'm beginning to curse, always a bad sign, nerves giving way.

'Let me have a go.' I hand J the tweezers, glad to transfer responsibility and become a patient. I perch on a stool with mouth open like a gargoyle while she fishes with the tweezers, then leaps backwards when I suddenly heave. She's having the same trouble as me - even these longer tweezers are not up to the job.

Pause for thought, again. What we need is even longer tweezers. Inspiration: in my toolbox I have a pair of long-nose pliers. Need a bit of cleaning up first, remove bike oil and grit. I wipe them over with medical alcohol which seems the correct thing to do anyway before sticking them down my throat.

All up to J now, there's no way I can get involved. She gingerly introduces the pointy end of the pliers. All I can see is yellow handles waving around beneath my nose.

A childhood image springs to mind, a river barbel with gaping jaws trying to bite my dad's fingers off as he probed for the fishhook.

I feel a tweak in my tonsil. 'Got it!' She has, she has! Vast relief. She holds up the shard of whisker still gripped by the pliers. Insignificantly small but clearly evil, needle-thin and fragile as fine china.

Just to check I rub the tonsil with the back of my tongue. Uh-oh - a sharp little stab of pain. There's more in there. It must have snapped. This is fast turning into a nightmare.

'You'll have to go to the hospital,' J says, giving up. She's right of course, they'd have something better to fish with than long-nose pliers. But, I dunno. I mean, it's only a little bit of shrimp whisker.

'Let's have one more go.' The thing is, though, this whisker is sticking out sideways. So she will have to try and extract it the same way, sideways, rather than hoping to yank it straight out. This is the kind of thing you learn by experience.

Gamely, J takes up the pliers again. I hold myself rigid as a stuffed barbel while she manoeuvres the pliers between my teeth. She is grunting quietly with concentration. My tonsil reports a tickle. It goes on and on. Is that something sliding I can feel, a slight pull as of a needle withdrawing?

Finally she pulls the pliers out of my mouth and holds them up triumphantly. She's got all of it this time. It's extraordinarily long. How on earth did that much whisker manage to bury itself in my tonsil, without my noticing it at the time? But then you don't really feel a hypodermic syringe either.

This is clearly the shrimp's ultimate weapon. Dead though it may be, it will do its best to wreak a sly and terrible revenge.

Postscript: please don't let this discourage you from ordering fresh shrimps, they're great. Just look carefully before you pop anything into your mouth...