It all started about ten minutes into the PE lesson. Maybe because it was a cold day and they were outside on the rugby pitch, or maybe it was those eggs which Tim had for breakfast, but he was suddenly aware of a griping pain in his stomach, and he clutched it as he ran towards the ball.
“Clark!” shouted the PE master, Jones, “What’s up with you?!”
Such sympathy, thought Tim, as he doubled over in pain. Jones jogged up to him, frowning,
“Spot of trouble?”
Tim nodded weakly, his head swimming. Jones commandeered Wiggins, a pale spotty boy, and gave him orders to take Tim to the sickbay, no dawdling. As Tim shuffled off the pitch, he thought to himself he must look rough, if Jones had not even questioned him.
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