Morning! It's just gone 5am and I've been spending most of the night in front of the telly.

That was kind of the plan anyway, which explains why I was in bed by about 7:30pm, but I hadn't bargained on waking up around 10ish shaking all over.

I have since discovered that trying to look up "seizure" on Wikipedia while your entire body shivers convulsively is a) bloody difficult on a mobile phone keypad, and b) pretty pointless. Surprisingly it offered no useful on-the-spot diagnosis, so I decided I was probably diabetic and had a Kitkat.

I am still alive so have concluded I am a medical genius. Happily there are two Kitkats left, which I shall now save for future emergencies.

Somewhere around midnight the shakes were replaced, in traditional fever style, by quite unbearable warmth, but somehow I ended up asleep til about 3am - then woke up with the sort of headache I've only had once before, and that time I definitely knew why.

I'd been aiming to get up at 3am anyway - although, to be honest, I'd sort of expected about five hours' more kip - so I have hauled myself out of bed, head screaming disapproval, to sit on the couch and watch the Olympics. (I might also add that two Panadol have worked their usual miracle. Those things have never let me down, and here they are again in my hour of need.)

Getting up was the right decision. Becky Adlington and Jo Jackson have just won gold and bronze respectively in the pool at the Water Cube, and I'll confess to being so proud that a little dust got in my eyes and I had to manfully wipe it clear.

What a swim that was. The American girl led for practically the entire race and as I craned my neck forward at the screen, the two Brits seemed "well-placed" (as the commentators told us umpteen times, more in hope than expectation). But then, in the final 50m, they both turned on some kind of rocket pack and roared home, Adlington an entire seven-hundredths of a second faster than the rest.

She can swim faster than I can convulse, and that's saying something. I let out a squeak of "Get in!" as she touched the wall to win the gold, and then remembered everyone else in London is not either a) doing a passable impression of Dr Katz or b) allowing the Olympics to consume their existence, so I shut up.

I've now got the equestrian stuff on the TV and the men's hockey has just ended on the laptop, with GB beating Pakistan 4-2. Again, I'm thrilled. I gave the GB performance director and a couple of players a pretty hard time in interviews back in March, when it looked like they wouldn't even make the Games, and I am happy to be proved very wrong so far. If only the women can sort themselves out - they lost 5-1 to Germany yesterday.

I'm now in that all-too-familiar corridor of uncertainty where I can't decide if lack of food is making me feel sick, or if eating anything at all will trigger apocalyptic scenes in my living room. I am therefore going to watch the men's archery, and if I see ten or more "tens" scored in the next match, I'll have some toast. This, my friends, is the appliance of science.