Choking wet flesh, salt and stink; foam, and clenching internal muscles; I am being smothered by peristalsis. I reach out and grasp, cling on to something pliant, something abrasive. A scar? A lesion? A ligament? I have no idea. There’s a sound like anger, or maybe heartburn. Am I uncomfortable in your gullet, you demon sprat? Too spiky, too fat, too Greek?