Why are there no aspirins in the jungle?
Ah, yes: paracetamol. 500 mg of paracetamol, to be precise. Eight of those a day.
A 500 mg capsule of paracetamol is quite large.
So. Paracetamol capsule grasped between teeth. Not too firmly: we don't want to risk splitting the casing. We know what paracetamol tastes like, thank you, and we don't want a mouthful of it. Capsule arranged with short end facing towards throat for ease of swallowing. Swig of liquid taken to wash capsule down.
Now, I'm a bit of an old hand at taking meds. I consider myself to be something of an adept, really. Glucophage tablets are considerably larger than 500 mg of paracetamol, and I can get those down without a problem.
But there's something in those paracetamol capsules. Some sort of self-righting mechanism. Possibly actually a nanobot navigator. I can almost hear him yelling, "Hard right!! Hard right, damn you!! We're not going down without a fight!", every time I swig the liquid and relax my jaw to release the capsule. Because every single bloody one (yes, all eight of them) turns itself sideways before it hits my throat.
Things can now go one of two ways.
- Capsule goes down sideways. Progress of capsule from throat to stomach can be tracked quite easily. I haven't actually looked in a mirror, admittedly, but I'm pretty sure it would be visible.
- Huge gulp of extra liquid taken in in panicked attempt to turn capsule the right way round again. Resulting in swallowing of stupendously-large air-bubble. Which is a very unpleasant experience indeed.
The added "bonus" with the second option, of course, is the subsequent monumental expulsion of all that superfluous air. Something which I don't think can be accomplished in either a dignified or a discreet manner.
So, er, that's going to go down well when I go back to work...