On New Years Eve, while we had a housefull of people, little boy comes to me and says 'mum, I don't feel too good'. Oho thinks I, too much Root Beer (which tastes like germoline in my opinion. not that I've ever eaten germoline but its how I imagine it must taste). I whisk him upstairs and he duly barffs EVERYWHERE. Perfect exorcist style, it hits the walls, the floor, my suede boots (they've never been the same since the carpark incident anyway). I mop him up settle him down and return to the party.
Everyone leaves eventually and I get to bed at around 2am. At this point, a 96 hours of bodily fluids and sleep deprivation begin. Son is ill for 2 days (both ends, nuff said). He starts to recover and husband takes ill (less ill than the child in my opinion but still needs to go to his bed for 2 full days - but of course). 21 year old nephew visiting from Scotland gets it the night before his 12 hour flight home. He recovered enough to travel, clutching a pack of immodium for safety. Then as husband recovers and nephew departs, daughter gets it.
I spent 96 hours cleaning, bleaching and mopping brows - and I didn't get it!
My OCD handwashing thing must be a blessing after all.
Anyway, I felt like Ricky Fulton on Jan 1 - lucky white heather anyone?
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1 comment:
please tell me you've thrown those suede boots away!
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