No! Sleep! Till 11.30!
I did feel for him. I hate throwing up. I had bad D&V once when I was about eight or nine. I remember lying in my turquoise flowery nightdress in my turquoise bed in my turquoise bedroom, looking glumly at the pale blue bucket that my mum had put next to the bed. It was the middle of a school day and it was weird and quiet, and I knew that all I could do was wait, feeling sicker and sicker till I chucked up in the bucket and felt better. And then it would start again. It was one of the longest days of my life.
So when I woke up in the middle of Wednesday night with a slow growing ache in my guts, I knew it wasn't going to end well. And it didn't. I had just enough sequencing between ends to avoid major bathroom disaster, and just enough interval between episodes to reflect on the sad fact that when you're a grown up, you have to clean up after yourself. I am not blaming baby Tungsten, but I did call him a little bastard more than once.
I did get a day in bed to recover though, drinking flat Coca Cola and reading OK magazine (both allowed only when ill). And tonight I am clean and serene, listening to Bob Dylan-as-DJ playing hymns to New York on 6Music and looking forward to an early night with Georgette Heyer.
Tomorrow: sloe hunting and rugby avoidance. Bring it on.