6th Nov.2019, 03.40.
Ah bliss. I’m snuggled up next to the wife, in la la land. The phone rings.
Oh shit. Who phones at this time if it isn’t something you don’t want to hear?
‘Help, Dad!’ says my daughter. ‘I’ve got two children doing projectile vomiting here!’.
Our daughter’s on her own, our son-in-law being away at a conference. We get out of the house and down to my daughter’s as fast as we can, to find that our dear granddaughters are indeed indulging in some Olympic standard puking. ‘It’s that bastard Norovirus’ says our daughter. ‘It’s going around the school like wildfire’.
So we spend the next several hours doing our best to help our dear grandchildren through the worst, hoping like fuck that we don’t get it ourselves. To add insult to injury, it’s the little un’s fifth birthday, which she’s spent either boaking into a bowl or lying in an exhausted sleep on the settee. The notion that the wee soul might enjoy her day has obviously spoiled some Vast Eternal Plan.
Thankfully by the time we left, the kids were feeling better, happy with the promise of a bonus day off school tomorrow. The wife and I are going to grab a bite and get some much needed kip, fingers crossed that we can give this bug the swerve, because it’s a very nasty little cunt indeed.
Nominated by Ron Knee