It’s 34 weeks, and I look like a walking eggplant.  My feet hurt, my neck aches, and I just feel tired.  I’m having trouble sleeping, mainly because I wake up with a dull pain radiating from my hip and ribs from the sheer heaviness of lying on my side.  Then I get up, and my feet hurt from the sheer heaviness of being upright.  One of my life savers has been floating about in the pool at our house-sitting location – aaaahhhh… the weightlessness!  But with all this heavy, slow, and dull feeling, I’ve allowed myself to become quite frumpy – and my eyebrows have suffered the most.  Not least because I can’t get close enough to the mirror to see what I’m doing – thanks again to the eggplant effect.  Actually, I will rather sheepishly admit that for all of my married life, it’s been Dave who actually grooms my eyebrows.

What started as a novelty for him, and huge leap of faith for me when we were engaged became his full-time job because he was surprisingly good at it.  After a few tips from me in the early days, he’s managed to deftly sculp and shape my eyebrows to near perfection.  With pregnancy however, my pain recepters became more sensitive, and I banned him from touching them, instead preferring to do a quick tidy up myself as the need arose.  Enough was enough however when recently I was shocked by the appearance of my neglected and furry forhead.  Not having the stamina, or patience myself, I once more sidled up to Dave and winningly requested he make me look like a human again (as opposed to a rotund yeti).

I patiently lay uncomfortably on my back under a light, breathing deeply to counteract the large baby inside that crushed my lungs while Dave spent quite a considerable length of time working his magic.  Nervousness threatened to overwhelm me a couple of times as I thought he seemed to be plucking an awful lot, but I quickly reassured myself that it was long overdue, and he’d always done a lovely job.  And so I barely glanced at them later in the mirror, and went to sleep satisfied that I would no longer look like some feral Dave had found foraging in the wilderness.

The next day dawned bright and clear, and I thought to check out Dave’s good work.  I stared in the mirror, then looked again, before I said – as evenly and calmly as I could – “You plucked down the arches of my eyebrows.”  Quite proudly Dave said, “Yes!  I flattened them for you!”  An explanation from me followed which was, I fear,  not so even and calm, that I’m supposed to have arches.  Women love to have arches.  I have – or had – very nice natural arches.  And he better hope they grow back!

I’m not sure what possessed him to suddenly change  techniques and remove the top half of my eyebrows, and I don’t know that I ever will find out, but I really can’t complain can I?  I have a lovely husband who actually plucks my eyebrows!  Not to mention grooms my toenails – and that was even before I couldn’t reach them on my own.  I think when he comes home from work, I’ll give him a big hug and kiss and tell him how wonderful I think he is.  Better yet, I think I’ll go and have lunch with him.

Well recently I’ve been experiencing the increasingly “wonderful” sensations of our rapidly growing baby’s movements.  At 18 weeks, I felt a sickening, slithering sensation inside which gave me mental images of eels sliding through silty mud.  By about 25 weeks this had given way to amusing bumps and thumps – my favourite being the time I was lying on my side, and experienced what I can only describe as a heavy thud.  Again, it prompted a mental image – this time it was of a pro wrestler leaping from the guard rails to body slam his prostrate opponent.  Other interesting sensations have been experienced too – such as sharp jabbing pains in unmentionable areas, and the feeling that my bladder is being poked at from the inside (because it is), thus causing an urgent feeling of panic as I put my pelvic floor muscles to work whilst anxiously scanning my surroundings for the nearest bathroom.  This isn’t good when driving on the freeway as happened to me one day that junior was having a seriously great time exploring the walls of my bladder – repeatedly.

We are now almost at week 33 and the not-so- little guy’s movements are now encroaching into the “seriously uncomfortable” zone.  My last OB appointment revealed, that like a good little fellow, he’s already head down, blissfully unaware that this will make his crushing and bewildering entry into a bright, cold world a little easier.  This also means his feet are merrily kicking away in the upper section of my abdomen, looming ever closer to my rib cage.  I’ve been informed by many, many mothers that what really hurts is when they gouge their little feet and toes under the rib cage.  Ludicrously, they also speak of it with a look of pure joy on their faces.  Having never had a baby before, I still am bewildered by the sheer number of women talking of pain, vaginal tears, stitches, hemorrhoids, marathon labours, and emergency cesareans with a grin on their face, before finishing with words to the effect of “it’s a wonderful experience”.  Perhaps it’s the drugs.

But anyways, as I was saying – feet, close to ribs…  Even though he’s not quite big enough yet to get under my ribs, there are still times that a stray foot causes incredible pain.  There I’ll be, walking through a shopping centre, minding my own business when suddenly, without warning, I’ll let out an involuntarily gasp as a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my abdomen.  I’ll instinctively grasp at the area, only to feel a tiny, seemingly innocent body part jutting outwards.  I may mutter words such as “Horrible, little beastie!”, but actually, all is forgiven.  There’s something “cute” about it.  And if Dave’s around, I’ll hurry him over to feel it too.  And hiccups.  Sometimes this creature inside will have up to three bouts of hiccups in a day, once again prompting me to get an indulgent Dave to “come and feel this”. Again.  For the third time today…

Dave must have got tired of all this sitting about “feeling the belly” because the other day, as I once again ushered him over to “feel this”, instead of cupping one hand over my now swollen abdomen, he cupped both hands into a crude megaphone against my stomach, before leaning over and shouting, “HELLOOOO!!!”.  Once I recovered from my surprise, I laughed and said, “You know, he can hear us talking by now.”  To which Dave replied “Oh, can he?”.  I pondered upon this before answering, “Well, not anymore…”

Last week, Dave and I had a friend visit.  This friend proved their utmost friend worthiness by bringing over cake.  Not just any cake – a Cheesecake Shop cake.  And not just a Cheesecake Shop cake – a large Cheesecake Shop cake.  Not knowing what our favourite cake might be, she thoughtfully opted for the half/half option of chocolate mud cake, and classic cheesecake (what else?).  Like I said – very, very cool friend!  We all chowed down over coffee and chat, and when it came time to go home, our incredibly awesome friend refused to take ANY of the cake home with her, despite my insistence.  I looked forward to enjoying delicious cake with my daily cuppa for the next few days.  I was feeling so good-willed, I told our housemates that they were also welcome to some cake, and they would find it in our fridge – or so I thought.

The next day saw me held up in appointments, busy-ness and away from home until after dinner.  It was during what began as an innocent chat with Dave later that he mentioned that he’d taken the cheesecake to work with him.  Now Dave has a somewhat irritating habit of not just taking the portion he will eat that day to work for lunch, he will take the entire lot – head of lettuce, loaf of bread, 500g tin of tuna – you get the picture.  This didn’t ring any alarm bells (it should have) as mud cake is my favourite, and I assumed he’d just taken the easy to remove cheesecake half in it’s foil tray.  However, my blood ran ice cold when a few seconds later Dave continued with “…while {work mate’s name} was eating his mud cake…”  I hastily interrupted with “You took the mud cake too?!!”  Dave, nonchalantly says “Yeah.  I thought you didn’t want it.”

WHAT?!  I can’t even begin to comprehend what he was thinking!  His reasoning:  That I tried to make our friend take some cake home with her means I didn’t want it.  I was being POLITE!  My actual desires were to snatch the entire cake and run off cackling maniacally to some hidey-hole and not come out for three days.  I was furious.  Beyond furious.  I was almost speechless with rage (but not quite).  Dave sat confused while I gesticulated wildy, ranting and raving about how I was so angry with him I felt sick.  How dare he take the ENTIRE CAKE to work to share with his work mates…And his boss…And his boss’ kids…And his boss’ wife…And his boss’ wife’s mother… and not me!? He didn’t even ask if I wanted any!  Not only that, now I’m a liar to our housemates who probably wondered if I was some sort of sick prankster luring them into our dismally empty refrigerator with the promise of non-existent cake!  How could he???  I continued on and on about not even knowing the man I married, the inconsideration of his actions, the sheer lack of thought, etc, etc, etc.  I then demanded he go and buy me a new cake.  Right then.  At 9:30 at night.  He said no.  Eventually, through calming down – outwardly – and sharing my side rationally, I got an apology.  But still no cake!

Now I know this blog is full of amusing, hormone induced over-reactions, but do any other women out there see where I’m coming from?  I am a little bit normal aren’t I?

About a week ago, I found an emaciated little caterpillar on our bathroom vanity.  He’d plopped out of a bunch of flowers I’d made from some leftovers from a wedding job I did.  Now this sort of thing is always conflicting to me:  As a florist, caterpillars are the enemy.  Nasty and voracious little munchers who ruin expensive flowers and eat my stock greenery plants.  As a nature lover, they’re rather cute and defenceless little things.  And there’d be no pretty butterflies without them.  And this poor fellow did look rather sorrowful.  Taking the nature lover option I gently scooped him up and popped him into a luscious looking flower, hoping he’d eat, drink, be merry and become a fat, little chrysalis.  After all, if he’d escaped the spraying process at the flower farm, avoided being crushed by the picking, packing, and shipping process, then survived half a week in my arctic floristry fridge, he deserved a break.  Sadly, it wasn’t quite to be.

Yesterday I went to wash my hands, and at the same moment as my hands turned on the tap and water gushed into the sink, I spotted my little caterpillar friend precariously curled around the drain hole.  He was gone in an instant and my despairing wail could – I’m sure- be heard two suburbs away.  I ran agitated to my housemate who did try her best to seem upset by my ridiculous emotions.  Next I hysterically phoned Dave at work who gratifyingly sounded horrified when I burst out with, “I KILLED A CATERPILLAR!”.  My feelings of being understood and comforted were short lived however when after he asked me to repeat what I’d said and he realised I said CATERPILLAR and not CAT, he said, “Oh, well never mind we’ll get you another…”  What?!  We’ll get me another???  Doesn’t he realise that I’d gone out of my way to save this caterpillar, and now I was the very person who killed it?!  I was a murderer! Trying to explain the anguish I felt at its slow, drowning death fell on Dave’s bewildered ears, and I realised he was hopelessly inept at consoling wives in affairs that just didn’t really matter.  I hung up and started blubbering in earnest.  Then I had an idea…

Leaping up, I raced into the bathroom and began feverishly dismantling the pipes below the sink.  Out poured a dank stench, filthy water, hair balls, pipe slime, and one very prostrate caterpillar!  I plucked him from the water and was relieved to see a small twitch of movement.  I very briefly considered, then discarded the idea of trying some kind of caterpillar CPR before I laid him gently on the bench to weigh up my options.  First things first, there was no way I was putting the sink together again in that vile state.  So I used drain cleaner to clear the putrid pipeworks.  While the fumes contaminated our bedroom and ensuite I took my soggy little rescue effort downstairs and generously popped him into an entire bunch of lisianthus and hoped for a speedy recovery, before grabbing the keys and heading to the shops for essential supplies (paddlepop icecreams) while the air cleared at home.

Hours later my larval friend was looking a bit sick and deranged and I realised he most likely wasn’t well before the incident, and would die anyway.  It was almost certain he had been affected by pesticides and was sick when I first found him over a week ago.  But that’s ok.  I didn’t directly kill him, and I gave him a bed of petals to quietly pass away in rather than the horrifying death of drowning.  I was still completely sure I wasn’t being too crazy until I mentioned my drama to my brother (Paul), and friend (Ruth) on google chat later and received the following reactions:

It started to dawn on me that perhaps that was a little unhinged.  Then Dave arrived home and shared the reactions of his workmates:

“That’s definitely pregnancy hormones”;  ”She really needs more to do”; and overall amusement in general.  And so came the realisation that this was a story that definitely deserved to be on this blog.  Peace, love and caterpillars to you all.

Just a quick note to let you all know, as Dave and I knew all along, and the doctors just had to wait and find out – it’s a boy.  A rather definite one.  If anyone’s ever looked at a scan and wondered how the heck the operator can say “…and there’s baby’s kidney…” when all you can see is a grey and black blob, I’m with you.  However, on the day of our 20 week (actually, it was 19) scan, even I could tell what that bit was.

I must say, I’ve had rather ambivalent feelings towards the creature within me, but it was quite cute to see little feet, and tiny hands which covered the baby’s face every time the nurse tried to get a look at it.  Dave held my hand and looked on amazed while limbs and bones were measured and recorded, but his true feelings were finally shared on the car trip home.  ”Well, I feel very manly,” he says.  When I looked at him, puzzled, he explained “Well it’s a boy, and he’s well endowed!”

Never mind that he’s healthy, well formed, and has the correct number of fingers and toes – the most important thing is, he’s well endowed.

Most mornings (at approximately 2am) will find me lying awake, cursing the growing creature in my womb as I grimace and groan with whatever malady has awoken me.  Some nights it’s nausea, some nights it’s gas pain, or a backache, or sore kidneys, or I could just need to pop to the loo.  Usually I manage to fall asleep again by 3:30am, but if I’m lucky it’ll be one of those nights where I’m feeling a combination of several of the above.  If I’m really lucky, it will be all of them, culminating in the final showdown of a gut spasming, breath stopping vomiting crescendo.  You know the type – where you huddle over the toilet, covered in sweat while tears stream from your red, swollen eyes and tendrils of mucous hang from your nose and lips as you desperately try to gulp air down to your lungs while stomach acids and bile fight with equal strength in the opposite direction.  Yeah, I think we’ve all experienced a violent stomach bug before.

Well it was one of these nights (about an hour before “the climax”) when Dave, awakened by my discomfort got up to use the bathroom.  My irises contracted painfully as he flicked on the ensuite light.  Then just as suddenly it flicked off and they relaxed.  And then it came on again.  And off.  Thoroughly bemused I asked Dave as soon as he got back to bed, “Why did you keep turning the light on and off?”  Dave answered, “I wake up too much if I turn the light on, then I can’t get back to sleep.”  By now I’m really confused and ask, “So why did you keep turning it on?”  His answer:  ”To make sure I was aiming straight.”

Momentarily distracted from my misery, I couldn’t help giggling.  At least I’m not the only one with nocturnal issues.

Well Dave and I had an argument today.  One that we’ve had before, and generally follows this format:
I do something I shouldn’t -> Dave reacts with annoyance -> I realise my error and apologise -> Dave forgives me.
But not today.  Today it was more like this:
I did something I shouldn’t -> Dave reacted with annoyance -> I realised my error and hated him for pointing it out and got mad back -> Dave, certain in his “rightness” asserted his position -> I – infuriated – hurled a floristry pin at his ergonomic computer keyboard hoping it would fall between the keys and cause him some inconvenience in the very least and stormed off seeking some form of way to get even (for what?!  It was my fault!  But you can’t tell a pregnant woman that – even when it’s yourself!)

So there I am lying in bed having stalked down the hall and slammed the bedroom door behind me.  I’m furious.  I’m mentally willing Dave to follow me and try and talk to me so I can scream at him to “GET LOST!!!”(or something less pleasant), but his cheery, “Buh-Bye!” as I stormed from the scene of the argument tells me that’s not going to happen.  I spy a small plate on his bedside table and am gripped with the urge to smash it.  I resist momentarily, telling myself that it’s not an appropriate reaction before combating that reasoning with “Appropriate be damned!  I want to break something!”.  And so the plate is frisbeed across the bedroom, colliding with a pedestal fan before hitting a wardrobe door and falling unharmed to the carpeted floor.  It didn’t break, and I am even angrier!  What’s worse is I’m seething, while Dave – the enemy – is a short distance away, happily working on his computer, completely nonplussed by my irrational anger.  By this stage I’m positive a Peanuts-style black, angry cloud is forming above my head.  Suddenly I begin to grin, and even chuckle as I hatch a vengeful plan.

Maintaining a stony silence, I enter the office and make off with a substantial wad of computer paper.  I answer Dave’s questions regarding what I’m doing with it, and do I really need that much with, “I’m wasting it, and yes, I need every last piece!”.  Next I grab a large roll of sticky tape and a thick black marker pen before papering the outside of our bedroom doors (did I mention we have double doors to our bedroom?) with every last piece of his crisp white computer paper.  Dave pops his head out of his office and asks, “What are you doing?  Are you going to write ‘Go away Poo Head!’?, and I loathe him even more for knowing me so well.  Then I get the marker and in very large, very bold, very spiky capital letters I print:

“HI DAVE, IN ANSWER TO YOUR QUESTION, I’M WASTING YOUR <underlined> COMPUTER PAPER GLEEFULLY, AND WITH GAY ABANDON BECAUSE IT’S YOURS <triple underlined> AND I’M MAD AT YOU!  YOU REALLY SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO GET CRANKY AT AN IRRATIONAL, EMOTIONAL, PREGNANT WOMAN! AND YES <underlined> I KNOW THIS IS INFANTILE BUT IT MAKES ME VERY, VERY HAPPY!  AND NO <underlined> I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!”

It’s at this point I hear Dave come out of his office again and approach me from behind.  First comes silence, then he is sniggering and holding back hoots of laughter.  His reaction inspires the last line of my tirade:  “P.S.  STOP LAUGHING!!!”, before I too give in to the hilarity of the situation and we’re both laughing.  You could correctly guess that the argument is over.

Later when the moment has passed and I’m completely rational (for now) I realised that the whole time I was stewing, Dave’s precious electric guitar was in the bedroom with me.  I could have exacted Earth shattering revenge by simply dropping a note on his desk saying “I’m alone with your guitar…”.  It’s a very good thing I didn’t realise it at the time, because I can honestly say, without an ounce of blasphemy, God really does only know what I would have done to it!

My mother can tell you in no uncertain terms that I was born with a will of iron, and nothing has changed to this day.  And I can tell you that one of the main things I respect about Dave is his ability to stand up to my strong personality – something only a couple of men have been able to do.  And he’s definitely the only one who has been able to diplomatically and calmly resist my determination in such as way as to quell the urge in me to step over his dead body to get whatever the heck it is I want.  BUT, ever since I’ve become pregnant, things have been very different.

All of a sudden, I don’t even have to say a word, a simple look is enough to bring him running, and I can almost always guarantee that my every wish will be granted – provided it is possible.  I call this look The Pouty-Face – bottom lip poked out further than the top one, eyes peering imploringly through lowered eyelashes.  Whilst I’m aware that abusing this power is infantile at best, I’m also aware that it is temporary, and therefor am milking it for all it’s worth.  Well, not quite, just for the important things – like asking Dave to find his blue tracksuit pants rather than his black ones so I can wear them  The black ones aren’t fuzzy enough, and today I feel like fuzzy ones.  Some examples of conversations that begin but are never finished are:

“No honey, I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to McDonalds for breakfast again….Oh!  There’s the Pouty-Face, let’s go then.”
“Oh I see the Pouty-Face! Here you can have the last of the icecream…”
“It’s 3am.  Do you really need 2/3 of a glass of orange juice with 1/3 boiling water?  Ah, Pouty-Face, alright then.”

The reason I believe my usually firm and sensible husband is willing to go against every fibre of sense in his being is because – pure and simple – he loves the baby.  He recognises the symbiotic relationship I have with the baby – I am the host, the baby is the parasite, and Dave adores his little parasite.  He knows he can’t fulfill the needs of the parasite without taking care of the host.  And  without the host, the parasite dies.  And so for my part, I realise that the moment our parasite is born, my power as the host is over.  So I’m making the the most of it while it lasts.

My ongoing concern however is for Dave.  I will have to keep a very close eye on him in future because  the first time our child learns to pull the Pouty-Face on its own, I’m sure Dave will rush out and buy it a pony.

As all expectant parents (and even couples who aren’t expecting) do, Dave and I have begun to discuss baby names.  At the moment, due to it’s being thoroughly appropriate, we call the baby “Chuck”.  Although I must admit during my worst moments it’s also been referred to as “The Little Bastard” (not exactly accurate), “The Parasite” (very accurate), and I must shamefacedly, and repentently admit,  ”Spawn of Satan” (I was feeling  very particularly unwell and catching sight of the stretch marks careering across my thighs and buttocks didn’t cheer me up any).

Anyway, being the thoroughly organised person that I am, I’d like to have a name picked out.  Whilst I would like my children to have slightly original names, I’d prefer to do this by picking old-fashioned, not very commonly used names, rather than the current fashion of making it up myself (I might think I’m creative, the rest of the World will probably just think I’m stupid, and what if I just called my child a very rude word in another language) or taking a regular name, and spelling it differently.  Don’t even get me started on that.  It’s not cute, it’s not clever, and your poor child will be spelling his name to everyone for the rest of his life!  Nor will I name our child after it’s place of conception.  Somehow Eight Mile Plains doesn’t sound quite right.

I’m not a hippy, and I have no aspirations to rival Hollywood celebrities in their competition for who can give their child the most ridiculous name, but there is a name that has always sounded nice to me.  I’ve always loved the girl’s name “Cherry”.  Of course, I would never, ever call my daughter Cherry.  I know only too well how the vile, crude and immature minds of teenage boys work, and no, I will never inflict the kind of comments such a name will draw on my innocent daughter.  Though I haven’t decided if it’s any worse than another unfortunate name I once had the amusement of spotting.  Looking through a childhood friend’s class photo, I happened upon the name of a girl christened “Pinky Brown” by her obviously cruel and unusual parents.  I sincerely hope high school wasn’t too traumatic for her, and she’s married to a lovely man with any last name but Brown.

Anyway, while I prefer the older names, there are some that I wouldn’t go near with a 10 foot pole.  For example:  Bertha, Beryl, Cecil, Agnes, Eugene… you get the picture.  Another problem I’m finding comes up more and more is the incompatibility of our last name with the most respectable of first names.  Some of my favourite names have been shifted to the “discard” pile after sounding them out with our last name of “Muller”.

Muller, I know, is a completely normal, and rather boring last name.  But I got quite a surprise at the number of names that sound odd, wrong, or just plain comical when placed before it.  This is partly because despite the correct pronunciation being “muller“, we live in Australia.  And as long as we are Australian, us Aussie ockers will always pronounce it “mullah”, thus rendering any name that ends with an “ah” sound ridiculous.  So automatically the name Ella is out – this I don’t mind at all.  There is a startling popularity of Ella’s as the moment, as well as Isobella’s (shortened to Bella), and I can just imaging roll-call at school in 5 or so years time:  ”Ella Marshall”, “here”, “Ella Jones”, “here”, “Ella Smith”, “here”, Ella Watkins…  But there’s other names I now cannot ever call my children.  Not only do names ending with an “ah” sound odd, but also names with a double “L” in them, and names beginning with “M” too.  Some examples:  Hannah, Milly, Deanna, Melissa, Milton, Marshall… And so it goes on.

So, what am I to do?  I’ve begun compiling a list of definite “no-goes” as well as a list of “approved” names, and this will hopefully help to narrow down some choices.  Or, we could just throw all common sense out the window do what Dave suggested.  One night as I was half-heartedly going through my lists, Dave peered over my shoulder and exclaimed, “If it’s a girl, let’s call her “Daniella Molly Hannah Muller!”

After plaguing me day and night for weeks, my “morning sickness” seems to have settled into a basic routine:  Morning time lulls me into a false sense of security.  I awaken feeling not too bad – that is, aside from the sore stomach, neck ache, and constipation.  I stagger out of bed and into what used to look like a bathroom, but now actually bears a closer resemblance to a pharmaceutical laboratory.  I gulp down my “pregnant lady” vitamins, followed by a liquid dose of vitamin C, Vitamin B complex, and an extra folic acid tablet (my chiropractor told me these three vitamins/minerals are water soluble so cannot be overdosed on, and if taken three times a day would keep sufficient levels in my system, thus allowing the leech-like embryo to suck them out of me, but still leave me enough to function.  I’ve heard many a remedy for morning sickness, and tried them all – sometimes in feverish desperation.  This one-amazingly-has worked!).

I am then able to handle a small bowl of All Bran – a basic necessity, and my morning “cuppa” of Metamucil.  Around midday, I get the “freezies” (odd sense of being cold, even if it isn’t) so it’s back to the lab for more vitamins, then it’s nap time, and I sleep for a good two-three hours before waking hot and irritable.  At about 4:00pm I start to feel quite icky, and painfully aware that my bowels have been doing whatever they want (which is usually nothing) for the past few weeks, so it’s time for a light snack, and some more Metamucil.  I then dry retch pretty much until bed time, whereupon another trip to my bathroom laboratory sees me dosed up for the long night ahead.  At 3:00am my body will find something to wake me with – whether it’s a sore tummy, aching kidney, or agonisingly full bladder, I will wake.  Eventually I will fall asleep, and the cycle begins again.

Today was no different.  4:00pm found me eating a snack of green apple slices.  At 5:00pm I was standing in the kitchen chugging a mega-jumbo sized glass of Metamucil.  I’m mid-gulp after drinking almost the whole glass of my concoction of colonic relief when Dave wanders in and casually comments,  ”Do sausages still make you feel sick, because…”

Before the word “sausages” has barely passed Dave’s lips, a projectile vomit hurtles it’s way up my oesophagus with startling speed.  My reflexes jump into action and I am able to reach the kitchen sink (which is mercifully close) just in time for the pre-digested river to burst forth.  In round-eyed astonishment we watch the sink fill with grated apple and orange flavoured Metamucil.  The torrent slows, the sink is cleaned and sterilised, and an apologetic explanation is given to our housemates for the sad demise of their dish brush, which just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

15 minutes later I’m showered, dressed in my pyjamas, and feeling marginally better.  Dave, choosing his words very carefully says,  ”I’m going to make my dinner.  I don’t think you’ll like what it is, so you best stay here for a while…”