Any Port In a Projectile Storm.

You’ll see what I mean.

I will admit to owning children. Some days it might take me a bit longer than others, because even though they’re the centre of my world and also provide about ninety percent of my social interaction (by the way ‘gah’ and ‘coo’ can quite the conversation make, as long as you’re not actually after communication with meaning), I recognise that this does not apply for everybody else.

By ‘owning’,  which it has only just occurred to me sounds particularly terrible (plus I don’t seem to have a receipt for them, so it’s not like I can give them back for a refund if dissatisfied) I of course mean I have children. Two of them.

They’re chucky little sods, believe me.

Our humble home, as a consequence of regular spewfests, is not only punctuated with those wierd carpet stains that everybody hates, but many surfaces are lined with a defensive and ultimately futile forest of towels, bibs, cloth nappies and other Receptacles For The Orally Incontinent Of Milk.

Yes, I often smell of partly digested milk, too. Don’t get too close.

Anyway, we’ve broken yet another seal on the Vomitus Adventures tin.

I was taking one of my Pukey Spawn out of the pram recently when I noticed the familiar signs of Reverse Peristalsis In Action i.e. gulping, followed by chewing, followed by a bug-eyed stare of alarm. Panicked, I looked around, and would you believe I had not one of my flimsy chuck-catchers in sight. I was caught comprehensively short, at the worst possible time.

Stuck, I did the only action that came to mind.

Scooping my now-retching infant in one hand, I flipped the garbage bin lid open with the other just in time to catch an absolutely HUGE exorcist-style projective technicolour yawn of nose-and-mouth milk.

Whew. Talk about a close call.

It sadly only occurred to me today (when I wondered what that godawful smell was) that curdled milk rots just beautifully when laid lovingly upon the usual detrius inside a half-full bin. When it’s been thirty degrees outside for the last week.

Ah well.

In conclusion, despite a belated washout, the bin the flies now circle around? That’s probably mine.