By Maggie Millar
Mum was the word in the early hours of Friday morning when my three-year-old daughter crawled into my bed and said she wasn’t feeling well.
Ten seconds later - boomf! Projectile vomit lurched its way upwards and gravity brought it down again .... all over my pristine white bed linen.
Several hours later, and 15 bouts (yes, I counted) of retching later I had my darling daughter up to the docs, where as every mum knows, children stage a marvellous recovery and make you appear a completely neurotic shrew of a parent.
“Seems fine to me,” he said, as my little one, bright-eyed and bushy tailed looked at him, thinking: “She dragged me here to waste your precious time. I’d write down Munchausen’s by proxy if I were you....”
Meanwhile, the other half, who miraculously evaded bleach and bicarbonate of soda all day, told me to go for a well-deserved bath.
There I was finally relaxing when I overheard downstairs: “C’mon. Drink up your hot chocolate...”
I shot out of the tub but it was too late - she was now a ticking time bomb of vomititus. And who had to clean up the sorry mess? Mum did... while Daddy had a bath.
After Friday, I didn’t hold out too much hope for the weekend but when we arrived en famille at the Royal Highland Show at Ingliston on Sunday a man came up asking “Do you have tickets?
“Have these for free,” he said, handing us a pair worth £50 before walking away. Yippee!
I treated myself to a Fedora hat - a la Indiana Jones.
I might not need it on an archeological dig in the desert, but upside down it could prove useful as a basin in Kirkcaldy.