Barfarama

awoke today from a curious dream about an ex. These lusty dreams have occurred several times of late. I harbour no desire to trudge along that dead end path again, but for some reason he keeps popping up in various slumbers: last night he visited me whilst I helped my Mother buy a bra at a fancy lingerie shop (what is that about?) and promised to take me for a burger - a wimpy no less - as a late b'day gift. (He always knew how to show a girl a good time...) This idea, in dreamland, caused me untold pleasure. So I awoke, overheated and somewhat confused about my impending burgerfest date, to the faint smell of vomit.

Raising myself, a bit bleary and wondering why sprogglet wasn't wailing his usual number waiting for brekky to hit the table. That alone should have been a subtle clue that something was amiss. Opening his bedroom door the musty, acidic pungent aroma assaulted my nostrils and shook me awake. Sprogglet sat up - his soft fluffy hair matted with pieces of regurgitated corn. He stank to high heaven. I threw open the window, woke the husband - who feigned exhaustion due to a night at work running his fancy schmancy bar, and naturally nothing to do with the copious drinks he consumed post work - and threw sprogglet into his arms. Then I set to work cleaning the vom covered sheets, the cot bumper and several teddies who had been caught in the blast. This was no 5 minute job - it was labour intensive. Husband left sprogglet in his high chair, feeding his face with nutella on toast and returned to bed. Helpful to a fault. Especially as in 90 minutes we had someone coming to view our flat (which is on the market - in the worst selling climate in 7 years, joy). Replaced sheets, put load in washer, folded dry washing and put away, tidied bathroom, put away washing up in kitchen blah blah blah. Cursed husband. Sighed long pained sighs until Husband got up and dressed foul smelling sprogglet - and then tried unsuccessfully to shift the sick from spog's hair. It was welded on. Time was running out. The flat may have looked tidy but the musk in the air made me want to puke. Husband kept helpfully saying how every room stank as if the vom stench was deliberately stalking him from room to room. Every window was wide open, diptique candles billowing in the breeze - but nothing would shift eau de vom. I threw on my gym gear, packed up sprog and hid bits and pieces in cupboards, under the bed etc so the flat showed no signs of anyone actually residing there. A blank canvas, if a stinky one. Then I spied 3 sets of eyes mournfully gazing at me from the changing mat. Panda, teddy and er.. teddy remained unwashed. Hurriedly I cleaned panda - his surface only washable. Just when I need to throw him in the washing machine - he had to be a difficult clean job. Likewise Teddy 1 and Teddy 2. Teddy 1 I stuffed into the wash basket - I'll deal with him later. Teddy 2. Poor old Teddy had really copped it. Every inch of him was practically covered in clusters of corn and muck. I couldn't face his deep clean. There was only one thing for it. Teddy went on holiday. To the big kitchen bin. Permanently. I swear he knew. Those brown eyes flickered a curse upon me as he disappeared into the plunging darkness.

Fingers crossed there is a market for eau de vom smelling flats these days....