There's a pox on my house...

There comes a time in every relationship when the inevitable happens. You’ve had the awkward meet-the-parents episodes and come out relatively unscathed; then came the declarations of love and joined-at-the-hip phase; then somewhere down the road you decided you don’t see each other nearly enough so you progressed to the merging of the things (and removal of the hideous artefacts like framed football tickets that the other brought into your newly shared abode). Life is good. Then comes that fateful day when one of you utters those dreaded words, the ones that strike fear into your heart and turn your blood to ice. ‘Argh - I’m going to be sick! Quick – get out of the bathroom!’

I have heard this sentence before – several times, in fact. Usually after a Christmas night out, the details of which are too gruesome to describe. But this phrase has chilled me for almost a week now. Last Thursday, I came home from a very lovely get together in town with my gal pals; the first time I’d seen them since hearing Uma Thurman wee. We giggled over coffees and discussed all manner of things over seafood pasta and interestingly titled pizza (which tasted even better half price – the wonders of finding offers on Handbag.com); such as mishaps with fabric softener and one friend’s amusing – yet slightly sinister – interview at work to attend a first aid course. All was well in the world. Opening the front door on my return home, however, I was greeted with a grunt from my very green looking Other Half who then hogged the bathroom all the live long night crying huey until the small hours.

This continued until Sunday, when my body decided that apparently this all looks like great fun and didn’t want to miss out on the action. Cue three days of me hugging the porcelain and feeling decidedly green. This alone would have been monstrous enough, but two people sharing a bathroom and having to time their Exorcist-projectile spurts was quite frankly, horrific. And so, the immortal line was uttered on several occasions, but unfortunately on at least one of those occasions it was impossible and the other had to deflower the sink. I won’t say who. But it later came to one of us ridding the poor sink of the products of heaving with bleach whilst donning a rubber glove.

Co-habiting is not for everyone. A note to self for the future - seek a home with two bathrooms.


P.S. I have now wasted a considerable amount of money buying a certain magazine with a dedicated ‘Spotted’ page, scanning carefully for a mention of my superstar pee excitement. How dare they deem the whereabouts of Dean ruddy Gaffney and his dog and long forgotten nobodies from series 4 of Big Brother wearing wellies more important Spotteds than mine. I’ll still have a nosy next week though, most likely. Just in case.