A few weeks ago a naive and better rested young woman, let’s call her Amanda, posted this picture on Instagram with the caption: Normally a picture says a thousand words. This one only says two: toilet training.
What this simple little mother did not realise is this picture did not in fact say two words; it said one: GASTRO. Minutes later the pink projectile puking began. One by one
the Smyth our imaginary family fell victim.
Our heroine seemed to escape the worst of the bug; feeling only mildly unwell while she scraped up, washed and comforted her family, all without a HAZMAT suit. She felt mildly queasy at a lovely wedding on Saturday night, but she came good.
On Sunday morning, she eschewed her husband’s romantic advances for a dip in the ocean, where she unwittingly flashed a booby at the lifeguards. Later that morning, while watching her little family swim in the pool, the bug finally struck Amanda. Frantically she search the pool area for a sign. A bead of sweat had already formed on her top lip by the time she made it to the stairs. Panic set in when the first door didn’t open. With shaking hands and clenched cheeks she tried her room key in the door; no luck. When she tried the first door again, it magically opened and our leading lady duckwalked the final meters to the Ladies.
Amanda spent the remainder of the day chewing gastrostop, taking tenuous sips of tea and watching wistfully from the balcony as her family swam in the resort pool.
It wasn’t until the trip home that it dawned on Amanda that her Father in Law, let's call him Nostradamus, had predicted the whole thing at a birthday party weeks before. After he'd blown out the candles and we'd toasted his seventieth year, Nostradamus had delivered a piece of advice for ageing in his birthday speech:
never pass a bathroom,
never waste an erection and
never, never trust a fart.
received any good advice recently?
Post script: Several days later our heroine enjoyed a return to health and she was thrilled to put the whole thing ..err... behind her.