My filthy Valentine's day

Our first night out together since before Samuel came along. That was the plan. The restaurant was booked, I'd planned my outfit and the babysitter was arranged. 

We soon discovered that the downside of going on a night out is that you spend the entire day that precedes it cleaning your flat so as not to be judged by the babysitter. I cleaned things that hadn't been cleaned since before Samuel came along. I managed to get the first few layers of grease off the oven hood, for example, but I have to concede that it's still very much a work in progress.

So mid-afternoon came along and a funny feeling hit me. The excited flutters of a romantic evening in prospect, perhaps? No. Norovirus. I made it to the loo in the nick of time and wretched and vommed like a champion. Samuel followed me and stood in the bathroom doorway laughing uproariously each time I hurled. 

And couldn't stop. I projectile yakked onto James's dressing gown while speaking to a NHS Direct nurse on the phone. She told me to go to see my GP so James got me an emergency appointment and I blew chunks in the waiting room while Samuel happily pootled around. He also decided that this very public forum was the perfect time to add a new word to his vocabulary. What he was trying to say was 'shoe', however he struggled with the vowel and replaced the last two letters of the word with 'it'. Unfortunate given our reasons for being there.

But basically, the upshot was that date night was cancelled and James spent Valentine's night emptying my sick bucket while I rolled around in agony in increasingly disgusting bed sheets that reminded me of something from Down and Out in Paris and London. Bloody Cupid.