So Saturday morning dawns. It is our first weekend in ages where he was not working, so we had plans for parks and playgrounds.

Madam wakes up, vomiting the most horrendous thick, yellow bile. Listless and not overly responsive, pale, the trots, the works.

I called the doctor, who could see her at 11. We were there by 10.30. When we arrived, she sat in my husbands arms, sad and quiet.

45 Minutes later, her turn to see the Doctor arrives.

By this stage, she is climbing the furniture, running up and down the corridor, taking apart brochure displays, trying to climb the reception desk, giggling and laughing, and generally having a great old time.

“she really was sick” was the only lame thing I could say, as she sprinted past with the plastic sick bag pulled onto her leg like a sock, and hubby in hot pursuit…

Posted by katelt, 6th August 2013

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