We have never met, you and I, but in some ways, I feel like I know you intimately. Sometime between 11pm and 1am last Saturday, you threw up in my bicycle basket parked just outside the Lass O’Gowrie Hotel in Newcastle. This one small action taught me so much about you. I know, for example, you had pasta with what appears to be bits of chicken for dinner that night. You don’t chew your food very well. You drank a little bit too much, and, you are a dick head.
In some ways, my little Vom-a-Tron, you and I are similar. I too, know what it is like to drink so much I vomit. I too have vomited in inappropriate places. My parents carpet, the nature strip outside of a multi-million dollar house in Tamarama, my handbag whilst on a train and memorably, in the middle of the day out the front of the High Street Kensington Marcs and Spencers. The difference between you and I is, when I vomit, I try and do it with some respect.
I, at the very least try to aim the contents of my stomach to an area of least damage. I mentioned before, I vomited in my handbag on a train. See how I did that? Rather than cause a mess for my fellow commuters to travel with, I sacrificed my handbag. That is respectful vomiting.
I know how it is My Sweet Chunder-Chops, sometimes, there is very little warning of an approaching vom-vom. Sometimes, we have no choice but to let it out then and there. I must say though, I find it hard to believe that your ‘then and there’ moment involved your face in my bike basket. I can only conclude then, that upon feeling like you were going to chuck, you walked up to my bike and aimed at my basket. The sheer volume of vomit in my basket that night tells me that there was more than one heave to your movement as well. That is vomiting without respect.
I wonder, Little Chuck-Monkey, if you have ever known the sorrow of taking off your high heels and sticking them in a bicycle basket realising too late it was full of someone else’s spew? I wonder if you can understand what it is like to unsuspectingly go to fish your heels out of said basket, only to find your hands covered in the puke of another. Grub, I hope for your sake you will never ever know the pain of waking up hung-over on a Sunday morning and having to hose out your bike basket and your vomit-crusted good shoes, because you know that if you leave it any longer it’s just going to bake and fester in the sun. I almost added to your little pile, Grub, dry-retching as I aimed my garden hose at what was once your dinner.
If there is to be any good come out of this, I guess I can take comfort in the fact that your vomit, sprayed out of my basket and on to my lawn, provided some food for the local birds. As someone who believes strongly in recycling, seeing your dinner recycled softened the blow in a small way.