Just Add Egg

The first thing you need to know before this story starts is that my mother has a complete aversion to vomit. Secondly, she’s so far on the melodramatic spectrum she could give any drag queen a run for her money but, with mum, nothing is done in jest.
I was never a sickly child (yet another of my ignored attributes) but my brother could pick up a sickness bug while wearing a WW2 gas mask reinforced by a space suit. The kid is a proper pussy, there’s no other word for it. And when that kid was sick we allllllll knew about it; the household, the neighbours, the street down the road. The volume at which he wretches is Pavarotti-esque. Guttural, deep heaves that bring up chunks upon chunks of turkey dinosaurs and the like. And in these regular times when he was unwell, I was left to deal with it because mum would remove herself from the house and sit in the garden making it all about her. I don’t think she actually did have a phobia of vomit, I think she just wanted it to be her ‘thing,’ a bit like Pam in Gavin and Stacey with the fake vegetarianism.
Luckily for me, I have always found people being sick really, really funny so it didn’t bother me. I was born with no sense of smell and therefore, aside from the sight of regurgitated food there really isn’t anything offensive about puke for me. Plus at that time I thought a lot of my little brother so I didn’t mind looking after him.
Fast forward a few years to 2008 and 16 year old me is hanging out in the local park with some of my ‘not-so-cool but going through a slutty phase’ friends. I had been persuaded in the infancy of the week to join the girls ‘down the park’ which was, of course, the place to be. These girls were the ones that hung around with local traveller boys which was totally alien to me; boys with double-barrelled names who carried knuckle dusters sprang immediately to mind and this was way outside my suburban comfort zone. As an aside, when I actually met the boys in question they were perfectly decent young men on mopeds with Nike TN caps and Reebok Classics – just like the middle class young dandies on the streets at that time. I was somewhat of a hermit in these days because boys scared the shit out of me. I didn’t know how to be around them and I’d been publically mortified by Dickhead Darren multiple times to the point I’m pretty sure I had PTSD and I’d rather have spent the night indoors watching Eastenders and reading A Child called It (ironically). However, excuses had all been used up and I had no alternative but to get my little butt to the park.
I can’t even fathom how I had it, certainly I couldn’t have purchased it, but I had in my possession some kind of alcohol – I can only assume Lambrini. I literally looked like an 11 year old so there’s no way I purchased it from a reputable salesman. This was the first drop of alcohol I had ever had in my life and, unsurprisingly, I got absolutely wasted. Like, blackout wasted. On the way home I opened the taxi door while it was moving on a dual carriage way to be sick and the taxi driver (after he had calmed down) offered me an extra-strong Trebor because ‘I stank.’ I can’t blame him – I have barely any memory of this but I know it wasn’t one of my most sophisticated moments.
Somehow, I made it home. It took me approximately 11 minutes to get the key successfully into the door. I couldn’t tell you what the time was. It felt like it was the small hours of the dawn but it was probably 9pm. As I pushed open the creaking wood, barely able to hold myself upright, who should be waiting for me in the hall? With gorgon-like rage my mother stood with her arms folded across her crimson towelling dressing gown. Was she angry because I had endangered myself by drinking recklessly while underage? Was she frantic with worry about the miscreants I’d be hanging around with? No, she didn’t want me vomiting on the cream carpet!
‘You’re drunk.’ It wasn’t a question and it certainly didn’t need an answer. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to be conversing with her on how likely it was on a scale of 1 to 10 that I was going to be sick – that horse had already bolted on the carriageway. I tried to move past her but I was like Bambi on ice so I affirmed her statement. ‘You absolute heathen!’ Her face was wrinkled with disgust as she used her body weight to try to knock me over. In hindsight I’m impressed by her use of the English language to throw down that particular insult. I knew if I started to argue back the poison that would secrete from my Lambrini-freed mouth would cut deep so I tried to rein it in.
‘Oh fuck off Mum!’ was the best I could muster.
We had made our way, I know not how, to the kitchen. Sitting on the side, basking in its own greasy glory, was the frying pan mum had used to fry eggs earlier that evening. She liked to leave the pans to soak in fairy liquid over night as she felt that lifted the vegetable oil off before the dishwasher gave it that tough love it needed. Lightning fast, she seized the handle of the saucepan and swung it at me like Anthony Joshua would throw a side-punch. It collided with my skull and made the unmistakable ‘din’ of metal staving in someone’s head. Miraculously, probably because of the copious amount of alcohol I’d consumed, I was unharmed. I fell to the floor in a puddle of grease, egg residue and fairy liquid and I rubbed my head where the pan had made the hit. My tartan pleated mini-skirt would be ruined but I couldn’t worry about that now – I had to be more concerned with how the fuck I was going to get yolk out of my bushy locks.
‘Didn’t hurt.’ I managed. I wanted to annoy her, even in my drunken state I knew it was important to make sure she didn’t emerge from this victorious. The story would inevitably be twisted when she repeated it to anyone who would listen until I staggered home like Phil Mitchell looking for a punch-up while she cowered, innocently, in the corner.
Had she not slipped over in the grease-water while trying to lurch for me there on the floor I don’t know if I’d have made it out of there alive. As I staggered away to sleep off the alcohol and wait for the huge lump on my head to rise she was screaming expletives at me that would put a sailor to shame. Moral of the story – don’t go home drunk! That night I vomited into an old pair of jeans and had to throw them out of the window into the neighbour’s front garden the next morning.

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