'Always carry a sick bag with you'
Those were the sage words of advice from my trusty midwife when discussing my daily commute to work, words that I promptly dismissed.
A sick bag, I don't think so...the only bag I carry with me has two little letters D&G embossed on the side. Ok, between you and me it is a knock off from a very persuasive street seller from Piazza San Marco,Venice. But still, I firmly believe that one should only use a paper sick bag when flying.
So instead I performed the much classier act of throwing up in my mouth and holding it in until the next stop. Now those that have ever visited Chiswick will know that its high street is particularly long, and busy. Therefore I found myself standing by the door of the bus frantically waving at my mouth, as if trying to magically wave away the vomit. A bit like when you wave at your eyes when trying not to cry, and it seems this is just as ineffective. When the doors of the bus finally open I thrust myself out on to the pavement and promptly empty the contents of my stomach. To be precise on the doorstep of Marco Pierre White's restaurant Frankies. Please note the fact that said restaurant has since closed down is coincidental and has nothing to do with me.
So here I am, my tight clad legs spread wide in an attempt to try and save the high heels from splash back, one hand holding my hair, the other clutching the all important handbag.
Like some modern day hobo, all that was missing was the brown paper bag. Which, as we have now ascertained would have prevented all this in the first place...