I had struggled to get to sleep last night but eventually managed. I must have done, for the next thing I knew it was 12.40 a.m. and someone was knocking slowly yet persistently at my bedroom door. Who is it, I asked. Silence. More knocking. I began to get scared. Speak! I commanded. Then came a croaking voice out of the darkness. It's me (Titus said). I've thrown up all over my bed and there are bits of potato everywhere.
I suppressed my initial and most unmaternal reaction, i.e. what I am supposed to do about it, and dragged myself out of bed, upstairs, to survey the damage. You don't need to know any more. I'm sure you can imagine how gross it was but I felt so sorry for him I couldn't possibly be cross. He spent the rest of the night in my bed.
This morning, I was shot down by rays of jealousy from Hedda over the breakfast table. Why am I never sick, she wanted to know. Typical Titus - he always gets his own way!
Too tired to argue. Amazingly, Titus is looking peaky but perky and has no intention of spending the day in bed. But I can't pack him off to kindergarten, as I would only incur bad mother points and there'd be whispering campaigns about me for the rest of the week. I've caused enough trouble already with my rice-cake fetish.
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