I hope you’re all having a fantastic Christmas Eve, I truly do.
As for me, well, I’m covered in vomit. My clothes are covered in vomit. The carpet is covered in vomit. And the bed is covered in vomit.
No, I haven’t returned home plastered after an advertising Xmas shindig, far from it. That would be a rather fantastic situation compared to the gravity of reality.
You see, Frankie has suddenly developed a violent case of Christmas Eve Gastro.
It’s quite genuinely a war zone over here. You can’t even imagine the horrors I have seen. Perhaps not quite a platoon of ANZACs fighting with dysentery on the Kokoda Trail, but it’s close.
We’ve gone through two loads of laundry already. Soon we’ll have nothing left to clothe her in but a hessian bag. Our entire house smells like Schoolies.
But despite the horrid cloud of sickness we must forge ahead. And while my amazing wife attempts to put the girl from ‘The Exorcist’ to sleep, I’ve been assembling a 50-page-of-instructions-long kitchen set for the Frankster to wake up to tomorrow morning.
When this will all hopefully be a distant memory.
The joys of parenthood.
Merry Christmas everyone.
(And now, a Glenfiddich Single Malt.)