Sunday, 21 October 2012

My Poetry Is Better Than Keats'

Oh Calpol you are lovely and pink,

When he is ill you are my son's favourite drink,

You make the world seem happy and bright,

even though I was covered in sick again last night.

There you go my Ode to Calpol. Worthy of Keats himself no? Last night we had night two of Linda Blair-esque vomiting. Once more as The Chancellor was due to go out with some of her girlfriends, the wee man sent back all his evening bottle and chunks of unidentifiable food all over me, the sofa and the living room rug.  Good times. Well not quite. Now we have two rooms that smell vaguely like sick and inevitably we will never be able to have visitors again. Next weekend may and probably will involve me pushing around an industrial sized carpet cleaner around the place. Good times and fun for me. Despite regurgitating the contents of his stomach on me the wee man still managed to sleep all through the night which was wonderful for The Chancellor and me.

That wonderful pink stuff Calpol has saved us a wee bit though. Back when I was a wee nipper this stuff was packed full of sugar which is why I downed it like fizzy pop. This day and age it isn't quite as addictive but still gives us a couple of hours of happy baby. As I write this the wee man is happily opening his mouth for another round of the magic pink stuff, who wouldn't it's wonderful stuff and worthy of an awful poem. If I had it my way I would let him drink from the bottle if it got him better, but The Chancellor and social services would say no. They're probably right. Hail to Calpol for giving me a couple of hours of peace and quiet.


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