Thursday, 30 May 2013

E is for Ewwwwwww



Feeling rather poorly this morning I dragged myself out of bed to tend to my clients appointments because I'm well... a hero... that's um, driven by money. Anyway, there I was looking like death warmed up, still in my nightie, with hair looking like it had got in to an argument with a plug socket (and lost), with a coldsore the size of a beach ball on my lip and with more spots than a hormonal 14 year old school boy, running round my little nail studio hoovering, cleaning, lighting candles, burning incense (the hoover lets off a lovely labrador smell when it's on), melting essential oil wax melts, trying in general to eradicate the smell of boys and animals from my treatment room.  Once finished I jumped in to the shower... and when I say jumped I mean hauled my aching body over the side of the bath like a sack of spuds, and set about deep cleaning myself for the back to back clients I had coming in at 10 o'clock.  In just over half an hour I had managed to slap on some war paint, blow dry and straighten my mane and wriggle in to my black work dress looking, to my surprise, somewhat human.  

With ten minutes to spare before the arrival of my first client, I decided to pop in to the kitchen/diner/lounge and make myself a fortifying cup of coffee but who should I happen upon as I hurried in to kitchen? None other than Fifty Shades of Grey himself.  Now you're probably thinking all kinds of saucy and imagining a tall, dark and handsome man with chiseled cheeks bones that could quite literally ladder your tights with just a glance, but no, none of that for me, because my Fifty Shades of Grey was in fact my perfectly healthy husband only half an hour a go, looking as sick as a dog.

To understand the magnitude of the situation let me post a picture of my husband looking his normal self...





... Can you see the problem? My usually brown tanned English/Egyptian husband was now as grey as the sky on a rainy day! 

I'll admit now, I wasn't exactly giving an Oscar winning performance of Florence Nightingale, I mean come on, I felt like bag of crap too and I was getting on with my day, so why couldn't he? 

But you see the real problem wasn't so much that he was ill, oh no-no monsieur, that was the easy part, the cataclysmic timing of it all, was that what quite literally stood between my husband and the toilet was... wait for it... the nail studio. 

In order for himself to get to the bathroom, he has to walk through the studio, owing to the fact that my nail studio is actually based in my hallway.  Now on any other given day that wouldn't have been a problem, but today dear reader, today, I had not one, but two clients coming in booked back to back for deluxe pedicures.  Can you see the dilemma?  I can't cancel them because they would be arriving in ten minutes, but neither can I allow my husband to come hurtling through my treatment room to either take leave of his bowels or to stick his head down the toilet, because at that point, to which end it was coming out of, neither of us knew.  Thinking I could ship him and my son off to McDonalds (they have a bathroom right) my poorly husband could do nothing but slump down on to the sofa because just then the doorbell rang signalling the arrival of my first client.

Now as you know a deluxe pedicure is well, deluxe.  Scrubs, masques, foot massage the works.  So there I am about to give my client the pedicure of her dreams and the theme tune to Horrid Henry came blasting out the television because my husband didn't think to tell my son to turn the volume down. Realising that if I can hear it, so can she, I launched in to some inane drivel about the weather, hoping my voice would drown out my son who was now laughing like a drain.  Luckily fifteen minutes in to the treatment, with my clients feet wrapped up tight to allow the masque to penetrate deep in to her skin, I was able to go into the kitchen under the guise of refilling the pedicure bowl with warm water, to give Senior and Junior a good talking too in a shouty whisper. Silence restored, I popped back in to the salon to ask if my client would like another cup of tea and I then returned to the kitchen to make her a hot beverage.  Filling the kettle up and putting the tea bag in to the cup and saucer, my son came rushing up beside me and in a stage whisper said "Mum, Mum! Look at Dad! He's being sick!"  With sheer horror I turned around to see  my 6 foot 2 husband on all fours with his head sticking out of our french doors puking his guts up, while his back end remained firmly in the lounge.  Trying to think how to silence him, the vomiting eventually stopped only to be replaced with a lot of dry heaving and by this time I was wondering if the only reason why my client hadn't run out of the studio screaming was because her feet were wrapped up firmly in a towel.  Anyway after I filled a jug with water and threw it out in to the yard to wash away my husbands breakfast that had now been deposited on the crazy paving outside, I washed my hands, finished making my clients cup of tea and went back in to the salon as if nothing had happened.  

Ten minutes later more sounds of heaving, wretching and puking came floating through the door and I made a mental note to go and buy myself a docking station for my mobile phone so that for any future days like today (please god no), I could always drown out such noises with music.

Luckily the rest of the appointment went as planned and my next client arrived ready to have her deluxe pedicure.  This was a little less eventful but I could still hear the dog scratching gods only knows what part of his anatomy from my pedicure stool and I had to listen my son discussing the merits of one Skylander over another, but luckily no more bodily fluids rose to the occasion. 

Finally after just under three hours I led my clients out of the studio and I walked back in to the kitchen to check how my husband was feeling.  Informing me he now felt much better (wouldn't you know) and that he just wanted to eat everything in the cupboards(!) I put my clients cup and saucer in to the sink and washed my hands again.  Looking slightly alarmed my husband hurried over to sink and told me not to use the Pyrex jug, which I could see was full of washing up liquid and water.  "Oh god," I  said, "don't tell me you threw up in the Pyrex jug?!? That's the good jug." Silence. "Um no, not exactly... I didn't throw up in the Pyrex jug... but well, um... Sam had a pee in it instead."

And that dear reader was when I  knew beyond all doubt, that my day wasn't going to get any better.

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