Got puked over again in the bus by mini me. A bit better than a couple of weeks ago when some of it went over a passenger’s head. Staggered off the No. 55 into the brightness of another day smelling like a wino.

 

Stiff upper lip on the bus this morning. The little one says she feels ill and the next minute throws up down the front of my shirt. Unfortunately, a flick of it hits the back of the guy’s head sitting in front of us. Not sure if he notices he’s got some vomit detritus in his hair but just stares straight ahead without flinching. Very British! The little one douses me a couple of more times before we get off. She nods off in the buggy and I have to wheel us five miles home in a puke soaked shirt at 10am in the morning. Must have been a hell of a night.

 

A day or more of sunshine and us Brits are burning ourselves raw in pursuit of the sophisticated European look and heading for Salmonella Central on half cooked BBQ meat.

It is also the season of boozing and barfing as I discovered this morning after gently wheeling through the innards of someone’s guts as the sparrows sung over the yard arm. Oh, for the sticky embrace of Mr Daniels.

 

One of the most disgusting meals ever created is pie and mash, an east London ‘delicacy’ guaranteed to have you retching over your shoes like a poisoned rat.

Optional extras are jellied eels (stewed or mashed) that have spent their lives sucking mud off the belly of the Thames and liquor – an evil green stoop of liquified peas.

If zombies ran out of humans to eat this would be their new feeding ground. I walk past one of these shops regularly and stopped today to watch its pale tribe of diners sucking up their liquid gruel.

“Ah, what I would give for some fresh flesh,’ I could hear them whisper.

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