It's not something you want to hear about.

Well, one hears the stories about parenting, and how unglamorous it is, but you never quite know how you will fare until you're hit by the horrible truth: "I need to vomit, Mummy!"...In the time it takes me to assess a safe place to pull over (I'm on a pedestrian crossing so I pull over half on it and half off it, obstructing the parked cars from getting out-cars have to veer onto the wrong side of the road to pass us now), switch on my hazard lights (just so people know it's not out of choice that I am parked like this), dash out of the car, open the door behind me, and witness the vomit, onto the skirt...too late. A small consolation is the fact that I manage to get the spare ice-cream container onto her lap before the second wave. We've just had take-away hot chips so the vomit is, it has to be said, of a manageable consistency which isn't spreading too far and is mostly contained on Mia's skirt and jersey. I scoop her up and stand her next to the car, letting all the 'mash' drop to the ground. I'm almost feeling guilty about the mess we are making. But secretly glad we're not at home. OK, now let's step out of your skirt...easy does it. Allow me to take off this jersey: pull your arms in...let me lift the back over your head (so we don't immerse you in your own vomit!). Wipe down the small specks on the car seat with the wipes I have in the nappy bag... and help Mia back into the car. Wipe down the seat belt: it was kind of in the line of fire. Gather all the spent tissues and wipes, and the ice-cream container, and dispose if it in the rubbish bin 2 metres away. The spoiled clothes are bundled into a plastic bag and are in the boot. I am grateful that in all this time, no-one has commented or hooted as they have passed and have obviously assessed the situation compassionately. I climb into the driver's seat and watch with a morbid interest as seagulls flock to the scene. We watch as they huddle to devour their lunch. Mia and I laugh about it and drive off home to a change of clothes and a session of afternoon tv under a fleecy blanket, on the couch next to a big pot, while Joshka has a nap and I write about our experience. The washing machine is going now and all is under control.