Poor Josh continues to spew and keff and has had another day off school.
Today was also the day of his first appointment with the consultant child psychologist and I had the day off.
He hadn't been sick, so off we went to Malvern for the appointment. Five minutes away, the poor chap chucks up everywhere. We rang ahead, and they said to come in and they would speak to the quack. When we arrived, he was covered in vom, and they decided it would be better not to go ahead. He's been on a waiting list for five months, and can't be seen for a further three weeks. About turn and back to base.
Poor little chap. He's as white as a sheet and very subdued. He managed to keep down a dinner this evening but seems to be vaguely amused as every time he farts he follows through. He ran out of jimjams at around four in the afternoon.
When we got back the ginger tosser was also looking a bit peaky and kept taking himself off to the garden and roamed around the flower beds squatting and straining. I carted him off to the vet, and in he went for surgery for a blocked bladder. They've rang this evening and he seems to be doing okay, but I'm two hundred and fifty quid lighter, and have two upset hooligans as he's been kept in for observation.
An epic day.
Then I played like a retard on acid and got soundly beaten on the squash court, and my attempt to rid the car of the smell of a small boy's upchuck has resulted in a strange odour of sick and polish. On Friday I will spend around eight hours in aforementioned vomit comet as I have a meeting in Ipswich.
Ipswich on a fucking Friday. Seriously. Can you get webbed feet and an inclination to start shagging your sister just be being with Ipswichistanis ?
My cup overfloweth.
And lets not get onto the cuntarsing rugby.