50 Humorous Top Tips For Cleaning Up Vomit…affiliated with BAD HOUSEKEEPING…

OK, who am I trying to kid? First off, there is NOTHING humorous what so ever about vomit, nope, never, not even slightly….especially if I am anywhere in the vicinity of said chunder and particularly if I have to be involved in the clearing up process 😩

Secondly, who in their right (or wrong, very wrong) mind could even think of 50 separate ways to clean up puke (don’t flood me with ideas, I really DON’T want to know) unless you are some weirdo with a peccadillo for emesis (posh word for barf doncha know). If you fall into the latter category and have a predilection for all things vomit relating/inducing, I can’t decide whether you should move in next door to me so I can call on you in times of desperate need or whether I would like you to remove yourself from my blog readers 😉 I’ll ponder this further after a very strong coffee to reconstitute myself after this morning’s endeavours which as you may have succinctly deduced involved clearing up the outpourings of a poorly G Man.

Despite being the mother of 4 children, the oldest of whom is now 17 and started out his life as a prolific refluxer plus various nauseous pets over the years, I am spectacularly bad when it comes to the whole shenanigans associated with dealing with THAT bodily function – see I have to carefully allude to the literally stomach churning matter since even discussing it starts to make me feel more than a little queasy.

I’m not quite an emetophobe but probably not far off it. For example, there are many, many memories accrued over the years that I could recall in technicolour detail that involve vomit which really shouldn’t be the defining high point (or rather low) of the recollection:

The journey to school aged 9 when my brother and youngest cousin were playing some game in the back of the car involving bogies which prompted my brother to be sick all over my cousin, my cousin was then sick all over me and my dear Dad (he of the famed what goes on in the car stays in the car” quip) instructed yours truly to clean everyone up!! This made me sick which then made Dad sick… you get the picture!!

Then there was the time hubby and I (pre kids/marriage) went on a fabulous trip in the Florida Keys on a glass bottom boat – totally marred by the cutest little girl shouting “mommmeee, mommeee, I blew chunks and look the fishies are eating it!!”..and sure enough the glass-bottomed and partially open viewing platform was no longer such a relaxing mix of cerulean blue and darting fish… cue me having to run on deck and gasp unattractively for air, hand flapping, rocking and muttering oaths.  Unbelievably hubby still chose to marry me less than 2 years later…I know right? #whatacatch#

There was the flight home post an amazing sun-baked, cake and booze fuelled relaxing holiday in Eilat with hubby, kids and my parents when my eldest, then aged 10 and Minx, 14 months, were unwell (an understatement!) Poor H perforated an ear drum mid-flight and the pain made him upchuck prolifically, all over yours truly and Minx unable to swallow her saliva, having difficulties with increased secretions and oxygen saturations because of the reduced air supply eventually managed to bring everything up all over me.

That particular trip culminated in being met by an ambulance airside at Luton and being transferred with 2 poorly children to the local hospital clad in linen trousers, wispy thin short-sleeved blouse and flip-flops covered in the UNMENTIONABLE from head to foot. I had managed to grab our passports but no handbag or warm clothing so coming back from 30+ degrees heat to a miserable late night in Blighty in single figures temperature wise was never going to work out well anyway but quite how I persuaded the poor gentleman in the taxi to take us to our hotel once the kids had received appropriate treatment, medications etc, sporting ‘eau de vom remains one of the great mysteries of the world….

Then there was a Christmas Eve morning that still makes me shudder: Martin had been at work on an early shift but was due home mid-morning. Imbued with the festive spirit, (and I don’t mean having drunk it!)  I decided to make a Bouche Noel (fancy way of saying chocolate Yule log) as a last-minute dessert.

 

All 4 kids were occupied, seemingly playing nicely (probably should have foreseen that as a clue!) so when hubby called me to say he had landed and was off to pick up his Mum, did they need to come straight home or could they pop to the shops, I gave a tinkly little laugh and assured him that all was under control. Oh how that would come back to bite me on the bum….

Festive songs on the radio, fridge fit to bursting, I set about with the flour, sugar, eggs & whisk… Shortly after I had prepped the mixture on to grease proof paper ready to pop in the oven, feeling smugly all Nigella, the shrill, panic-stricken tones of G Man yelling  “Mummmmmmeeeeeyyyy” shattered my ear drums from 2 floors above.

All parents recognise the particular siren call that indicates real TROUBLE and possibly DANGER so I high-tailed it up the 2 flights of stairs half expecting to find a severed limb or child dangling from the ceiling light and whilst my initial reaction was relief that this wasn’t in fact the case, it very quickly turned to revulsion and then to despair when I realised Martin wouldn’t be home for some time to assist.

A bit of context: Minx being strong-willed had decided in the October of that year, before she was 2, that nappies were a no-no and with an early glimpse of the determination that has gone on to be both a blessing and a curse, set about the valiant efforts of toilet training herself (and with my reluctant support) with remarkable aplomb.

So on this fateful Christmas Eve, G-Man being ever helpful and adoring of his little sister had ‘helpfully’ brought her Peppa Pig potty in to his bedroom on the top floor of the house where they were playing with Lego.

Whilst I’m sure most of us would agree that our own poop doesn’t exactly smell of roses, it should be noted that Minx was taking numerous medications, several of which meant she emitted an especially noxious odour in matters of toileting.

Thus it was, eyes watering, ears ringing and nose almost bleeding, I greeted a truly horrific scene: Minx still astride her throne, 4 pieces x 2 squares of toilet paper that G had thoughtfully laid out in front of her. G sitting atop his cabin bed, Lego scattered far and wide… and copious amounts of vomitus. But to add to the awfulness, G having retched at the potty odour from on high had proceeded to be sick all down the side of his cabin bed, on the Lego… and worse still, atop Amelia’s head!! 😫😫 She then & I guess understandably in the circumstances, had also let loose.

By this point, the combination of aromas in that room were making ME gag. I threw open the velux windows as wide as they could possibly go & screeched at the elder 2 to avail me of plastic bags, buckets, disinfectant, paper towels and baby wipes STAT!!

When they arrived duly laden, they also began to heave. Major flaw in my plan so yelling afresh, I got them to leave the immediate vicinity of hell and set to work cleaning up.

If you’ve never experienced the heinous task of gathering up vast amounts of sharp, multi-coloured pieces of plastic of varying sizes and shapes covered in vomitis (and why would you?!) let me be the first to tell you it proposes a logistical nightmare. How to scoop, run and get to sink without creating further devastation??

If I didn’t have the littlies to bear witness, I would have cheerfully disposed of the lot in bin bags, nary a thought of the cost of those pesky bricks (and to be honest after 4 kids we had enough Lego between them to construct our very own Lego land anyway!!) but their beady eyes were following my every move and frankly I couldn’t face the thought of adding crying and snotty tears to the already over crowded bodily fluids in that room so I (ahem) sucked it up (not literally!!) and used a bath towel to traverse back and forth to the bathroom until the vile task was done.

Of course it wasn’t over then because I still had kids, floor, bedding etc to clear up. And so it was that Martin returned home some hour or so later to find me lying on the floor alternately sobbing and swinging from the cooking sherry, muttering dementedly. Even 6 years on, that has to be up there as one of the nastiest events of my life!

So without further ado, let me share with you some if not exactly cunning and mind-blowing tips, useful pointers I have gleaned over the years:

Make yourself reeeeeallly reeeeallyy bad at clearing up vom – but only if you have some (sort of) willing partner/friend  sworn enemy around to take over the clean up, in the hope that you will botch it all so badly, they will tsk tsk at you through clenched teeth and insist you GET OUT OF THE WAY AS YOU ARE JUST MAKING MATTERS WORSE stylee….. *whistles nonchalantly*

Pay someone else to deal with it. Extravagant? Undoubtedly but worth every penny if you are phobic.

Napalm – if in doubt and with no willing helper/employee annihilate the fall out zone… NB best to evacuate anyone nearby, (even if you don’t get on with the neighbours) check your home insurance policy wording first and see what your mortgage lenders T’s & C’s are if you have one.

Haz-mat suit – chemical showers and self-contained oxygen supply …. for obvious reasons… although difficult to come by…

Sell your house immediately and if news reports are to be believed, do it quick before we all end up in negative equity (be prepared to take less than market value anyway unless the buyers have a cast iron constitution on viewing the vomity areas)

Give your house away/to charity.…less likely to be fussy/complain and more willing to clean up.

IGNORE, DENY EXISTENCE, CLOSE DOOR, ACT SURPRISED,  upon discovery with a n other present then revert to point 1….

Drink yourself into oblivion – preferably alcohol rather than any old household products, then tackle the task… NB careful judgement needs to be used to ensure you are the right side of not giving a hoot and merrily tipsy rather than blind drunk which potentially may see you adding to the mess…

If all else fails and you really have to do the clean up, arm yourself with gloves (plastic/rubber/latex NOT woolly!) plastic bags, kitchen towel, baby wipes, antibacterial spray, pet soiling clean up spray (it breaks down the enzymes and gets rid of that lingering sick smell that’s so difficult to get rid of) and mentholated vapour rub (e.g. Vicks/Karvol or similar) and smear liberally under your nose, septum and philtrum (medical jargon for the bit between your nose and top lip!) I decided to try that little tip after reading a book about how bad dead bodies that have been in water smell and the pragmatist of the story attending a post mortem using  Anyway, I digress… Throw windows open as wide as you can for added ventilation (assuming there are windows) and leave the top off the mentholated vapour rub for emergency sniffing if it all gets a bit much. If you happen to have a room spray of some description, give the room a good blasting – even LYNX does the trick although I’m not sure that’s what the manufacturer intended it for 🤔 Once you have removed the worst of the offensive matter, carpet cleaner, preferably in the form of a dedicated machine rather than something you spray or sprinkle on is your friend.

So there you have it; not 50 tips but maybe, just maybe something that might make you giggle…

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Melancholia….

I’m pretty sure that’s not the most inspiring name for a blog post, nor one that makes you think “oooh, this will be a rip-roaring laugh which I must sit down and digest with lashings of ginger beer & a cream tea (a touch of the Enid Blyton’s has come over me this morning; I blame the meds!) 

Since I seem to have set many a precedent with my blog posts using song titles and this rang a vague bell (again could be the meds/bleeps on the ward, my imaginary friends, who knows quite frankly?) I thought I’d better google in case I needed to credit anyone specifically. Turns out somewhere along the way all “dat wonga my main mans (parents) what spent on ma h’education over dem years” did somehow pay off.

Not only is it music related but classically so no less! Something to do with Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde…. but regrettably that’s about as far as my musical knowledge goes (sorry Dad, I did try).

Anyway, as so often happens when I start blogging I’ve gone far off track of what this (puff) piece is supposed to be about…. & despite the dreary title. I hope it will make you laugh if you can muster the energy to read on further.

The last few days have been hard work;  assessements by various Dr’s, psychiatrists, psychologists, nurses – even when you think they are not watching you, they are; (not in a nasty, obsessive way, just part of their job to observe your mood & interaction) plus there are cameras in every communal area so it really is a lot like “The Big Brother House” (only the peeps in here are far more entertaining & definitely not doing it for the publicity.) There are some horribly sad, tragic situations and others that are too comical for words, and I really mean that with the kindest of intentions. I would not be so disrespectful as to target those with mental health issues as it’s a very low path which I can safely say from experience.

The last 4 days in particular have been very rough, difficult and involved copious amounts of crying (me not them) tissues and snot (me again, v attractive obviously) restraint (on my part not to physically bash one of the Doctors who tried to tell me I didn’t know my own mind 🙄) and quite a lot of drugs. Legal ones for clarification.

Over the last few days I got put back on 15 minute observations and 10 minute obs when I was in the bathroom – I honestly had no intention of drowning myself in the u-bend of the loo but knowing you have someone hovering nearby shouting “are you ok” v loudly and as if you don’t speak English  (you know that thing we do to foreigners where we speak loudly & slowly at them in our own mother tongue because that helps them understand sooo much better 😳🤔- yeah, like that) well it’s not very conducive to “performing” on the loo, be that a tinkle or otherwise & I find myself saying sorry to the environment for running the taps on full to drown out any noise I might make to help me “go”. 

Anyhoo, during this rather unhappy period, I decided to have a bath at 10pm, just before I take enough meds to knock out a 50 stone gorilla – see proof I’m thinking sensibly, risk aware etc…. no point having the bath AFTER taking the knock out stuff – if I do intend to “off” myself I have no desire to be dragged, in the buff out of the bath whilst some overworked, underpaid chronically tired Doc attaches chest paddles/suction (whatever, far too much Casualty/ 24 hours in A&E watching!) to bring me back, whilst the rest of the crew attempt to help, keep away the gawkers… and frankly the NHS staff have enough paperwork & forms to fill in anyway so I’m trying to be considerate on many levels. 

So back to the bath….  some time last week, you may recall I posted a pic of the demented bath taps in this place 

(A refresher – quite literally!!)

Those of you who have stuck with me & followed my blog posts for a while will know that I have an (un) enviable reputation when it comes to matters of personal hygiene in hospitals far & wide across the country. 

From flashing a junior Dr & several other staff with the flannel sized bath towel running down a corridor several years back, to a surgeon quite literally knocking on my bathroom door to chat as the mini window of opportunity I had chosen to attend to personal hygiene had been thwarted by someone else being in the bath & by the time I got in, dunked to the shoulders, the surgeon was back telling me things (for once) had gone much better & easier than expected & could I please step out the bathroom for a catch up 😫 

Plus there are the times I have outed my lack of clean knickers on the Great Ormond street fb page by accidentally having location services switched on to my instagram post showing a pile of dirty laundry, a mini bottle of prosecco & a pile of brand new snazzy pants ( 3 for £10 in New Look = saving money) for all and sundry to giggle over… my incompetence on the bathroom/laundry debacle is legendary & comedic on equal measure to most (unless you happen to be me or the aforementioned poor professionals, again I’m sorry!!!)

Determined as I was to wash the stink of hospital off me & relax with a Lush bath bomb, despite the intrinsic 10 minute door knocking & calls of “all ok in there” I hadn’t factored in the Machiavellian taps… and rooky error to boot, had left the bath unattended whilst I went in search of towels (snaggled 4, no intention of scaring anyone with the boobs or lady bits issues this time)

I gathered my clean pj’s, make up remover, cleanser & flannel feeling fairly smug – Beaton, you’ve got this covered – until I sauntered back to the unmanned bathroom… at which point the words “holy f*#k” may have been uttered…

You see although the bath itself only contained about an inch of water, the rest of the bathroom was knee height as the spiggoting (not a swear word!) tap had done its damndest to flood the place!! By this point, water was creeping under the door, over my clothes & slippers left on the floor, the clean, previously dry towels & rising by the second over the sanitary bin (🤢)..

If you’ve ever watched the film Titanic with Kate Winslet & LeonardoDe Caprio, you may recall that image of all the poor people in steerage up to their necks in water being locked behind a gate. It felt like one of those moments….

In my head the theme tune to the Old Spice advert (Carmina Burana) complete with the crashing waves was playing at epic volume https://youtu.be/6rbZr7YoqK0 just in case you need a reminder. (Courteousy you-tube) 

By this point, uttering a lot of very rude words as quietly as I could to avoid alerting staff, my only objective was to turn off the sodding ba$+arding tap as quickly as I could and to shove a towel at the doorway to absorb as much water as possible before it leaked into the hallways causing the medics to call a code red (or something) I can tell you this was NOT doing much for my already out of control anxiety & I suspect if anyone had taken my blood pressure, I would have been lying on a crash trolley somewhere. 

So at this point, all 4 of my lovely, pristine-still-basically-handkerchief sized bath towels were wringing wet, there was a water mark on the walls  & then the ever present “all ok?” was gently wafted  from the other side of the door.

At this point the temptation to wail noooooo, gibber and rock quietly in the corner seemed like a good call – after all they’d seen me at my lowest ebbs, it was just a case that they were going to have to view a different kind of lower ebb since I had no dry towels or clothes to preserve the very little dignity I have left…. 

But somehow my inner Wonder Woman” (well really in my current modus operendi, I’m more like the sad, bald, partially limbed Barbie that the nasty boy in the original Toy Story feeds to his dog but I digress) trilled out with a light & breezy, “all fine, nothing to worry about! 

Knowing I had a 10 minute window of opportunity to sort out this shambles, I started winging out towels, throwing them back on the floor in the vain hope they might absorb a teeny bit more. Then I turned to the loo roll and paper towels which had not long been refilled and basically, desperate times call for desparate measures so I did what I had to do…. think the domestics were most surprised to find pretty much the entire bathroom supplies that had only been restocked at 6:30 the previous evening were almost gone by 7am but it’s not been mentioned. 

After the exhausting clean up process, frankly the last thing I wanted was a bath in an inch of water… but I was more than a bit stinky and damned if that inch was going to waste (ahem!!) Nor was I taking any further chances of running more water. 

So when I had to shuffle out of the bathroom a few minutes later in wet pj’s and scurry (slopping noises  down the corridor) to my cubicle, I changed as quickly as I could.

The trilling Geordie voice from the other side of my cubicle curtain “oooh I bet that was a nice one pet, you were in there for ageeeeesss!!!” was met by a faint moan on my part & in hindsight, I probably didn’t need the knock out meds  prescribed of a night time… but I figured a nice dreamless sleep might fix things-somewhat…. although I did have very vivid dreams involving the film Point Break…. can’t think why…..

 

(Nb reconstruction for dramatic purposes only – no towels, clothes, doors or bathroom floors were harmed in this remake….although a few paper towels willingly sacrificed themselves)

So I might still be as mad as a box of frogs… but at least I can laugh at myself(ish)…