There really is no escape. So I've spent all day knee deep in a full Dulux colour card worth of bodily liquid. Blood from a femoral artery pumping like a little geyser whilst I remember why I need bifocals as I try to get a guidewire into it. Everywhere! Two litres of what looked like home brew from a patient's chest cavity- ironic given what he must have drunk to gain the hue of deepest yellow. Everywhere. Sputum..sputum...sputum..
So finally home- feet up whilst the missus watches Yorkshire's finest detectives trying to work out who gave Cain Dingle a long awaited brain rearrangement when....pat, pat, pat...'Daddy, I feel sick!'
'that'll be those mince pies at the cubs party,' says I to number one son Charlie Chaz.
Pat...pat...pat.. Up to bed. All quiet when, you guessed it- 100 yd free form vomit. Scores 9.2 , 8.6. , 9.1 on Strictly Come Honking.
So the main body fluid I missed from my day at work is now in a long long trail from bed to stairs.
There is no escape- I must have been wicked in my past life
(perhaps karma for the more spectacular vomits of my life... Number one being on Adnam's Ale in the Greenkeeper in P'boro after A-level results...)