Technicolour Yarn

For me, throwing up is normally a polite gentlemanly affair. My brain hears a quiet knock at the door. My stomach.

‘Sir,’ my stomach says, twisting its tradesman’s cap nervously between its coarse metaphorical hands, ‘sir, I’m very sorry about this. But I think I’m going to have to, er, discharge my contents upstairs.’ My brain and my stomach are silent for a moment as they consider this together. ‘Of course, it will be at a time that is convenient for you.’

‘Of course,’ my brain says, ‘how about in twenty minutes?’

‘Very good, sir.’ My stomach says and it goes away until the appointed time.

‘Ready, sir?’

‘Ready.’ And a certain camaraderie springs up between them as the vomit leaves in a more or less orderly fashion. Even so it is a stinging experience for all concerned. There is a pained look in my stomach’s eyes and he looks away. My brain grips his left shoulder manfully and gives him a gentle squeeze.

‘There is no shame in this. It is part of the natural cycle. It is part of the way of life. You could no more prevent such discharges than the salmon be prevented from swimming upstream.’

My stomach nods and tries out a little grim smile. My brain and my stomach part and my brain does not know that my stomach risks a tiny backward glances just before he exits. If only we didn’t have to meet. Like this. If only it could be. Different.

But last night. Hoo wee.

There is an angry knock on the door as my stomach’s brash irresponsible nephew demands entry.

‘Open up. I gotta let one fly.’

‘What? What is the meaning of this?’ My brain has been roused from a pleasant dream and is still rubbing his eyes. He opens the door and my younger stomach bursts through.

‘Fuck, old man, get outta the way. Gotta take a wiz.’

‘What? Where’s the stomach I normally deal with?’ My brain is angrily wrapping a silk dressing gown around his flannel pyjamas. And then he is bowled over in the orange rush, unable to get out of the way in time.

‘Heh, sorry old-timer, better luck next time.’ Says the stomach as he exits, giving my brain the finger. And my brain is unable to feel any kinship with this young stomach. Who is this foul creature? he thinks, mopping ineffectually at his soaking nightclothes…

Who indeed?