Not for the weak of stomach

Though as a general rule I am a very squeamish person, one who cannot tollerate any kind of blood on television (or off television for that matter), I am not usually one to actually dry heave when confronted with something particularly grisly. I’ve always considered this disinclination towards heaving to be my last saving grace in the iron stomach stakes. Until today.

I went into the kitchen today to fill up my water jug and was greeted with the strong smell of the Space Cadet’s dinner as it simmered on the stove. He had left a frypan full of baked beans on the burner, with some kind of very pungent cheese bubbling away in the centre. The smell was rancid. When I first caught a whiff of it, I remember thinking it was rather unpleasant. It wasn’t until I was over at the sink, next the stove, filling up the jug that I felt my stomach constrict as I dry wretched into my hand. I picked up the half full jug and fled the room, trying not to projectile vomit over the walls as I went.

In my room I could still smell it. I put the jug on the table, stuffed a scarf into the gap under the door and curled up in the foetal position on the floor in the far corner humming quietly to myself.

Just the thought of it unsettles me. I am never eating baked beans again.