"The past two mornings, I've woken up feeling really sick," I said. My Mum poured the tea. She sat back, looked at me, and raised an eyebrow.
"Have you been having any unusual... cravings?" she asked wryly.
She sipped her teacup with what could only be described as ‘expert timing’.
"Pretty sure it's not... that," I retorted.
What it actually is though, I'm at a loss to explain. It's not really even physical nausea; I haven't felt like this since... well, for a long time! I've definitely not upset anybody that I know of. And this is more pronounced than the usual 'something somewhere doesn't feel right' feeling I get sometimes. Clearly my subconscious is picking something up.
This morning, the grey light was seeping through the curtains. The room was dark, grimly lit by the edges of the miserable dawn. Whatever it is, this feeling is oppressive. I pushed through it.
"What did you have for dinner?" asked my Mum, later in the conversation.
"Oh last night? Pizza," I replied.
"Hmmm. And the night before?"
I was suddenly staring down the tablecloth.
"Um... an apple."
"Ah," she said.
Mums, and I think it might be all mums, have a way of using just one syllable to its maximum possible effect. How do they do that? In fact, it occurred to me, that some of them don't need any syllables! Oh to have that kind of super-power! As you can see, I’m quite fond of using hundreds of syllables to say hardly anything at all.
So, tonight I’m determined to eat properly and sleep well. As the sun twinkles through the window and my eyes flutter open tomorrow, I will feel as though I’ve been floating on marshmallow clouds to the music of James Galway and his orchestra of saints. Ethereally, I’ll rise and greet the day as I drift to work in a sea of golden sunshine. Right? Right?
And actually, my Mum will know it before she’s asked me anyway, because that is (maddeningly) another one of her super-powers.
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