One of the benefits of having a cold that makes you feel like everyone is talking to you underwater, is that you have no idea how rank you smell when you're half covered in vomit.
We'd been having a good week, all things considered.
I've started walking like I'm carrying a watermelon between my thighs, but that's to be expected now I'm full term.
This baby also feels like the only thing that's holding it in is good will, and that a powerful sneeze might see him being born in record time in the middle of Card Factory.
But again, I accept that as a product of a second pregnancy and also being able to count on one hand how many times I've done pelvic floor exercises.
Nancy and I had gone off to a popular playgroup where you have to be queuing outside from 9.20am at the latest, the doors open at 9.30 prompt and by 9.31 there's a piece of paper stuck to the door to say that the group's full.
Nancy had been kicking around with Ebba, pushing a range of ethnically diverse plastic babies round the room in buggies, and I'd been making the most of the free tea and biscuits.
I think it's only meant to be one custard cream per parent, but whose going to argue with a women who's walking like a sumo wrestler?
Nancy had been playing happily for the best part of an hour before she complained of a sore throat.
And 30 seconds later she'd done the mother of all voms all over us both.
Now, the only thing worse than seeing a tiny person wide-eyed with distress as they throw up their breakfast, is watching it all happen in front of a church-hall full of other parents.
And then realising that not only do you not have a change of clothes for either of you, but you also can't bend down to clear anything up as a humongous stomach makes it virtually impossible to get up again.
Thank God for brilliant friends.
With two women quickly wiping us off with wet-wipes, we were virtually presentable.
The thing is, with a bump the size of a beach-ball, I can only see what's going I as far as my belly button.
Anything below is a mystery.
And it was only when I stood up that my friends realised that the bottom half of my stomach and crotch were saturated with sick.
There are times in your life when both dignity and self respect go out the window.
Having your groin wet-wiped down for the 'biggest chunks' is one of those times.
And I owe those two friends more than I own for doing that.
So. We both stink. I know that.
Not because I can smell anything.
But because everyone on the bus can.
Bonus number two.
We have cleared a relatively large space around us on a very crowded bus.
The only other bonus to a little person being poorly, is that all they want to do is cuddle you, which is a rarity at age two.
I had our afternoon planned out.
I would lie on the sofa. Nancy would sleep on me. And I would catch up on a bit of House of Cards on the telly.
But first I'd give her a bit of Calpol using one of the squirty, syringe things they come with.
Having not used them before in favour of a spoon, neither Nancy nor I knew how they worked.
Unfortunately Nancy sealed her mouth shut just as I got it working and managed to squirt the whole lot into her eye.
I don't know what was worse.
The adrenaline-filled panic as I washed it out.
Or the fact that Nancy kept repeating through sobs, 'Daddy's going to be so sad that you've broken my eye.'
Bring on baby number two.
This parenting lark is a piece of piss.