There’s no glamor in vomit. I should know. I spend half my days up to my elbows in it. Today is no different. Our patient is Tommy, a seven-year-old boy with a nasty case of stomach flu. I’m quite certain Mother Superior saves all of the messy ones for me. She’s probably sipping tea at the bedside of some duchess with the sniffles, while I’m in the middle of Thornham attempting to pick regurgitated corn out of my laces.
With a grumble, I turn on the kitchen tap. Sister Bernadette is supposed to be helping me. Actually, I am supposed to be helping her, but she’s busy “resting her eyes” which is Sister-Bernadette-speak for “snoring on the settee”. I don’t know why they call me a nurse’s aide when I do all the work she is meant to do.