H is for A Horrid And Heinous “H” Story

Tonight, I am going to relate to you one of the worst experiences of my life which happened about three years ago. It was very late at night and I was out in the garden securing the chicken hutch when I was stopped in my tracks by a truly revolting noise. I’m not going to even try and describe it as it was so abhorrent it will make you throw up. However, what I will say is – as a mother of three sons – I have heard some pretty gruesome noises including:

1. High-octane exploding bowels.  This was after about a month of constipation when I doubled-dosed one of my sons on constipation-relief medicine. The memory of this sound and the high-impact splattering adorning the bath (the toilet was too small to accommodate the outpourings) will stay with me forever.

2. Severe nauseating and overpowering flatulence.  After the consumption of burnt beef curry by someone who is not me and not my children. (Work it out.)

3. The screams of childbirth. These were not my own which would have been preferable. After having spent 24 hours in labour, I was wheeled to the maternity ward, exhausted and with my assets resembling an imploded jam roly poly and desperately wanting to sleep. Therefore, I did not enjoy listening to the screams of the woman in the labour ward below who had either:

 a) given birth to triplets through a vagina the size of a pea shooter

 b) given birth to an alien

 c) realized that the birth was being shown live on national TV

or

 d) finally realized that sex leads to a lifetime of misery

Anyway, as you can imagine, all the above experiences involved pretty horrific sounds.

However, they do NOT compare to the sound that accompanies the discovery that one of your chickens has died and is being eaten by the garden hedgehog.

I will never feel the same about the heinous Mr Hedgehog again.

Hands up who likes chicken. Bastard.