• crewders

…who got her tits out on the M4?

Updated: Mar 30

Which sounds like a dare from student days. But alas stood on the hardshoulder of the M4 covered in milk puke in my bra is not quite a dare I fancied three hours into the five hour road trip to Devon but that’s what I got. And sadly it’s not the first time I can say I’ve sat in sick with my tits out. Let me take you back to a time when I visited hell.


Hell was in disguise as a United airline plane from New York to Manchester. He left us, as standard, at the security line. But I was prepared. She was in her trike and thought she ran the world. I had snacks coming out of my ears, I had Peppa downloaded and as if going into battle on the front line I had the necessities on hand. Poo? Don’t worry, the mere wiff of a turd and Mary Poppin’s bag would produce nappy, wipes and a bag all within a seconds reach. Sick? Spare clothes in individual bags. Hungry? Tits were there but pouches were ready. Dirty hands? Gel would fire out the side zip. “Get through security and go get yourself a large G+T before you take off” he suggests. I’ve long given up the sarcastic replies, there is simply no point. He genuinely believes this is possible. I let him believe it is so, despite the fact that in reality it’s unlikely that little more than a sip of tepid water will pass my lips over the course of the next 9 hours because if it does I’ll need to wee and where the fuck is she going when I wee? My recommendation to the secretary of education is this. Take all year 11’s on a field trip, a long-haul flight, each with a baby, minimum age 9months. I predict the pregnancy rate will plummet.


So no, instead of a relaxing G+T while my chilled-out baby looks on happily gurgling away, I spend the next 2 hours on the floor of the dirty airport. She won’t sit still so lay on a blanket she rolls. Some tears, some tit and I congratulate myself on 2 pouches going in combined with Calpol (better to be safe than sorry). This girl is ready for flight people.


As we board I am told that sadly someone is sat in my booked bassinet seat. “But…they’re moving, tell me they’re moving, I booked it ages ago?” I say holding in the tears. “Oh sorry no, they were there first” Oh my Christ. OH MY ACTUAL CHRIST. 8 solid hours of Beryl on my knee. And by that we all know I mean on my tit. I walked on and if looks could kill then the man in 3a was a goner. “Thank you very fucking much” I mutter.


As I sit I asked a seemingly lovely gay attendant if there any spare seats on the flight. “One madam", he says, "and it just so happens to be the one in front of you. Wait till the passenger boards and we’ll ask if they'd be happy to swap”. Thank god. Thank you actual god.


Hushed words are muttered between said passenger and lovely attendant. He then comes to me, I start to stand “Sorry mam, the lady in front does not want to swap, she wants to sit opposite her daughter.” I look left, her daughter is in her 50’s. “Let me just get this straight”, I say with an increasingly rising voice, “She won’t move one seat behind for a night flight where the plane will be pitch black because she wants to sit opposite, not next to as that ones free, but opposite her daughter while I am sat here with a 16 pound baby on me and no where to put a tissue never mind my sanity?” “That’s right mam, so sorry” and off he pops.


ARSE FUCKING WIPE. Beryl agrees, I know this as she starts howling. Tit goes in she pipes down. I turn to the lady next to me and (lying obviously) say, “don’t worry as soon as we take off she’ll be sound asleep.

The doors close. Beryl comes up for air from the nip, looks at me, looks at the seat in front, turns and looks to the lady next to us and empties the contents of her stomach on her. Except it’s not because there’s more and more and it keeps on coming. All. Night. Long.


One hour in having been puked on so many times I’ve lost count I find myself using my foot to locate the red book in the wonder bag. Damn the fucking thing is packed so well it’s like Fort bleeding Knox trying to get anything out. WHY WONT ANY ONE HELP ME? Tears begin. Heat is rising so off comes the sick coated nursing cardi. I’m panicking, is she dying? Is it food poisoning? She looks at me, I start to say, oh baby I'm so sorry, mummy wants to help but half way through speaking she pukes in my face. Holy shit there’s sick in my mouth. If this is a bug I’ve surely only got minutes before I start, then what? Red book found, it says to keep nursing if baby is sick. I do but with every suck she pukes up triple. I reread, dehydration is bad, keep nursing. AGHHH MORE FUCKING SICK. After 3 hours and not a single person asking if they can help, including the woman next to us who turned her back immediately, I get up and we walk to the back of the plane. Lovely attendant is there. “Please can you hold her while I get the sick out of my hair and mouth?” “No, sorry” and with that he eaves muttering about health and safety. Oh my god. Nothing. She’s now got through her 3 spare changes of clothes and I’ve removed both the cardi and now my top. I am in an off white nursing bra with sick from head to toe and I am weeping.


No word of a lie, woman who wouldn’t trade seats says OUTLOUD “Aren’t babies fun”


As the plane lands in Manchester Beryl produces her final bout of bile and we stagger off. Still without a single offer of help. We walk of the plane and a ServiceAir, and more importantly manc woman takes one look at me and says "Jesus Christ, are you ok?” “I am now I've seen you, I am now” I half weep. She takes the trike, the not so wonder wonder bag, the bag of sick, the sodden cardi and says come now, lets get you home. And with that she frog marches me through security to my mum whose first words are, “you’ve looked better babe”


Brilliant.

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