For most of my life I ran – nay, sprinted – away from other people’s vomit. Now, I hurtle toward all sounds of retching or a small panicked voice calling for me, with arms out and cupped hands proffered. Then I stand victorious, a warm puddle of chunks in my hands, thinking: “I am Saviour Of The Carpet! I am Queen Of Vomit Catching!” It’s entirely possible I need a hobby. Or, like, adult company.