Marionettes

I have a friend who, when he's stressed, has this horrible recurring nightmare that he's being eaten alive slowly by a milliard of small ants, black, with shiny teeth. My mother shouts at anything, usually my father. My father sulks and speaks to no one, save the motorcycle magazine, which is afforded all interest and deemed worthy enough to receive the occasional grunt. Stress is elusive. It creeps up, unknowingly until you're slap bang in the symptom and it's too late to work out what it is that was so hard to deal with in the first place. Take me, an averagely stressed out 20-something. I was a chubby teenager, so you'd expect that my innate reaction would be to reach for a Kit Kat - the four-fingered-wonder, of course - at the first sign of anything untoward. Hmmm... No. What do I do instead? Dance? Come out in a faint rash? Shiver? Go red? Nothing so common! No, I vomit. Predictably and grossly, approximately 45 seconds after getting out of bed. Three solid wretches and usually it's over. I'll rub my tender stomach soflty, just for a bit, and tumble from the bathroom. Five minutes later, I'm fine. This routine has been like clockwork since I was small. Exams? Jules is in the bathroom chucking up. Ballet recital? Oh, yep, she's there again, at least she'll fit into her leotard. The irony in all of this is that I only recently found out that my sister does exactly the same thing! Imagine! Two marionettes, joined not by string but by genes, 150 miles apart, simultaneously emptying the contents of their stomachs at the side of the road each stress-filled morning! We're ok though. Don't get concerned. Peace is on the horizon and the Shreddies and toast and tea will soon be worth their nutritional value.