JUST JAMIE: Terrible price of tucking in

I've been here for hours, looking at my pathetic watery reflection, staving off the inevitable.

Any moment now I'm going to be sick. And I really don't like being sick.

As a child I was sick quite often, usually after stuffing myself with food.

Every time we went to my Auntie Anne's and Uncle Tony's, I would literally overdose on ham sandwiches, sausage rolls and Bird's trifle.

It would be laid out like the buffet at a party; chicken legs, bowls of crisps -- the lot. Only there were no guests.

My Auntie Anne would put on this lavish spread just for Big Sis, the Folks and me.

I never thought anything of it at the time but, looking back, it was all rather odd. I've not been to her house for a couple of years (as happens when you go through adulthood, I only see her at weddings and funerals) but I can imagine that if I was to arrange to go tomorrow, it would all be there waiting for me.

And I'd probably overdose on Bird's trifle.

Mother Dearest would always use the journey to warn me not to eat twice my own body weight. But encouraged by my Auntie Anne -- who thought my appetite was "smashing" (everything was "smashing") -- I would stuff myself stupid like a demented Billy Bunter.

And every time we had to stop the car on the way home while I was sick all over the road.

Even though I was quite practised at the art of self-emptying, I never really got used to it. Each time I would whine and flap my arms like a wounded sparrow.

I hated the burning sensation as your meal tore up from the pit of your stomach, hurtling past your oesophagus and out of your gaping mouth.

And sometimes your nose.

And I still hate it now.

That's why I have been in this bathroom for so long. It's not that I ate too much this time -- a slowing metabolism doesn't allow me to indulge as I once did -- but the Flintstones-like rack of ribs from the local pub obviously isn't content to stay where it is.

If I wasn't such a wimp this would have been over and done with hours ago. Since the crucifying stomach-pains rudely woke me from my slumber just before midnight, I knew that I was going to be sick.

But instead of getting on with it, I have been putting it off, employing mind-over-matter techniques, heavy breathing and drinking lots of water in a vain attempt to keep it down. Every so often I stop staring down at the watery graveyard which will eventually be the final resting place of my tea and sit on the edge of the bath. And I realise just how pink our bathroom is.

It's supposed to be "warm terracotta" but it's definitely pink. It's funny how you notice such things when in a pre-sick state.

I contemplate inspecting the rest of the flat -- mainly to take my mind off things -- but instead resume my position over the bowl. Not long now.

The Long Suffering Marjorie, awoken by the light our en-suite bathroom pours into the bedroom, cranes her head round the door.

"What have you lost," she offers whimsically. Naturally I don't rise to the bait. Even if I wanted to, I am so busy concentrating on the task in hand (that is, not being sick) that I find conversation impossible.

It's nearly five now and I don't think I can hold out much longer. Tiredness is steadily eating into my resolve and I've already started salivating like a rabid dog -- a sure sign of impending action, like warning smoke from the volcano afore she blows.

And then it happens.

I'll spare you the details -- not least because I don't want to re-live the moment again -- but needless to say my impression of a wounded sparrow was central to my actions.

The LSM, who shot out of bed when she heard the blood-curdling noises come from my direction, craned her head around the door again.

There was no whimsical comment this time, just a glass of water.

I'm back in bed now but sleep is a vain hope. The worst may be over but I'm not out of the woods yet.

It's 6.30am and I'm kneeling over the toilet bowl again . . .