Wash your hands or you'll puke

My mum is not well. She has bad Asthma and at this time of the year, predictably enough, she often needs to go to hospital because she has trouble breathing.

They hook her up to an oxygen supply and in a few days she's right as rain again.

She was over at our house last weekend and sounded terrible. When she spoke you couldn't understand a word she said. Kind of like a cross between Darth Vader, Stephen Hawking and that guy Ned from South Park.

My sister took her over to the hospital and after 5 hours of waiting on Tuesday she was admitted.

I went in there on Wednesday evening to see her and to bring her some stuff. She reckoned she'd be there until Friday so I picked up enough of what she wanted (fruit, chocolate etc.) to last until then. It's Friday today and she's going to be there until Sunday it now looks like.

We have this seasonal outbreak of what the folks in medical circles like to call the "winter vomiting bug" at this time of year. So the idea of visiting the hospital is not so enthralling. But you've got to go.

Upon arrival you are greeted by a whole wall full of warning notices saying don't come inside unless you absolutely have to. These signs are about as effective as your average speed limit sign in Ireland. There was people swanning in and out like there was no issue.

I had this bug last Christmas, courtesy of my sister. It was not pleasant. I won't get into what it does to you, except to say that you develop a much closer relationship with your toilet for the period (4 days or so) in which this bug is doing its best to make you evacuate any removable contents of your body.

Anyway, I met the mother and the brothers were in there too. We all stayed for a bit and I headed home around 8:30pm having arrived around 6:30pm.

On the way in I noticed a series of dispensers at points along the corridors, with that active sanitising gel stuff for disinfecting the hands.

I made a mental note on the way in to make sure to disinfect on the way out. Put it this way a 4 year old with a broken arm doesn't need any more challenges with Christmas just a few days away. That would not be much of a Christmas present from father to son.

As we exited the ward where my mum was staying, I noticed one of these dispensers on the right hand side, attached to the wall. I walked over and squirted a load onto my hands. My youngest brother watched me doing this. He then asked "What's that?" and I explained. I also added that he should do the same.

He gave me a look that said something like "get a grip, you spanner" or something equally dismissive. I explained again that this is how these things get passed around. He looked at me as if I was the biggest eejit that ever walked the face of the earth. I made a mental note not to shake hands with him at the exit.

Two days on, I am fine. I spoke to my mother on the phone today. She still sounds terrible. She told me in her best strained squawk that my youngest brother spent all day Thursday puking his guts up.

Schadenfreude is the expression that could come to mind. I am however taking the moral high ground here, safe in the knowledge that I told him what he needed to do. He chose unwisely.

It's hard for kid brothers sometimes to remember that maybe, just maybe the older brother knows what he is talking about.

Ah well. He'll remember it for next year.