Puke monster
I grew up in a simple, poor family in the east-end of London. We didn't have much and when holiday time came around, it meant heading off with the tent to find some wet corner of the uk to stay in for a couple of weeks.
Being a few years younger than my brothers, my family had a short time of bliss before I joined them on the annual adventure. When I did, it became clear that holiday time could become a thing to fear (and I mean apart from being trapped in the car with my parents and Johnny Cash for a four-eight hour stretch.
Anyway, from the moment of birth (until the age of about 20) I would be violently sick on almost any car journey. Even the simplest of car rides would set me off. Once, they were only backing the car out (so hadn't technically started travelling yet) and I barfed all over my mum.
To me it became a normal part of the routine. Getting in the car? Take a few plastic bags (and remember to check them for holes). It used to be so bad that even the smell of a car would make me want to vomit. I still have to fight the complusion to this day.
So our holidays would usually involve dad trying to drive us somewhere and having to stop every ten minutes so I could either get rid of a bag of puke, puke on the side of the road or (if it was really bad) lie down until the feeling went.
The saddest thing is that when we finally reached the campsite, we would then spend the next two weeks driving round countrylanes in the rain, whilst I puked away in the back.

Anyway, I probably sound like a right girlie twat. What I didn't know back then is that I have something odd about my brain (apart from being bonkers).
I can't really be arsed to explain but it's something to do with serotonin levels and funny eye & ear things. Whats nice about it is that I can sometimes get travel sick by walking.
Lovely.

*barf*
(EvilMeister, Mon 6 Aug 2007, 0:48, Reply)