Evil

Evil is very ill. She is doing lots and lots of coughing and every time she coughs, she poohs. She poohs out bloody liquid. I feel sick. Evil will have to sleep in the kitchen, she cannot sit in the sitting room with us as she poohed on the sofa. I love Evil, she is  a dear, big hearted, loving little beast but I feel quite cross with her. I mop pooh off the sofa. I obsessively wash my hands and I shut Evil in the laundry room. Evil doesn't want to be in the laundry room, she bangs the door open and just as I am  putting a nice kedgeree together in the kitchen a revoltingly sweet waft of pooh smell washes over me. I look down, Evil is at my feet sitting in a pool of brown liquid, gazing up at me longingly with bulbous brown eyes. I really hate her.