"Mmm. This is a bit garlicky," I said as I tucked in.
"It is a bit, isn't it? I only used two raw cloves, though."
As I retired for my ballistic reverie last night, I was still feeling the effects. "Sweet baby Jesus and the saints, Katie, my breath could strip plate steel," I commented, "and I have to say, light of my life, you're not exactly fragrant yourself." It's this sort of honesty that is the foundation of every strong marriage, I believe. Although I did get a kick in the shins for my pains.
Listerine was employed to the fullest extent possible. It barely dulled the onslaught.
Six hours of sleep later and I was now expelling garlic through every pore. Showering set it back a little bit, but it was still there.
"Stop complaining," said Katie, "I've got it too. And in any case, it's meant to be a great cure for the common cold."
"Yes, because no bugger's going to get close enough to pass one on to me. Have they started crossing garlic with uranium, or something? This has a bloody half-life."
I drove 25 vampire-free miles to work, doing that 'bent-hand-in-front-of-the-mouth' thing all the way down the M6. It's a look.
This afternoon I got a text from Katie:
Still suffering here. Are you still garlicky as well?
it said. I replied:
My mouth feels like there's a Frenchman living in it.
We're just living the dream, folks.