Good morning, Internet. The sun is shining, the birds are screeching. It's a fine day for a vomit story!

So there we were. On the Great Ocean Road.


We had two fine meals and 230 km of beautiful photographic opportunities ahead of us. It was shaping up to be a good day.

We saw koalas sleeping in the trees and befriended some bright green birds.


The beautiful photographic opportunities were, indeed, beautiful.


We stopped at a pub and had heaping portions of pork roast (Gabby) and spaghetti (moi) for lunch.

Then someone got carsick. Twice. The second time in the van as we were pulling over to stop for dinner. He missed the bag and hit the seat and the floor, and we had to crawl over it to get out. Couldn't eat the dinner I'd already paid for, of course. Then, since there was no viable alternative - and believe me, I considered them all - we had to sit in the van with the guy for another three-hour drive home. I put my hood up and buried myself under my jacket, then played music and recited state capitals in my head to try to stop the panic shaking.

It was a highly traumatic ending to what would have been a fantastic day. I firmly believe that anyone over the age of ten should a) have the good sense to get out of a car before throwing up, and b) know they get carsick and not go around taking all-day bus tours in the first place. The contents of your stomach are not among the sights I am paying to see when I go travelling.

And that was our tour of the Great Ocean Road. Still traumatized, if you can't tell. And still bitter about my chicken schnitzel!