I remember, when I was younger, about once a year, my grandmother used to force me to take a dose of the disgusting Castor Oil. It really was an abomination of nature if you asked me. It was supposed to be odourless and tasteless, but let me tell you - it was down right nauseating. If I even suspected that it was going to be a Castor Oil day, I'd be out of that house like a cat with a dog on its tail. Which is why, I suppose, they never told me - in fact, my grandmother had perfected the art of duping me so well, that I never even knew I was in any danger till the actual moment that I entered the kitchen and saw the sliced oranges on the kitchen counter, with my grandfather standing by to grab me should I make a dash for it (which was, every time). He would hold my hands to my side with one hand in a clinch, and use the other to restrain all of my struggling little person (I was quite an explosive kid), while my grandmother would hold the spoon outside of my tightly shut mouth ordering me to, "Open!" and of course, I would refuse. She would shove it at my lips and the slimy liquid would give me shivers and then I'd realise that having the abhorrent stench of it stuck there was much, much worse and my grandmother would shove the spoon in at the first opportunity she got when I tried to inhale fresh air. And then I'd try to spit it back out, and she'd, quick as a flash (I kid you not), shove a slice of fresh orange into my mouth and order me to clamp down on it. "Swallow! Swallow I say! Don't spit it back out! I'll whack you!" And she'd stand there, brandishing a wooden spoon at me to make sure I understood the dire threat I was under should I refuse; she never did use that wooden spoon though, and I soon learnt that it was worse having the disgusting thing in your mouth than it was to force it down your throat (which, probably in an act of self-preservation, decided to close down temporarily). It would take an entire orange to wash away the diabolical taste, and even afterwards, I'd double over, retching and trying to vomit over the sink - by this time though, it was long settled deep inside my little person, and all I could do was wait miserably for it to do its work.
It was an annual trauma - Castor Oil day. And the only flip side, was that my Grandmother, who already catered to my every whim and fancy, was extra attentive; even letting me hog the television set all day, and I was allowed to be as demanding as I pleased.
The thing is though, despite the fact that I hated it (loathed it), I was a healthy child - I never got sick. And I suspect, it may have had quite a bit to do with that detestable fluid. So I can tell you with absolute certainty, that my one-day-future-children will definitely have to endure an annual episode too.
