Laughter really is the best medicine. Isn't it?

There is little, in my opinion, better for the mind and soul than a good, old fashioned laugh.

One that comes from the belly, causes all your bits to wobble and people nearby to be interrupted by your cackle – and smile, rather than be pissed off at you, because suddenly you are infectious.

For me, the best outcome is when you are least expecting it. Or when you’re really not in the mood, for example, for going out or even smiling, and something happens that gives you the biggest and best laugh you’ve had in ages.

I realised this last week, when I was advised I’d won tickets to a comedy gig – featuring a few comics I really, really wanted to see and had been on my hit list for a while. Fiona O’Loughlin and Dave Matthews were amongst them … the planets aligned and I was able to get the evening out.

Sure, it was a great laugh – a really great one, actually.

It wasn’t the biggest belly laugh I got that night, however. Which is saying something, because during that particular Knock Knock Comedy gig, I think I may have stopped breathing. That’s because I am one of those people who not only has a terrible, terrible, loud and horrifying laugh, but I also snort when I laugh. Loudly.

Then I laugh more, which causes me to snort more and it just gets worse.

Worse still, I don’t actually care that I snort-laugh, so don’t even attempt to hold back. In most cases. At the gig I held back, cos the comedians were really funny and I wanted to hear what they had to say.

No, the big belly laugh happened earlier on.

We were seated for dinner, Chippie eating at the coffee table … sort of. He spent a fair amount of time wandering, followed up by pretending to stab me with his fork and eat my brains and finally settling down after I told him to leave my brains and eat dinner.

He ‘settled’ by kneeling on the coffee table and doing a bit of a bum wriggle. Inevitably, his knees slipped off the edge and he smacked his face … on something. I’m not sure what, I didn’t quite see.

The scream that followed was shattering. Mostly, it was my heart that shattered; he’d hurt himself, clearly.

He clutched at his mouth as I leapt up, cuddled him to my body and raced him into the kitchen trying to work out if there was blood and/or where he was actually hurt.

Removing his face from my the comfort of my shoulder so I could assess the damage (and determine whether he’d just fucked up my plans for the evening), I couldn’t help but notice that half his face was coated with the

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