We contract food poisoning.

Food poisoning is, I can say with utter certainty, the worst thing that there can possibly be, ever.

First there are the doubts about the lingering taste of the meal, followed by an awful dawning of impending horror akin to being sat next to the one remaining vacant seat in Economy and glimpsing Jeremy Clarkson approach from Business Class, studying his ticket with a puzzled and annoyed air.

The LTLP succumbed first. I cared for her with aplomb. Then I absent-mindedly ate the rest of what she’d had for dinner. This was possibly a mistake.

Fortunately my sister, RonnieB, was down for a relaxing weekend with us, and thus was able to gain a crash-course in child care. “Hold this,” I ordered, before handing her a baby and retreating to bed for three days.

The LTLP said that the fact that we were unable to care for our baby demonstrated that we were truly and acutely ill. The fact that the LTLP had shat in the bed eighteen hours previously, and we hadn’t had the strength of will to change the sheets or duvet was more of a firm indicator to me. Either way it wasn’t a very nice weekend and I’m glad it’s gone away.

One might say that one wouldn’t wish food poisoning on one’s worst enemy. This seems a bit foolish to me, as if one is to have worst enemies then one may as well wish bad things on to them. May you eat a dodgy pasty, Osama. That will show you.