The Curse of the Druids

Home again. I won’t dwell on the good times because the bad are far more interesting, and hey, I’m a writer. The highlight was definitely the noro virus that cunningly swept through our ranks ensuring there was never a moment when all six of us were well at the same time. On one occasion, after having staggered around Stonehenge, we returned to the hire car to discover it wouldn’t start. It turned out that Mick, weak from vomiting all night, had filled the diesel engine with unleaded fuel.

The tow truck took hours to arrive. My daughter and I lay in the middle of a sheep field, longing for an easeful death. Fortunately the baby – that vector of disease who had given us the bug in the first place – was feeling much better now. He played happily next to our prone bodies and munched on dried sheep poo.

The moral of the story? A curse on he who does not give Stonehenge the attention and veneration it demands. Not long after that we were struck down by the flu…