“Are you going away at Easter?” asked a fellow classics teacher.
But then I blurted, “I’ve never been before.”
He raised a restrained eyebrow: my statement was the equivalent of an English teacher admitting ignorance of Macbeth.
“It’s because I got a bit…superstitious…about Greece.”
The other eyebrow lifted.
“We went to Rhodes when Pascoe was a baby. He got gastroenteritis. We ended up in a Greek island hospital. Terrifying…..Fifteen years later, we were about to set off for Crete when Pascoe got a ruptured appendix, peritonitis, and nearly died. If we’d actually been on Crete, who knows if he’d have survived.”
My colleague had clearly changed his views by now,
“And you’re going again?!?”
Somehow therefore, it was no surprise when Pascoe, Carenza and myself were felled by a mystery, flu-like virus two days before departure. At least Perran was okay, until, that is,
“Perran, where’s your passport?”
Nigel took a five hour mercy dash down the M4.
Our time in Athens was great, but on our return, there had been a mix-up and our car was trapped deep within the ranks of cars in a storage pound, necessitating not only an extra member of staff but also an expert in logic to get it out, while we waited for hours in the unwelcoming foyer of Stansted.
Meanwhile, Pascoe has seized the chance of a couple of extra days in Athens and has stayed on alone.
I am trying not to fret.