BUG ALERT (not the creepy crawly kind this time)

Read no further if you are a bit squeamish, easily nauseated or catastrophically vomit-phobic - this has been the week when the dreaded sick bug landed at our school. We had heard tell of epidemics crossing the country, causing havoc and closing hospitals and shook our heads in sympathy; little did we know that it was about to smite us too.

I first got wind of it from Sheena, one of the dinner ladies - always a healthy source of local information. Next we heard a whisper of a bug that was doing the rounds; but by the end of the week no one could talk about anything else. I, not wanting to be over dramatic but feeling like I had to take some kind of evasive tactic, had begun to discuss the pros and cons of surgical facemasks with anyone who would indulge me. Frankly, I was beginning to have an insight as to what it had been like to be alive during the Black Death. With three children at the school, by the very law of averages I knew that our turn would come soon.

Time to quiz the kids. Flo gave me a run down of who in her class had been sick, table-by-table; she seemed to know where, how often, and believe me, it was a grim report.

‘So who’s been sick on your table?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.

‘Everyone… except me.’ She replied proudly.

There it was, the bald reality of the situation: she had to be next. I was right. Poor love, she was very pale, and obviously suffering, but was only sick the once, and by the next day was completely recovered. Ho, ho, I thought, what’s all the fuss about, this isn’t so bad. On picking up the others from school, I was cool, calm and collected when a mother fell upon me almost begging for details of the cruel bug’s latest victim.

‘Oh, no, no.’ I replied. ‘It’s really not at all bad, Flo’s fine.’

It was Max’s turn next. He, like the advert on TV for the cold remedy, needs a whole monastery of hooded monks to tend to his every need when he’s ill.

‘Aw Mum, you won’t believe how bad I feel.’ He moaned at any opportunity. No sickness, however, just sore of stomach and an aching head, in need of extra TLC.

By this time I was feeling positively buoyant. Our family, unlike the groaning wretches at school, had grabbed this bug by its throat, we had ridden it and subdued it, and we were the victors. Hurrah!

Alas, nothing had prepared me for the onset of Bobby’s illness, nor indeed my own.

The night Bobby’s began I read him his story, kissed him goodnight, kissed teddy goodnight, kissed blanky goodnight, turned the light off, turned it on again, told him if he came down once more he wasn’t going swimming at the weekend – the usual stuff. Never once during all that rigmarole did he mention that anything was amiss.

At midnight, I was woken by the Father-of-the-children.

‘Bobby’s been sick,’ he said. This, it turned out, was an outrageous understatement.

I stumbled into the bathroom, bleary eyed after a mean hour and a half of sleep. Here I was greeted by a scene not normally witnessed anywhere except the toilets on a cross channel ferry in a force 10 gale. How was it possible that such a small person, and a small person who never really eats that much, could produce such a staggering amount of vomit? It was quite difficult to know where to begin, whether to clean up Bobby, clean the floor and walls, or shout at the Father-of-the-children for:

• not waking me sooner  
• not ensuring that Bobby hadn’t missed the loo on each occasion  
• anything else that came to mind

Poor Bobby was in a mess. He was sad and frightened and totally exhausted by the sickness, the constant pyjama changes, sheet changes and his demented mother asking him every two minutes if he was ‘all right’, when he quite obviously wasn’t. It was an appalling night for everyone, except the Father-of-the-children who, and you have to admire this, having handed over the baton managed to sleep throughout.

Bobby is quite all right now and back to school tomorrow, but beware! This bug has ugly, warty horns and an evil, snarling mouth, and who knows where it will go next? I recommend a large pile of towels readily to hand at all times and, you know, surgical masks may not be such a crazy idea after all.

‘Life in the Slow Lane’ is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is nearly eleven, Flo is nearly eight and Bobby is six and a half - and lives in Wiltshire.

Read Claire's next diary.