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The Dreaded Lurgy
Apr 17, 2009
“In France they ‘ave given your situation a name. The law de Murphy,” drawled the Huguenaught, my fearless French friend.
“As in Murphy’s Law?” I ask.
I’m less than thrilled. In fact, I’m worshipping the porcelain god morning, noon and night. I was supposed to be snowboarding in the mountains two weeks ago but a car accident scuppered those plans. Roll on another week and now I have “le gastro.” Sure, a French accent makes it sound romantic – tasty even – but it still boils down to my holiday time disappearing due to diarrhoea and vomiting. The British phrase is rather less poetic: sod’s law.
Luckily, Andorra offers up a number of diversions for the diseased. Soft, silent-snow landscapes (seen through the window) and beguiling indoor fires. By the weekend I’m brave enough to venture to the sulphur-water Caldea spa.
Life isn’t so bad after all. And so, I raise a glass of rehydration salts to the almost-definitely-not-French, monsieur le Murphy. And plan my next holiday.
I imagine I’ll be riding something like this:
