IT WAS ON THE TEACUP RIDE at the Dunstable Downs Kite Festival that I realised I had a problem. The colour drained from my face, a cold sweat developed and I gripped hold of the wheel tightly like I was on a boat in a rough sea.
My six-year-old daughter gave me a look that mingled concern with a little contempt. I grimly nodded and held on tighter. After what seemed an eternity, the ride finished and I staggered off and sat down in a heap on the ground as the nausea slowly began to subside. She asked me if I was ok. I manfully attempted to regain my composure, but it was no good. I was no longer the hero in her eyes. I couldn’t even manage the teacups. The teacups, for God’s sake! My mother handles the teacups with ease.
But even before the great teacup incident of 2017, I’d had an inkling that my stomach wasn’t
