When I was 12, I was jolted awake by a searing pain in my stomach. As the house was full with family and friends for the bank holiday weekend, I was sleeping in the little dressing room next to my parents’ room, so I soon woke my mother, Juliet, with my moans of pain. She came in and looked down almost crossly at me. ‘No wonder you’ve got a tummy ache,’ she told me. ‘You ate so many canapes last night before I stopped you, I’m not surprised. You must stop being so greedy, Susannah!’
This was a well-worn reproach and would not have passed into family legend had it not been for the fact that this was actually the moment my appendix had burst. Over the course of the weekend, it dawned on everyone that this was not indigestion, and I was rushed to Harrogate hospital in North
