Packing the last of the kitchen essentials into a cardboard box, it was yet another busy Friday night preparing for the move. ‘Shall we just get a curry?’ my hubby David, then 37, asked in October 2016.
Ordering from our favourite Indian, we knew exactly what we were having.
And planning to move house in November with our daughter Elise, then one, it was certainly all things go – working, packing, rushing around and repeat.
So eating our way through a range of curries, with David ordering a chicken bhuna, we devoured our feast as usual before cracking on.
Only, the very next day, it seemed the takeout wasn’t as delicious as we thought it was.
‘It must have been the curry,’ David admitted, after vomiting for what seemed like the fifth time that morning.
‘That’s strange, I had it, but I feel fine,’ I insisted.
Fit and active, taking his exercise very seriously, it was unusual for
