WE were a poorly family last week.

Emily got the lurgy first. She was sick four times -- count them -- four times on the Saturday night, each retch requiring a separate change of bedding and pyjamas.

The following day she was a little better by the evening, but brought back the lovely roast beef dinner I'd cooked. Poor lass. She was as white as a sheet, as my old dad used to say.

She was off school on the Monday, but had rallied enough to return on the Tuesday.

The trouble was that by that time both Louise and I had gone down with the bug.

Tuesday morning, feeling weak and limp from much vomiting, we divided the duties: I looked after Matthew while Louise took Emily into school, leaving it as late as possible so that she didn't come in contact with other parents and children for fear of spreading the bug.

Louise's mum did some supplies shopping for us, as we languished in our sick beds. Poor Matthew must have been bored silly, but we had so little energy we could hardly shake a rattle at him.

Wednesday we were a bit better, but I stayed off work a second day. I felt guilty about leaving my fellow journalists to get the week's Guardian out, but I don't think they would have appreciated me tainting the newsroom with the virus.

Thursday, and all was bright and well with the world. Except Louise's mum had gone down with it.

Strangely, Matthew has escaped completely. Probably as well, as a poorly baby would have been very unpleasant on top of what we'd been through.

We found out afterwards that several of Emily's classmates had been struck down with the bug, as had their families.

We've got at least another 12 years of this!