I'm having to give Thomsk a wide berth at the moment. My brother and his household have all been itching crazily since their return from Australia. The medicine men of west London told them they were probably just reacting to insect bites they'd picked up down under, despite the very nasty hives cropping up on Thomas's thighs a full four weeks after his return.

These I can vouch for, having seen them my own eyes. Jane and Thea, I'm not so clued up on, but have no reason to doubt they're any better than our kid. Anyway, whatever Thomsk had, you wouldn't want.

Turns out it's scabies.

Although I have no reason to think I'm infected, even the tiniest itch now sets me thinking. I've an iron stomach - years of eating slowly have meant other people have moved on to less savoury topics of conversation before I've finished, helping to inure me to the fact that food and bodily functions play equal parts in our life.

Squeamish I ain't.

But the thought of microsopic bugs crawling about under my skin? That's just a little more than I can handle.