As far as I am concerned mankind’s greatest technological achievement is not the internal combustion engine, satellite communications or the computer chip. Without a doubt it is the Channel Tunnel. Now, not only do you no longer have to risk the open waters, you don’t even have to look at them. An outstanding contribution to civilisation in my book. All those whom contributed to its construction should be awarded knighthoods and offered early retirement. Back on the hovercraft, I was about to have my first experience of that ghastly sensation known to fellow sufferers as “just kill me now please and end this misery” that is severe seasickness.

I was no longer in competition with my siblings to see how long I could stay on my feet. Rather I was sat on the edge of my seat, stomach clutched tightly and head between my knees. It wasn’t going to help. Having never been seasick before, I had no idea why I was feeling so bad, what to do about it or what might happen next. Like children usually do, I decided to consult with the fountain of all knowledge. Dad.

I turned to the side, “Dad?”

“Just a minute son, I’m talking”. He wasn’t actually. He was being talked at.

“Dad I feel really ill. Dad, honestly, I think I might be …Dad?

“In a minute, son”, he totally missed the tone of growing desperation in my voice.

“Please Dad, I’m definitely going to be…Dad .Daaad…Urrgh…Raalfffff.”

Conversation across the aisle ceased in mid sentence. Dad stared dumbly at the equally speechless Mr. Volvo Driver.

Mr. Volvo Driver was staring in disbelief at his legs. From the knees down they were coated in a body temperature cocktail of chocolate and coke. The event had been so sudden and volcanic that I half expected to recognise some of my internal organs flopping around on the deck. It was not a pretty sight.

I just about had time to mumble “Uh, sorry”, before Mother grabbed me by the arm and half dragged me outside onto a narrow promenade deck for some fresh air.

A kindly stewardess, carrying a box of tissues to help clean me up accompanied us. Her assistance would have been a lot more appreciated by Mr. Volvo Driver, for sure. I had escaped relatively unharmed. After all I had done my best to get the goo as far away from me as possible. The stewardess agreed.

“That was amazing,”she confided to my mother. “I never would have believed someone so small could throw something so far without using their hands. I`ve been doing this crossing three times a day for the last five years and that is the most awesome example of projectile vomiting I have ever witnessed.”

I can’t say I felt particularly proud.

Dad joined us on the promenade deck. I was holding on to the handrail like a drowning man gripping a rescue rope. Mum went off to check on the others.

“How are you feeling, son?”

“Absolutely crap,” I answered convinced I could not get myself into any more trouble. I waited for the clout on the back of the head, the obligatory reward for an outburst of uncouth language. It didn’t come.

I turned to look up at my father. His face was split by a huge grin and he was struggling not to laugh out loud. He slipped some silver coins into my pocket.

“Here take this, but don’t tell the others, or they will all want to throw up over annoying assholes.” He winked at me, conspiratorially.

“Just one thing, don’t spend it on coke or chocolate on the way back. You’re too bloody dangerous on that stuff.”

No problem, I thought. If it means another trip on this bouncing torture chamber, I’m not bloody coming back. Dad distracted me.