In the heady days post A-levels, it felt like a great idea to spend all my hard-earned Saturday job wages on a girls trip to Corfu. I felt sure that what lay ahead was the classic rite of passage holiday of sun, sea and Sex on the Beaches. What happened next may not sound so surprising this side of a global pandemic, but in 2009 it felt like something out of a sci-fi horror film.
I didn’t feel great on the drive to Bristol airport, but explained it away as motion sickness; I tried to sleep it off on the plane, ready to start the party when we landed. At Greek passport control, there were heat-sensitive cameras to check for anyone with a temperature, due to the growing swine flu pandemic. As my friends walked through, they appeared on the screen as shadowy grey figures. I showed up lurid green, indicating a high temperature. Immediately, it was panic stations. I was rapidly ushered into a side room alone, then rushed away in an ambulance. The party, it appeared, would not be starting.
