The Volcano's Revenge

Of course, this was the week where lots of people I know had gone abroad. And now the relevant word seems to be not "visiting" but "emigrated".

Gareth's father Les is still in Romania, having gone there last week, supposedly for one day, to do some work. I expect by now he is putting "u" on the end of every word.

My friend Sonia is supposed to be rehearsing a play about Edith Piaf - - called, unsurprisingly, Piaf - but she went to Paris for a week to do her other job, which is as a European tour guide, and ended up stranded in Brussels.

My husband Stephen is still in Helsinki. He was booked on a flight for tomorrow, but it's been cancelled. He was supposed to come home last Thursday and is beginning to wonder about setting off overland on the back of a reindeer. He is denying all knowledge of the word "sauna" and insists that no nubile Finnish maidens have been beating him with birch twigs: or that, if they have, he hasn't enjoyed it.

Of course, of all those I know, my greatest pity is reserved for Julian. Having just completed a long theatre tour, he splashed out on a holiday to Jamaica, with his fiancee. And they are now stuck there, in a beach resort, and have been told that they can't get home until the end of the month.

"I'm bearing up bravely, Daphne," he said, in an email. "Might have to go for another dip in the sea."

Dunkirk Spirit, and all that. Ahhhh, it makes me proud to be British.