Hiccups

You wouldn’t expect to see a village next to London’s Heathrow Airport, much less a perfect 500-year-old pub.

Last month my husband Ron and I flew in from Seattle and were due on an early flight to Athens the next day. I didn’t feel well and crashed at the Thistle Hotel, but Ron trotted off to Langford and found the White Horse Tavern. He soon made the acquaintance of three middle-aged locals, civil engineers working on the construction of LHR’s Terminal 5.

So Ron’s new mates buy him pint after pint of Scrumpy Jack’s hard cider, which, it turns out, often produces hiccups. Ron once hiccupped non-stop for seven days and nights, so when they hit him this time he fears the worst.

“Vinegar!” cry his friends, and a waitress hurries over with the cure. Ron’s hiccups take a break, and those assembled lean in and hold their breath. But a few seconds later they return with enthusiasm.

The hiccups continued as he made his goodbyes, staggered back to the hotel and broke the news to me. I sighed, put in my ear plugs and went back to sleep. The hiccups were gone the next morning, but for all his pubmates know, he’s still hiccupping today.