I'm currently looking after Amelie while Lisa's at church, praying for our souls. Obviously, under those circumstances, a lot of men would like to have a pretty girl running about the place in a fur coat and no knickers, but in my case it's a potty training two-year-old who won't put her underwear on and is insisting on wearing her coat. Possibly because I haven't turned the heating on.

I've just emptied her potty, which contained a small amount of wee-wee and a handful of Rice Krispies. I'm viewing that as a slight improvement. Usually she dips her toes in it and tries to give her dolphin a drink.

The inevitable crisis moment of the morning, however, came about half an hour ago. I was in the kitchen, making some hot sweet tea to calm my nerves, when I heard a blood-curdling cry of pain from the next room, where Amelie was searching down the side of her cot for a guitar, so that she could sing 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm'.

I rushed in there to find Amelie getting to her feet in tears, so I picked her up, gave her a hug, and said "Where did you hurt yourself?"

She sobbed on my shoulder for a few seconds, then lifted her head, and through the tears wailed: "IN... MY... BEDROOM!!!"

I wasn't quite sure how to kiss that better.