Amelie returned home yesterday, so our flat is no longer the peaceful oasis of calm it has been for the past couple of days. My Mum delivered her last night, and we've been asking God to do the same for us ever since. But before shoving her through the front door and running off screaming into the night, my Mum informed me that whilst at my parents' house, Amelie had found an old photo of me on a shelf. Apparently she studied it for a few moments, then said "It's Daddy!", before asking "What's that on Daddy's head?"
The answer was hair. I've been tearing it out for the past two-and-a-half years.
But the good thing about having two days to ourselves is that we've finally filled in our census form. We didn't fill it in early because Lisa thought she might walk out before Sunday, and I wasn't sure I'd live that long. But as it transpired, we were both still present on the 27th. Lisa ticked all the right boxes, but personally I struggled with the question "How is your health in general?".
Inexplicably, there wasn't a box on the form for 'Knackered', and I'm in the medically curious position of having taken only four sick days in the past three years, whilst suffering from enough conditions to fill a double-page spread in The Lancet. According to the BBC, the average NHS employee would have taken thirty-three sick days in that time, making me officially eight times healthier than my peers. I just don't feel it.
Under the circumstances, I wasn't sure whether to tick 'Shot to Hell' or 'Outstanding'. I wanted to attach an extra sheet listing all my complaints, but Lisa wouldn't let me. So in the end I chose 'Fair' and drew a smiley face. Us Jedis need to stay positive.