The trouble with the paparazzi is that they hound you...


... and hound you...


... and hound you...


... until you feel like you're being dogged wherever you go.

But still, it can't be easy living with a haemorrhoid like that...


... so at the end of the day, we've all got piles of our own problems.

Anyhoo, Steve Jobs might believe that an Apple a day keeps the doctor away, but in my experience, too much time on the iPad leads to obesity. So with that in mind, we dragged Amelie away from her apps yesterday afternoon, and took her down to Peter Pan's Playground on the seafront. We thought the exercise would do her good. Although obviously we drove there, because Daddy can't walk more than ten yards without crying. The sooner I'm heeled with a few steroids, the better.

Luckily, we timed our trip to perfection, and managed to get the entire playground to ourselves. Which is what happens when you arrive at 5:30pm on a cloudy day, just as it's about to rain, with an arctic blast blowing straight off the English Channel. I haven't been so cold since I walked down the cheese aisle at Asda in a t-shirt.

When I say we had the playground to ourselves, that's not strictly true. Naturally we had to throw a couple of sulky emo kids off the toddler slide, where they were contemplating suicide or sex or something, but they soon shuffled off in a kind of morose I-hate-the-world-but-I'll-probably-write-a-song-about-this-later type way. Especially when Amelie threatened to climb all over them.

So with the decks cleared, it simply remained for me to climb to the top of the big slide, turn on my camera, and wait for Lisa to stumble across the pressure pad which controls the hidden water spouts...


It gets 'em every time.