Having returned home from our winter retreat in St Leonards the Sunday before last, and carried eight bags of Amelie's presents up from the car, I decided to spend the Bank Holiday Monday sorting out her toys. In addition to cramming her wardrobe so full of stuff that no one's ever going to find Narnia, my main masterstroke was to gather together all of the various cuddly toys that she likes to take to bed, and place them in a handy red basket by the window, so that instead of wasting five minutes every night running around the flat looking for the specific one she wants, she can simply choose one from the basket and hop into bed.

It was a plan with no drawbacks. At least I thought so, until this morning...


That was the scene which greeted me when I opened her bedroom door at 7:30am. It's like she's been looting at Toys R Us. On the bright side, however, she can no longer see her Peppa Pig duvet, which according to the Daily Telegraph is a good thing.

The only toy not visible in that picture is her cuddly Gruffalo, so here's another photo...

To be honest, it's not really visible in that one either. But she is holding it in her left hand.

I took Amelie out for a walk after work last night, and she insisted on taking the Gruffalo with us to protect her from flies, bees and giants. (No, me neither). I'd intended just to stroll down to the seafront and then head straight back, but unfortunately when we got there, she spotted a number of evening joggers, and before I knew it, she was sprinting towards the pier like Anthony Worrall Thompson through the checkouts at Tesco. By the time I caught up with her, we were close to both the Brighton Wheel and a heart attack.

But in addition to an extreme cardiovascular workout, Amelie also provided me with a smile. And made a total stranger laugh. She has a habit at the moment of coming out with creative new descriptions for everyday things. Only the other day, she told me over dinner that her fizzy pop was wonderbubble, and her runner beans vegelicious. Which is not only a new word, but a surprising sentiment for a three-year-old.

So last night we were walking down Eaton Place, past Patsy Palmer's house, when a man came out of a side street with a dog on a lead. There was no traffic, and the night was quiet, but as the man crossed the road in front of us, Amelie broke the silence by announcing with great gusto, and in a very loud voice, "That dog is hairy-fantastic!".

As shaggy dog stories go, it was a little on the short side, but the owner walked off in hysterics.