Amelie told me this afternoon that she wants us to call her baby brother Boris. I thought for a moment she was coming out for the Tories at the London Mayoral elections, but as it transpired, she'd heard the name on an episode of 'Grandpa in My Pocket'. She was quite insistent though. In the end I told her I'd sleep on it, and see how I feel when I wake up. Which was an entirely wasted attempt at humour.

On the subject of sleep, there's been an ironic turnaround in the family health situation, which has resulted in Lisa spending the day in bed. Until ten minutes ago, when she got up and went out on the town. I don't know who she thinks she's fooling.

Personally I'm much the same as I was yesterday, but after a few spoonfuls of Calpol and a slightly disturbed night, Amelie's perked right up. Unlike Lisa, who seems to have been struck down by a bout of mid-pregnancy morning sickness. In the afternoon. She threw up a hot cross bun around lunchtime, and has been in bed ever since. But against medical advice (I work for the NHS), she's just dragged herself out of bed, and gone into town to help some people from AA avoid a breakdown.

As a result, Amelie and I have been fending for ourselves all day. We struggled our way around Asda this morning for the weekly shop, then came home and prepared a gourmet home-cooked lunch. I'm no stranger to advanced culinary adventures, so I made us beans on toast...


I cut the recipe out of The Week magazine. It was cheaper than spending forty quid on the book. The result was quite tasty, but took approximately two hundred times longer than opening a tin of Heinz, so I'm not sure I'll make it again.

Other than that, we've just been playing 'Home Sheep Home 2' on the iPad, watching The Flumps on DVD, and wrapping my niece's birthday presents in pink flocked paper. But now Lisa's off the premises, we can wrap up her chocolate gifts and paint a few eggs. Easter, here we come.