I had one of those days yesterday. You know, one of those mildly irritating days where you drive 21 miles across Sussex to do a clinic in a new location, find that your laptop doesn't work, spend half an hour on the phone to IT, ten minutes apologising to patients, and another half hour with IT, before telling the patients to go home whilst trying to avoid getting punched, and drive the 21 miles back to Brighton, where you wait half an hour for IT to fix your laptop, pop into the hospital to pick up a CD-ROM, check that the office have managed to rebook your patients, and drive the 21 miles back across Sussex in time to do the clinic in the afternoon. We've all been there.

But still, after 84 miles of stress, there's nothing I like better than coming home for a relaxing bedtime story with my three-year-old daughter. She was recounting it to me, obviously. So sit back, put your feet up, and enjoy Amelie's retelling of The Three Billy Goats Gruff...

(I've had to edit it substantially. Amelie telling a story is a lot like Ronnie Corbett telling a joke. They're the same height too. She carried on for about fifteen minutes, went off at numerous tangents, and at one point had about five goats in the story. But that aside, it's a cracking tale. Oh, and the union flag on her cheek may look like some kind of neo-nazi statement, but is actually just her nursery's way of extending the jubilee into a fifth day. Right, on with the story...)


You've got to hand it to her - there aren't many storytellers who can spontaneously fall over just as they say the word 'trip'.