Popular bloggers with a wide and loyal readership will often find that on those rare occasions when they don't write anything for a few days, they're inundated with concerned messages of support from worried followers, enquiring about their well-being and current state of health.

Fortunately I don't have that problem. But after four days of writing nothing, I did get a one-line e-mail from my parents this morning, asking if I'm still alive. So it's nice to know that somebody loves me. Although they didn't specifically say so.

My reasons for not blogging are many and various, and let's face it, it takes a lot of time and effort to keep the kids this happy...


But in addition to spreading joy and happiness throughout my immediate family, I also experienced a sudden flare-up of my chronic prostatitis on Thursday and Friday, which is something I've had to live with for the past seven years. Much like Lisa. And whilst I was still able to go into work (unfortunately), it left me feeling like an applicant for Mars One. Not only did I feel like I was on another planet, but I'd taken total leave of my senses. I could barely string a coherent sentence together, never mind a witty one, and the total effect was mind-numbing.

Fortunately my power of speech returned yesterday, so having driven Amelie and Toby around Asda in a trolley at 8:30am, I decided to take full advantage of my newfound perkiness by doing a bit of writing. It just wasn't writing for this site. And by the time I'd published twelve hundred words elsewhere, I had no time to spout any further rubbish here.

But today's another day, and the good news is that Amelie's got her hands on some face paints and body stencils...


It's like living with Kimberley Vlaminck. She earned those paints thanks to a fundamentally flawed reward system we set up a few months ago, whereby she wins stars for doing basic tasks such as tidying up for thirty seconds and not hammering on our bedroom door in the middle of the night like a crazed axe murderer with a score to settle.

Unfortunately, as long as she completes her tasks, she receives her stars, no matter how despicably naughty she is the rest of the time. So despite pushing us to the limits of human patience and sanity all weekend, Amelie's been given a prize. Suffice it to say that much like corporation tax in the UK, it's a system which needs reform.

Luckily, the face paint comes off with a bit of elbow grease (although her elbows are covered in stencilling), so Amelie scrubbed up nicely for church this morning. Toby and I accompanied the girls for a change, as the daughter of a friend of ours was being baptised, and we wanted to check out the facilities before Toby gets dunked in a couple of months time.

Toby proved himself to be more vocal than the God-fearing girl at the font, who was a little angel all morning, and a credit to her holy mother and heavenly father. But the real miracle occurred later this afternoon. Having spent an hour in church, another at Lisa's Mum's, and then two more on a park bench, watching Amelie run riot in a playground, we brought Toby home, plonked him down on the floor, and then watched in amazement as he did this...


By this time tomorrow, he'll be covered in bruises. Not from falling over, but from Amelie hitting him for touching her dolls house.