I'm still feeling a bit off-colour...

Especially since Amelie got out the face paints. To be honest though, I was already a bit blue before she started.

Yesterday was the 66th birthday of the NHS, and according to the Labour spin doctors (and nurses who deal with labour), I was the 17,781,330th baby born into that world of free healthcare. And I've been getting my money's worth ever since.

I realise that I've sent at least two people into a state of extreme panic mild curiosity by not writing anything for the past week, but those individuals will be relieved (or possibly disappointed) to know that I'm actually still alive. And I haven't taken a turn for the worse. I've just been frustrated by the slowness of my recovery, and too fed up about it to blog.

As this website completely fails to prove, I've been booked to entertain a hall full of people for an evening at the end of October, so rather than waste this week by lying in a darkened room and examining my face in the mirror (which is difficult in a darkened room), I decided I should make good use of it by working on my presentation. I'm following a biochemist, a diabetologist and a GP on the monthly list of speakers, so the bar's been set pretty high. Although I'm rubbish at limbo dancing, so that's probably just as well.

Unfortunately, my recovery has been so painfully slow (emphasis on the painfully) that my progress has gone down the same route. The deadline I'm up against isn't a problem, but the viral symptoms are. By the middle of the week, both my presentation and my recovery were only about 50% complete, and although each day showed some improvement, it was never as much as I wanted.

On Thursday I told my boss that I was expecting to be back at work on Monday, and that although I was due to see my doctor the next morning, I didn't expect her to sign me off for any longer. Sadly, I was wrong. I returned to the surgery on Friday morning, and having undergone another examination, my GP said that she didn't think I should be going back on Monday. In fact, she suggested that if I did, it would probably set me back, and I'd be off for even longer.

I eventually agreed to let her sign me off for another three days. She also wrote on the form that I'd benefit from a phased return to work - she even said part-time for a fortnight - but I plan to ignore that advice. Let's face it, when Jeremy Hunt, the Health Secretary, visited our hospital on Thursday, he appeared to sleep through the whole thing, so if need be, I can do the same.

Aside from all that, I've attempted to aid my recovery by listening to the audiobook of Ready Player One, which is to 40-year-old geeks what spinach is to Popeye. I also had a house call from a health visitor on Tuesday, when Big Sis dropped by to see how I was...

To be honest, she was more interested in our loom bands, but it was very nice to see her. That was also the day when Serena Williams mysteriously caught all of my symptoms, including my ability to serve four double faults in a row, so there's clearly a lot of it about.

And that was proven on Friday night, when Toby suddenly threw up in his cot without warning. At the time we thought it was something he ate, but when he got up on Saturday morning he started staggering around like Serena on a tennis court, and bumping into the furniture. I thought he'd been at the bottle of wine we'd bought for Amelie's teacher. His symptoms only lasted for a couple of hours, but it was all a bit worrying for a short while, especially after what's happened to me.

On the bright side, Amelie has started leaving me notes asking where her toothbrush is...

And Toby has attempted to answer that question by cleaning his teeth with the art supplies...

So it's not surprising he was sick. Especially with the leaded paint we use.

The week culminated yesterday at The Barn Theatre in Southwick, which in addition to being the home of the Pauline Quirke Academy, where birds of a feather flock together to act up a few dramas, was also the stage for Amelie's end of year dance show. She's been spending half an hour a week at the Open Space Dance School since January, so it was about time we found out where our money's been going.

And I have to say, it was very good. Amelie's performance took up less than five minutes of a two-hour show, and she was slightly overshadowed by some people in bear suits, but if nothing else, it proved that the illegal growth hormone I used to slip into her baby rice has had the desired effect...

She's the same age as the girl on the right. The girl on the left is eight. If we can just work out how to tie her sarong so that it looks less like an elephant, we can send her straight off to the Bolshoi.