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Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Somebody's pleased with the 36 cars he got for his birthday...


Obviously he didn't just get 36 cars. He got 39 cars and 2 trains. There's an entire transport infrastructure on our living room floor as we speak.

That's the problem with getting cards like this on my birthday...


I see the heartwarming sentiments and impressive handwriting, and it makes me want to go out and spend money on my children.

But as luck would have it, I didn't have to. Today might be Toby's second birthday, but thanks to the generosity of my parents and siblings, Lisa and I have barely had to give him a thing. And he's only two, so he won't remember. The cars above came from his Grandma and Grandad, who also bought him this train set...


... and these slippers to protect his feet from the live rail...


Lisa and I agreed to buy him some skittles, but while she expected me to head to the nearest sweet shop, I misunderstood her instructions and spent £7.99 on a ten-pin bowling set. He hasn't opened that yet, mainly because he's too busy dancing to the musical car which came courtesy of my brother and his family...


It plays 'Funkytown' by Lipps Inc. Things have clearly moved on since Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

It's always good to play hide & seek on your birthday...


By the time they opened their eyes, I'd hidden that cake in my stomach. And I've no idea who that boy is, but he gate-crashed Amelie's birthday too.

Anyhoo, it was 41 years ago today that I first graced this planet with my presence, and by lunchtime today, I'd already celebrated with a doctor, a cake and a party. Which is pretty much how I did it in 1973.

I'd begun the warm-up to this event by eating ice cream on St Leonards beach yesterday afternoon with my two little rays of sunshine...


... but it was soon time to wave goodbye to the sea, and attempt to sprint up the steps from the beach before the kids caught up with me...


That's Amelie risking a groyne injury by running around barefoot. Unfortunately, it didn't slow her down, and she managed to get back to the car before I could leave without her.

We arrived back in Brighton last night in time to receive our delivery of cakes from Asda, and Amelie has now gone camping with a friend. Which is the birthday gift I was dreaming of. In addition to that, I've received an hour long massage from Lisa, which came in the form of a voucher for a local health salon, and a t-shirt from my brother, featuring a dartboard and the words "You can't beat a bit of bully". It just screams pound shop.

As for the doctor, she gave me the very special gift of a 'fit note' which allows me to work half days from Thursday until I see Occupational Health on August 15th. It stipulates that my work should be "non-patient-facing", so I'm allowed to do clinics as long as I keep my back to the camera.

Lisa, Toby and I are now off down to Brighton Marina to celebrate my birthday by purchasing a cheap watch to replace the one that Amelie 'borrowed' from me last week, and then returned with a smashed-up face. I was tempted to return the compliment in a more literal sense, but instead I'm simply putting it down to experience, and buying myself a new one. And withholding her pocket money until she's fifteen. Let's face it, I'm already deeply in debt...


Those two ice creams cost me five quid.

Monday, July 28, 2014

I'm not entirely sure whether I'm currently on sick leave or annual leave. I had the first half of this week booked as holiday, but my doctor didn't want me working before Wednesday anyway, so I think I'm on some kind of fusion of the two. I'm calling it annual sick. I'm allowed to enjoy myself, but only if I look a bit peaky.

Fortunately I'm spending it with my children, so neither of those are a problem...


They make me feel ill, and then provide me with laughter, the best medicine.

We're heading home from St Leonards today so that I can celebrate my birthday with the GPs at the local surgery tomorrow. I've ordered my own cake from Asda, and it's being delivered with the shopping tonight. I'll be 41, so it's about time I had a mid-life crisis and splashed out on something I can't afford, but on this occasion I've spent £1.50...

It looks nice on the website, but in reality that picture's probably actual size, and the cake's less than two inches across.

Fortunately, I won't need to share it with anyone. Back in 2009, I missed Amelie's first birthday due to having something better to do, and five years later, she's finally getting her own back. Somebody with more courage than sense has offered to take her camping for a couple of days, and they leave tomorrow morning. Possibly whilst I'm at the doctor's.

When the invitation was made a few weeks ago, Amelie had never been camping. And neither had her homebody father. But over the weekend, that's all changed...


Yes, I'm no longer the only stick in the mud around here. We've also got half a dozen tent pegs.

For a while on Saturday morning, it appeared that this week's camping trip might be cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances. I would expect anyone spending two nights in a tent with Amelie to suffer some kind of breakdown, but as it transpired, it was the car they were due to travel in which gave up the will to live. Amelie had been anticipating this trip with all the rapturous excitement of a different sort of Camping, so when it looked like suffering the same disappointing fate, I decided to pre-empt the apocalypse and soften the blow by spending twenty quid on a four-man tent.

Needless to say, the four men in question must be anorexic dwarves, as you wouldn't get a family in there without half a pound of butter and a shoe horn. But fortunately there was no way Lisa was taking her chances with the foxes, and no way I was taking my chances with Toby, so that just left Amelie and me to spend a night out under the stars.

So on Saturday evening, we pitched the tent in my parents' garden, armed ourselves with torches to fight off the badgers, and packed a few emergency loom bands, before bedding down for the night in full daylight. And I think the adventure went well. Admittedly, if I'd known that Amelie talks nonsense in her sleep (she does the same when she's awake), I might have taken a gag with me, and in an ideal world I'd prefer not to be woken up at 5:30am and asked to tell ghost stories. But on the plus side, my Dad's wi-fi extends to the garden, so I was able to browse the cake aisle on Asda.com while my daughter slept next to me.

In the end, I only really slept when the seagulls did, which was a narrow window of silence lasting for about two hours, but Amelie had a whale of a time. In fact she told me it was the best day ever, which almost made my sleep deprivation worthwhile. I might have felt like death warmed up for most of Sunday, but the look of excitement and pleasure that greeted me from the hole in that sleeping bag when I opened my eyes in the morning, made it twenty quid very well spent. She was definitely a happy camper.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

I always knew Amelie was a rising star, but this is getting ridiculous...


She's in danger of impaling her filthy socks on the spike of BHS. Personally I think she's a bit of a loon. And I've got the background sign to prove it...


Anyhoo, misguided and ignorant individuals who think that Hastings town centre is nothing more than a collection of boarded up store fronts and run down charity shops populated by asylum-seeking benefit scroungers and people with no teeth, will be relieved to hear that it's going up in the world. Largely due to a system of trampolines and electrical pulleys. For just £4 they agreed to launch my daughter skyward, while Lisa and I crossed our fingers that she might defy Newton's third law by not coming down again.

It worked wonders for her hair...


... although the passers-by all seemed to want to turn their backs on the situation, and pay no attention whatsoever. I expect they've seen it all before in Hastings. It's a lot like a lynching.

Anyhoo, in addition to Amelie's ups and downs, Lisa and I took a trip down memory lane to a bygone age, firstly by watching her ride an old merry-go-round, which was lovingly positioned outside the public toilets...


It's an original 1957 Coulson's toy set, which is probably what Lisa played with as a child. We then continued our historical study of 1066 country by visiting Jempson's café, which wasn't so much retro as dated, and felt a bit like going back to my childhood. But in quite an enjoyable way.

We rounded off the afternoon by agreeing to buy Amelie a cheap hen-night outfit from a card shop, which meant we had to walk back to the car park with a five-year-old in a sparkly hat and pink tutu. Personally I quite enjoyed it. I've been feeling a bit self-conscious about my face for the past week, so it was reassuring to know that on this occasion, no one was staring at me.

Anyhoo, for the sake of completeness, and the benefit of anyone with too much time on their hands who fancies the idea of seeing a grown man trying to dislocate my daughter's limbs and snap her spine with a somersault, here's a video of Amelie bouncing...


I should get sponsorship from BHS. That amounts to a five-minute advert.

Friday, July 25, 2014

The good thing about having a responsible, Gold-Award-winning daughter who's wearing 'age 9-10' clothes before she's 6, is that when she asks if she can put her nappy-clad brother on a wobbly swing, and promises she won't let go of him for a single second, you can trust her not to give him a big shove and walk away...


That's Toby staring down the barrel of a near death experience and seeing his life flash before his eyes. He's going so fast, the g-force is pulling his skin back across his ribs. The expression on his face is that unique blend of determination, stress, fear and resignation that I imagine was on the faces of the 9/11 hijackers as they approached the twin towers.

Anyhoo, before you ask, yes, he did fall off. But despite the lack of protective clothing, he managed to avoid serious injury. Unlike Amelie, who trod on a holly leaf and cut her toe.

That aside, it's been another joyous week sampling the delights of the National Health Service. When I saw the doctor last Friday, she asked me to go back on Tuesday of this week to see how I was. The answer to that question was no different physically, but a lot worse mentally. When all of this first happened a month ago, I was put on steroids and my face gradually improved. So to find myself back where I started, but with no available treatment this time, is slightly soul-destroying. Much as I hated the steroids, at least I felt I was doing something.

Both my own doctor and the doctor I saw last Friday were on holiday this week, so I saw a third GP. While the last one had told me to rest as much as possible, this one told me to get out as often as I can, although she agreed that I shouldn't be working. She told me that exercise is a good thing, and instructed me to "get out and enjoy the sunshine", as improving my mood would improve my face. Possibly because smiling stops my mouth looking droopy.

Her main piece of advice was to get an appointment with Occupational Health to discuss what I can and can't do, and then to go back and see my own doctor on Tuesday. Which means I have the pleasure of spending my birthday at the surgery. So I went home and phoned Occupational Health. They told me that I couldn't have an appointment without a referral from my manager (who outranks my GP for medical advice), so I contacted work, a referral was made, and yesterday afternoon I was given their earliest available appointment.

It's on August 15th. So that's marvellous. They're quite happy to discuss my immediate return to work, but I have to wait three weeks for the conversation. I expect they're all off sick.

Anyhoo, with my frustration levels rising, I decided to take both doctors' advice by getting out in the sunshine and heading to my parents' house for a rest. Unfortunately the kids came with me. But that's where we currently are - me sitting in the shade of the garden with a laptop, while Amelie kills her brother on a swing. I'm not sure where Lisa is, but she's well out of it.

With live-in babysitters, it meant that my wife and I had the opportunity to go out last night for a medicinally relaxing evening at The Black Pearl, a pirate-themed restaurant in the Hastings old town. The meal was paid for by my parents as an early birthday present, and was just what the doctor ordered. While everyone else crowded into the bar area downstairs, Lisa and I had the entire upstairs restaurant to ourselves for the duration of the evening, and it was very, very nice.

Here's Lisa enjoying a latte with Coke chaser...


And this is me proving that when I smile, my mouth doesn't look wonky...


Although it does make my cheek ache.

Interestingly, we'd wanted to go to the Coast Restaurant at the local college, where you're served by students learning how to do silver service, and you get five star food at two star prices on the understanding that it might end up in your lap. But they're currently closed for the summer break. Ironically, however, it didn't matter, as we were able to have a similar experience last night, when the waitress at the Black Pearl informed us that it was her very first day on the job. Which explained why she didn't know what the pâté of the day was, almost dropped our main courses, and then presented our desserts with the words "This is the banoffee pie... and I've no idea what this one is, but it must be for you".

It was actually my peanut butter parfait. And if there's a better dessert in Hastings, I want to try it. Alternatively I'll just go back there every night. It might even be worth the trip from Brighton. Although I might have to walk it to avoid putting on weight.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

From her first day in Reception Class, to her last...


I knew those shoes wouldn't last her the year.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Mmm... muffins...


There might only be six muffins in that picture, but there are three muffin-tops behind the kitchen work surface.

Anyhoo, the exciting news from around here is that I was told by a doctor on Friday that I need to avoid concentrating on computer screens, so I'd just like to reassure any healthcare professionals who may be reading this, that I'm now following the Dame Barbara Cartland school of creative writing, and am currently dictating this blog post to Lisa, whilst dressed in pink and reclining on a chaise-longue with a couple of dogs at my feet. Although it's Toby who keeps biting my legs.

My lack of blogging over the past week is partly due to time restraints, but also down to an effort not to overdo things after my facial palsy. An effort which has spectacularly failed, according to this latest doctor. But I digress...

On Monday morning I did my first clinic since returning to work, which seemed to go ok, and only left me with mild face-ache for a couple of hours. So in the evening, we headed down to The West Quay at Brighton Marina to meet this rag-tag collection of pensioners...


Lisa wasn't happy with her own performance in that photo, and was becoming a bit of an embarrassment, so I had a slight reshuffle and replaced her with Nicky Morgan. It seems to be working for Toby.

The lady in the corner, who I'm operating with my left hand in this photo...


... is actually my aunt. She and my Mum are like Jeannette Charles and the Queen. Although I'm not saying which is which.

We don't like to see my aunt more than once a year, so the last time we got together was July 2013, when Toby looked like Billy Bunter and Lisa like Jackie Onassis. The time before was the previous August, although I was too tired to remember much about it. As those blog posts demonstrate, we usually go to see her at my parents' house, but this time, in an effort not to overdo things after my facial palsy (doctors, take note), I agreed to let my parents bring her over from St Leonards where she was staying for a few days.

As Gardners, we always thank the Lord for free food...


... so we met up at The West Quay for an evening meal and some civilised, ladylike behaviour...


Big Sis came down from Gatwick (by car, ironically) where she'd been working that day, and met us in time for dessert, while Amelie demonstrated the subtle way to wear loom bands...


She then took some flattering portraits of the family with my camera...


... including one which Lisa has given me permission to publish...


We then retired to our flat and put on videos of Amelie singing. So nobody stayed very long.

That was Monday. As for Tuesday, that began unexpectedly at 7am when I took a snap executive decision and announced that I was well enough to drive up to Horsham at short notice to cover a clinic for an (even more) unwell colleague. Having not been dressed when I made that decision, I naturally got to the hospital 45 minutes later than usual, and therefore couldn't park in the staff car park, so had to pay & display with the patients instead.

The maximum you can pay for in one go is 4 hours, meaning I had to pop out at lunchtime to buy another ticket. Which would have been fine, had I not been accosted by a patient who'd arrived two hours early for his appointment, hadn't brought his appointment letter, and refused to believe that he'd got the time wrong. Having argued politely with a face-ache for two minutes, I agreed to give up my lunch break to see him, and duly did so. By which time my pay & display ticket had expired, and I'd received a £50 fine. NHS healthcare might not be efficient, but their traffic wardens certainly are. They'd slapped a PCN on my windscreen within eight minutes of my ticket running out. I'd write them a stiff letter of appeal, but I'm not meant to be focusing on a computer screen.

Wednesday involved a lot of frustration at the Sussex Eye Hospital, while Thursday saw me doing an afternoon clinic in outpatients. Interestingly, a colleague had said to me first thing that morning that she thought my facial drop was slightly more noticeable, which is not something I was aware of, and frankly didn't believe. So I went ahead and did the clinic anyway. And had no problems whatsoever. Until half an hour after it finished.

Amelie had gone to a friend's house after school, and I'd agreed to pick her up at 6pm. Driving over there, I became acutely aware of the fact that my left eyelid was drooping down, and not opening as it should. I collected Amelie successfully, but standing outside the house, talking to her friend's Mum, I noticed I was having difficulty moving my mouth and forming my words correctly. I brought the conversation to a premature end as I was struggling to talk, and then drove Amelie down to Asda, where I'd promised to pick up a couple of things.

I spent the brief shopping trip testing my facial muscles like a lunatic, and confirming that something felt strange, but the final nail in the coffin of my recovery came as we arrived home, and were travelling up in the lift. At which point Amelie turned to me and said:

"Daddy, you look weird."

I said "What do you mean, weird?"

To which she replied, "Your face looks weird. You look down in the dumps."

Now, it goes without saying that I spend most of my life looking both weird and down in the dumps, but the fact that Amelie thought it noteworthy enough to start commenting on, rang major alarm bells.

I couldn't face (no pun intended) A&E for the third time in a month, but when my symptoms were no better on Friday morning, I rang my GP. My usual doctor was on holiday, but they gave me an appointment with another one for 11:10am. I'd already arranged to go into work late that morning, because Amelie was due to receive her school's top accolade at Friday's assembly...


That's the Catholic School's Gold Award, which is presented to a child who's already earned thirty pieces of silver.

I watched Amelie receive it with a lop-sided face, then headed off to the surgery, where I saw a doctor I've never met before. She admitted that it's quite unusual for Bell's Palsy to suddenly get worse again, whereas it's common to follow a stroke with another stroke a few weeks later, so she was very glad I'd had a CT scan to rule that out. She was confident it couldn't be a stroke... before adding that if it gets worse again in the next couple of days, I should rush straight to A&E.

So her explanation was simple: I've overdone it. She said I should never have gone back to work when I did, shouldn't have been doing clinics, and - when I explained what the rest of the job involves - shouldn't have been doing that either, because it involves focusing on a computer screen and using a lot of concentration. I did tell her that unlike a couple of weeks ago, I now feel perfectly fine in myself, but apparently that's not the point. My facial muscles have been weakened, and need total rest to recover. I've used them too much, and they've basically given up and stopped working.

Which is what I should be doing for the time being. She signed me off for the whole of next week, and said that if I'm going to stand any chance of a full recovery, I need to stop doing things, and rest my face completely. Taking more steroids now wouldn't make any difference, as they need to be used immediately after the initial attack (four weeks ago), so rest is the only medicine available.

It wasn't easy explaining all that to my boss without moving my mouth, but having vented my frustrations about this whole situation whilst looking slightly down in the mouth, they eventually managed to drag me off hospital property four hours later. I insisted on attending a team meeting on condition that I wouldn't speak. It was an arrangement which suited everyone.

So that's it. I'm now at home for at least the next week. Which is handy, as I have a million things to do...

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

If it's Frozen sung by felines, it must be Cool for Cats...



Yes, not only can Amelie dance, she can sing as well. In showbusiness circles, she's what's known as a triple threat. The third threat being violence.

On the downside, our enthusiasm for getting her out of the house (and away from us) as much as possible means that I'm spending most of my life ferrying her around to various clubs, activities and events. Last weekend's dance show was the culmination of a few Tuesday evening classes, but this weekend involved four trips to Hove for her final Musical Theatre class on Saturday, and then rehearsals and end-of-term show on Sunday. So it's all very well for the boy on the left to start yawning at the mention of all their hard work, but frankly it's the parents who are knackered.

This particular revue involved her dressing as a cat and dancing to 'Macavity: The Mystery Cat', which is a song about cats from a cat-based musical. I think it's Starlight Express. That was followed by an acting performance from two pairs of older children who, we were told, have just passed their LAMDA exams. I expected them to come on and do some Latin-American dancing, but as it transpired, it was the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art that's been testing them, not the Lambada.

Both pairs were very good, although I struggled to follow the plot of both their audition pieces. There seemed to be a fair amount of murder involved, which is probably quite appropriate as Joint Enterprise is in the news a lot at the moment, but exactly who was planning to kill who, and why, was slightly beyond me.

Fortunately, Amelie soon returned to the stage to dumb things down to my level with a traditional folk song about flowers, and a rendition of 'Let It Go' from Frozen. Frankly she could sing that song word-perfectly with no rehearsal whatsoever, but ever-critical of her own performance, she told me afterwards that she'd come in too late with the foot-stomps at 2:28 and 3:30. Which is ironic as she'll usually stamp her feet at the drop of a hat. Particularly if it's someone else who's touched her hat without asking.

Anyhoo, the show was a triumph (obviously) and I've got some good footage to sell to the makers of 'Before They Were Famous' in a few years time. So buoyed by our daughter's success in both music and dancing, we were pleased to hear yesterday morning that her school is running an after-school club in the autumn called 'Rising Stars'. We knew nothing about it, but the name conjured up images of showbiz and the performing arts, so we took it to be some kind of stage school activity, and promptly signed her up.

We found out today that it's a sports club. And it's on the same day as her swimming lessons. We might need to work on her stamina over the summer.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

I'm not saying that I've left a trail of destruction in my wake as I've gone through life, but as we speak, the place where I ended my school career and the place I began my NHS career are both being razed to the ground.

This is the current scene, two hundred yards down the road...


The room on the left, which would be described by estate agents as open plan, light and airy, with good ventilation and panoramic views, is where I had my first successful interview for a job at the hospital. It was one week before we found out that Lisa was pregnant with Amelie, and the day she left me this note in the kitchen when she went to work...


To be honest, I remember more about Heath Ledger than that interview (although I remember the death of Kate Middleton very clearly) but I do recall one of the interviewers singing the Poddington Peas theme song.

Anyhoo, I'd expect the hospital to be erecting a blue plaque on Rosaz House in my honour, but instead they're tearing it down and building a six-million-pound Cancer Support Centre in conjunction with Macmillan. So I hope I won't have to visit the place again.

In the meantime, up in the wilds of Essex, they're knocking down my old school as well...


That big patch of rubble-strewn waste ground is where I sat my GCSEs and A-levels. It hasn't changed a bit. Although it had a roof in my day. And a couple of walls. The playground at the beginning is where I failed to play football, and the lilac block next to it is where I spent many a happy hour perfecting the Newton–Raphson method, and flicking cherry stones at my classmates. As for the picturesque line of trees leading north to the old school gate on the right, that's where I slipped and broke my ankle in 1988. Happy days.

Coincidentally, there was an article on the BBC News website yesterday about drone photography, so having seen the video above, I'm now thinking I need to get myself a helicopter. Or possibly strap a camera to a seagull.

Anyhoo, on the subject of things that are wrecked, falling down, and need a complete overhaul, I went out last night for a get-together with the Reception Class parents from Amelie's school, and frankly it's ruined me for the weekend. I only had one drink too. It's not the alcohol which got to me, it's the fact that I'm too old to stay out past 10pm. I'd rather be at home with a Werther's Original. I blame Lisa for not finding me twenty years earlier.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

It was four weeks ago today that I reached the dizzying heights of a major vertigo attack, signalling the start of a new home-grown series of Casualty, which featured four GP consultations, two hospital visits and a brain scan. But enough is enough, and all bad things must come to an end, so despite not being quite back to full strength, I attempted to bolster the ranks of a short-staffed screening team by returning to work today.

My decision was in no way influenced by the fact that Amelie was at home all day, although it did ensure that I left on time, and didn't look back as I sprinted down the hill, leaving a trail of loom bands behind me. Ironically, my run back to work coincided with Amelie's teachers walking out on strike, which surprised me, as I didn't imagine they could afford placards after the pay freeze.

The good news, however, is that missing school didn't dampen Amelie's enthusiasm for education. By the time I got home from work this afternoon, she'd successfully taught Toby how to spell his name...


He got distracted halfway through by Lisa's cup of tea. It's a good job he didn't see any bees, or we'd never have reached the end of the word.

Sunday, July 06, 2014

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.