Amelie had a bad dream last night in which she was standing in a garden (not our garden, obviously - we can barely grow a sunflower on the balcony), surrounded by bees who were trying to sting her. No sooner had she escaped those, than a pack of wolves turned up and started wrecking all the flowers. So she's obviously progressing nicely. Two months ago, the worst she could dream up was a hungry guinea pig. Now she's right in there, taking her chances with the killer bees and razor-fanged wolves. Give it a few more weeks and she'll be dreaming about Freddy Krueger and Jimmy Savile.

To be honest, she's not the only one who had a nightmare in the early hours of this morning. My journey to work at Horsham Hospital was like an episode of World's Most Dangerous Roads. When I left home at 7:35am, the scene outside our flat resembled a black & white shot from The Wizard of Oz, but with more water than The Perfect Storm. Frankly I felt like Rainman. But with slightly better social skills.

It took me half an hour just to get out of Brighton, and having made it through localised flooding and weather-induced traffic jams, I drove up the A23, passed one minor accident, and then spotted a lake on the carriageway ahead. My brain was just processing the information that I ought to slow down, when the cars up ahead of me suddenly braked, and I rounded a slight bend to see that one of them had just aquaplaned across the road and ploughed into the central reservation.

Fortunately the driver appeared to be ok, and I managed to swerve around the resulting debris, but by the time I made it to Horsham, the journey had taken me an hour and twenty-five minutes, and there were no spaces left in the car park. Which would have annoyed me, if I didn't feel lucky to have got there alive.

The good news, however, is that today's journey may well be the last I ever have to take alone. The eBay auction of Amelie's LOVELY green dress ends tonight, so by this time tomorrow I should be able to afford a chauffeur. Despite our intention to list a wide range of vintage (ie. old and secondhand) clothes, it's currently still the only item we have for sale, but the way this baby's attracting bids, we're not going to need a second one.

As things stand right now, there are currently four buyers battling it out in a fierce bidding war for the right to own Amelie's cast-offs, and the price has already reached the giddy heights of £2.42. The way things are hotting up, we could top three quid before the end of the night. And what's more, we've had another e-mail from Germany, enquiring about postage. Those Bavarians can't get enough of this dress. Anyone would think it was a bargain. It's a good job we didn't chuck it in the bin.

Toby's six months old today!

I wanted to take a photo of him on his own to celebrate his half-year birthday, but generally that's only possible if you tie Amelie up with a skipping rope and lock her in a cupboard. And I've been told not to do that again. So he had to share his birthday portrait with his sister.

The past six months have gone remarkably quickly, which is worrying as it's my last year in my thirties and I'll be officially over the hill come the summer. As will Toby, the way he's learning to move. Give him another month and he'll be disappearing over that horizon faster than my youthful good looks. Only this morning, Lisa left him on his changing mat on the bedroom floor, and came back five minutes later to find him four feet away with his hands on her clutch bag. He's like Amelie and the Marmite Breadsticks. Except that while his sister goes for food, he prefers ladies' accessories.

Ironically, having failed to get a picture of him alone this morning, I managed to snap him behind Amelie's back this evening... only to attach the result to a photo of his sister at the same age...

Lisa says they're identical, but I think there's just a very real chance that all babies look the same.

Anyhoo, as if to mark Toby's six-month milestone, I discovered this morning that Facebook have kindly given me their newest feature, 'Graph Search', a veritable stalker's charter which allows me to search very specifically for people in a particular location who have liked a particular thing. In time, it'll be rolled out to everyone, but I added my name to the waiting list a couple of weeks ago in the hope of getting it early, and sure enough, it's been enabled today.

My reasons for wanting it are purely comedic. It means I can entertain myself for hours on end by searching for 'Jews who like bacon' or 'Catholics who like condoms'. For example, a quick search this evening has revealed that there are eight people on Facebook who work near the Sussex Cancer Centre and like smoking. And what's more, it's given me all their names. It's enough to make you want to change your privacy settings immediately.

But in the meantime I want a word with this lady...

I'm tempted to send her a friend request with her next screening appointment.

I had an e-mail yesterday from one of the world's leading suppliers of high-end quality cases for iPads and Smartphones, offering to send me some for free if I'd be willing to write a review on my blog and link to their website. It's the kind of offer which gives an independent anti-capitalist blogger with high moral standards a bit of an ethical dilemma. But fortunately not me. I'm quite happy to sell out to the highest bidder if it gets me a new case for my iPad.

So I've e-mailed them back and said yes. Their cases cost thirty-five quid, and are used by the CIA, so I can pretend I'm on Homeland without paying a penny. There's clearly no decision to be made.

But if you think I'm only out for myself, you'd be wrong. I was in a far flung cottage hospital this morning, chatting to a lady who was named after a character from King Lear (not the Fool), and she asked me if I'd be willing to take part in the 15 Steps Challenge. At the time, I wasn't sure if it was a 12 Step Programme that includes relapse, or an episode of Strictly Come Dancing, but either way I was happy to help, so I said yes. At which point she handed me an eight-page form and a pen.

It transpires that the 15 Steps Challenge is an NHS initiative designed to improve patients' experience by evaluating their first impressions of a hospital or department. It was developed after the mother of a patient commented that "I can tell what kind of care my daughter is going to get within 15 steps of walking on to a ward". So she clearly hasn't visited any hospital I've ever worked in. If you take fifteen steps through one of our wards, you'll end up at the back of the cleaner's cupboard.

But that aside, I was asked to consider my arrival in outpatients this morning, and fill in a questionnaire about my initial impressions of the hospital, and what could be done to make those first fifteen steps more welcoming and reassuring for the patients. It was difficult to know what to put. So in the end I just pointed out that it's eighteen steps to the chocolate vending machine, and suggested they might want to move it nearer the door.

For shock value, you can't beat a bit of male full-frontal nudity...

And he certainly looks pretty shocked. It's not easy keeping your composure when a man bursts into the bathroom unexpectedly, whips out a camera, and finds you sitting naked in the seat of a toddler swing that your parents nicked from the local park.

Lisa prefers this photo...

But that's only because he's gazing lovingly at her. She says he's got the look of his father in that picture. Man-boobs, spare tyre and very little hair.

Amelie spotted this picture in a copy of 'The Week' magazine this afternoon, and promptly asked if it was me. When I told her it's not, she replied "But you wear that shirt to work, Daddy". Anyone would think I've only got the one. Admittedly I like to stretch a work shirt to a second or third day to save on laundry bills, but that doesn't make my wardrobe predictable. I've got at least two others.

As for Lisa, she took one look at the photo and asked if he was a benefits cheat. Which, after Amelie's comment, I'm taking as a personal insult. In reality, it's Steve Hilton, the Conservative Party's former director of strategy, and the man who told David Cameron to hug a hoodie. Which might explain why he looks like a criminal.

Anyhoo, it's been a busy day, during which I've done numerous things, none of them worthy of mention. But amongst it all, I did find time to take the kids out again. We've done the seaside to death (which is usually only possible at Beachy Head), so today I took them on a day trip to Lidl. It was an enjoyable excursion, which taught me one important lesson. Namely that if your daughter loses her mittens, she'll not only insist on wearing your gloves, but will then walk through the streets, waving her arms about like Kenny Everett doing Brother Lee Love...

On the plus side, however, it means you can stop off at the nearest park on the way home and shoot a top quality visual gag...


Of course, it's only remotely funny when you know that the backing track is genuinely called 'Fly Together Purple Dinosaur'. It's by a chap called Khleo. And he followed it up with a song called 'You Don't Fight Fair'. So give Toby a year to grow up, and there's every chance I can film a sequel.

As a loving and dedicated father who puts his own priorities aside at the weekend in order to spend some quality time with his children, there's simply no beating that look of unbridled joy and happiness which lights up your daughter's face as you treat her to an ice lolly at the playground on a Saturday afternoon...

It makes you feel all fuzzy inside. Which is the first sign of a stroke due to high blood pressure.

Anyhoo, if there's one thing I've learnt from two and a half years of marriage, it's that when your wife's had a bad night due to a screaming baby and a troublesome child, it's wise to vacate the premises before she starts throwing jars of peanut butter. So while Lisa went back to bed this afternoon, I took the kids out for a trip to the seafront. Amelie was only saying to me the other day that it would be great if we lived by the seaside, so I thought it was about time I admitted that it's only a ten minute walk away.

Obviously it's important in situations like this to make the best use of your local knowledge, so having dressed Toby like Igglepiggle...

... I told Amelie that I'd push him all the way to the beach if she'd push him all the way back. Naturally she agreed. Which explains why I'm smiling in this photo...

That's me and Toby nearing the end of our downhill-all-the-way route to the seafront. Amelie took the picture, and quite honestly, the way her photography's coming on, I may never need to use the self-timer on my camera again.

Anyhoo, having finished posing for photos in front of the gay cruising ground of Duke's Mound, we entered Madeira Drive, and soon found ourselves at Peter Pan's Playground. I'd already agreed to buy Amelie an ice cream when we got there, but sadly, having taken off my thick winter gloves and retrieved my wallet from inside my thermally insulated coat, I was told by the lady at the outdoor cafe that the only frozen desserts they stock in January (apart from her iced fingers) are Mini Milk lollies.

Amelie said "WOT NO ICE CREAM?"...

And I bought her a lolly instead. Which she ate with a frosty expression. Whilst giving me a cold hard stare.

Fortunately the thaw was quick in coming, and having warmed ourselves up by having a go on everything in the playground at least seventeen times, we were soon heading home with smiles on our faces...

That was at the bottom of the hill. And I was expecting the smile to fade about three steps later. But the thing about my daughter is that she's a girl of her word (occasionally, and not as often as I'd like). So to her eternal credit, she was soon heading up that hill like Sisyphus with a boulder...


I stopped filming before he rolled back down.

Anyone who's ever browsed the bric-a-brac on eBay will know that you can buy a lot of worthless tat on there. What you might not know, however, is that you can now buy your worthless tat from us. Yes, in an effort to avoid the fiscal cliff, we're fitting our financial lemmings with parachutes and attempting to bolster our budget by flogging our flotsam on eBay. It was all Lisa's idea. And we're using her account because she's got much better feedback than I have.

So if you're looking for a stylish new dress to give to the love of your life on Valentine's Day, how about this chic little emerald number...

It's LOVELY, as indicated by the title and description. And we're throwing in the child for free if the buyer collects. As with all eBay items, there's an area at the bottom of the page for people to leave questions for the seller, so if you want to know why Lisa typed it all in capital letters, feel free to ask.

Obviously the key to successful selling is in the visuals, so attractive photos are a must, which is why we enlisted the help of Amelie. I wanted to use the photo of her wearing it on the steps of our caravan in Blackpool back in 2011, but Lisa was worried that people might think they're buying from a family of gypsies.

She'd already taken one professional-looking photo...

After which Amelie kindly volunteered to take another...

But obviously nothing sells clothing like a supermodel. And having carted Chloe around since the age of one, Amelie's no stranger to the catwalk. So we got her to pose for some photos last night. Fortunately, when we asked her to do some modelling, she thought we meant plasticine handicraft and assumed the dress was some kind of overall, so she didn't take much persuading. Although it took five attempts to get her to smile.

The good news is that despite only listing it last night, interest in the dress has already gone global. It's a well known fact that nobody bids until the last thirty seconds, so we haven't yet been troubled by any of those, but Lisa did have an e-mail from Germany this morning asking if we'll ship the dress to Europe. I think they're trying to get in quick before we leave the EU.

It's been a long and busy day, filled with patients who refuse to stay at home just because the streets are paved with ice, and I gave up half my lunch break to screen a blind octogenarian who'd journeyed through the snow for five hours on six buses, via the wrong hospital, just to get there an hour late. So I'm a little bit tired, and I've got an ice-cream headache from all the sleet.

But if there's one thing which can perk me up when I get home, it's the sight of Amelie advancing towards me with a camera in her hands...

© Amelie Gardner Portraiture Ltd
Commissions Available Now
I think soft-focus is definitely the way forward. She also does a mean self portrait...

I'm hopeful that if I leave my camera lying around every day, I'll eventually come home from work to find that Amelie's filmed the next found footage masterpiece, and I can take early retirement.

As a general rule, we only ever get 'Emergency Communications' sent out to all hospital staff in the event of a major terrorist attack, imminent tsunami, or simply as a warning that the Chief Executive's doing his Amarillo dance again. But that all changed at lunchtime today with the arrival of my favourite ever crisis management e-mail, which came winging its way into my inbox at 12:25 with a suitable sense of panic...

Yep, apparently it's true. If you can smell something foul, it's just the French.

Well I did return to work today, clean shaven and slightly out of it on throat lozenges. Within half an hour of arrival, four people had commented on my weight loss, so I think they all suspect I've been at Fat Camp for a fortnight, or having my stomach stapled at a private clinic. Unfortunately my thin torso has been outweighed by my thick head, and I've spent the day feeling quite fuzzy. And not in a warm sense. So whilst my body's been back at work, I think my brain's still off sick.

But as if to remind me that things could be worse, I received an e-mail from Lisa halfway through my clinic this afternoon, informing me of the untimely death of Michael Winner. Naturally I refuse to take anything Lisa says at face value, so having told her to calm down (dear), I checked the BBC News website, where I read this:

"The director had experienced a run of ill-health since eating a bad oyster on holiday in Barbados in 2007. He later picked up the E coli virus from a steak tartare, and was hospitalised eight times in the last few months of his life".

It makes me feel grateful to be working class. We might have horse meat in our burgers, but it's unlikely to kill us.

In the meantime, I've found someone to take over Winner's Dinners...

Not only can Toby suck down a banana at the age of five months, but he's got a ready made source of foie gras.

I think Obi-Wan Kenobi's going out mugging...

That's the 'too ill to shave' look I've been sporting for the past fortnight. Unfortunately the longer my beard gets, the more I appear to have fifty shades of grey sprouting out of my chin. I look like a menacing Santa.

My aim is to transform that face by tomorrow morning into one that looks suitable for work, and is less likely to scare the patients. It's two weeks since my symptoms began, and they're basically back to where they started fourteen days ago. Which is to say that I have a mild sore throat today, but nothing much else. And I'm going slightly stir crazy indoors. So I think tomorrow might be the day to call time on this illness and get back on the workhorse.

Unfortunately it currently looks like this outside...

... which is a shame, as I'd rather walk to work than toboggan. On Friday morning it was more like this...

... which is also worrying, as it means that plenty of people are still moving their cars in this weather. In that first snowy photo above, there's actually a car stuck in the middle of the road at the bottom of the hill. He was there for a good ten minutes, struggling to get a grip, before two passers-by gave him a shove in the right direction. At which point he headed down the hill, unable to stop.

Anyhoo, as should be obvious by now, we have a rule on this estate that cars painted in primary colours must be parked at the end of the road, while black cars go at the front. I'm not sure where white vehicles go, as you can't see them in the snow.

But the good news is that I have now been out. I decided yesterday that if I'm going to return to work on Monday, I should probably test how well I'll cope with the shock of fresh air and exercise. So I forced myself to go for a walk. On pavements of ice. In the dark.

Fortunately I own a pair of these things on the left, so I strapped them to my feet at 8 o'clock last night, and headed down to Lidl for an evening constitutional. It taught me a valuable lesson. Namely that a pair of Overshoe Snow & Ice Grips allows you to walk confidently down a steep footpath of sheet ice that looks like the Cresta Run, but is liable to kill you on the shiny concrete stairs of a block of council flats. Next time I'll be attaching them on the ground floor.

Well I didn't go snowboarding. To be honest, I'm more like James Stewart in 'Rear Window', but with slightly dodgier neighbours. Physical incapacity (and a reluctance to get dressed) means that my experience of this inclement weather is restricted to what I can see from our balcony. Which was this at 8:15am this morning...

... and this, five hours later...

The ivory tower in the background is where Amelie and Toby were born. Why Lisa wouldn't walk there in labour, I have no idea. It's practically within spitting distance. She could have made it between contractions.

Anyhoo, the second window down on the far right is the operating theatre where they yanked Am out of Lisa, while the one on the same floor at the far left is the triage room, where they sent her back home with Toby... four hours before he was born. Interestingly, a lot of the lights were on in that first photo, but they all appeared to have been switched off by lunchtime. So either there was a power cut, or the staff went outside to play snowballs.

Personally I haven't been out at all, but one person who has braved the weather today is our postman, who arrived at his usual time of noon, and handed us the letter we've been waiting for. Yes, exactly one week after we requested it, we're now in possession of a written statement from the council's emergency plumber, detailing his version of the events that unfolded on the evening of Wednesday, 2nd January. And here it is...

Yeah, so do I. Because, to be honest, I was expecting something slightly more detailed. You know, like the 600-word statement I've written. But still, I suppose plumbers aren't known for their literary skills. At best, they're known for rescuing princesses from turtles in the Mushroom Kingdom. Report-writing barely comes into it.

Still, I'm grateful they entitled the letter with the words "leak from flat above", because the plumber gives the impression it was our washing machine. I was hoping he might verify the fact that the water leaked into three different rooms and caused significant damage, but to be fair, the insurance company didn't ask for that. They requested we get confirmation of the cause of damage, which we've duly done. So as the letter suggests, that should be sufficient.

We've now written a covering letter, and included our 600-word statement, the plumber's 26-word statement, our neighbour's 10-word statement, some original receipts, proof of the value of everything we don't have receipts for, and fourteen photos providing evidence of all our water-damaged stuff. After which I packaged it all up, weighed it, and realised that on top of everything we've spent so far, it's going to cost us another £1.20 to send it. It's just a shame we can't get to the postbox because of snow.

Someone's in a fowl mood...


Still, it makes a change from his father being hen-pecked. At least one of us has something to laugh about.

To be honest, I don't know what's going on with my health at the moment. My throat's suddenly a lot worse this morning, which really shouldn't be possible, and may threaten my plans to go snowboarding tomorrow. I can only imagine that it's God's way of telling me to stop talking to Lisa.

Worse still is that I've run out of my only means of self-medication: Stefan and Andrew's carrot cake. With My Lidl Pony burgers off the menu, it's been my main source of vitamin A, and tragically I finished it last night. We're a family of four, so I'd like to think we had a quarter each, but in reality I've eaten most of it in three days. Although Amelie did her best to help. She's definitely her father's daughter.

Of course, it's only when you've eaten it all that you realise it was sitting on a vintage Barbie paper plate from 1990...

It's like getting a cake from Waylon Smithers. And I've told Lisa she should do her hair like that.

Anyhoo, there's not really a lot to say when the only place you've been in the past seven days is the doctor's surgery, and your throat's too sore to have a meaningful conversation. The biggest news of the week is that we've finally managed to put our Christmas tree away. Twelfth Night coincided with all our insurance shenanigans, and two days later I was at death's door, and evacuating the premises. So what with one thing and another, the decorations didn't go down until Twenty-Second Night. Which is a worry, as it means the glorious run of good fortune we've enjoyed so far this year may not be set to last.

But whilst I might lack the strength to get dressed, I can still lift a pen with my daughter...

To be honest, she helped me more with Clarinet Mouse than with Axe-Wielding Fox. Although the fox's whiskers are all Amelie's own work. I was glad she added them actually, as up to that point he was looking more like an eagle.

Sadly I wasn't able to blog yesterday as I popped over to New York for a bit of activity...

To be honest, I'm not sure the phrase 'Arm Yourself' is really the best one to use with Americans. They're already claiming that Sandy Hook didn't happen in an effort to keep their guns. In fact, as of today, more than eight million sick-minded people have watched the film mentioned here, and I'm sad to say I'm one of them. Although in my case, it's more a sickness of the upper respiratory tract than a disease of the mind. Frankly it's hard to fill your time when you're off work.

Anyhoo, it's basically 'Bollocks: The Movie', with some added spelling mistakes, and I wouldn't recommend you waste half an hour of your life on it. I don't know whether to be depressed that people believe this stuff, or impressed at mankind's ingenuity. Let's face it, it takes a lot of imagination to come up with these conspiracy theories in the face of obvious facts.

On the subject of my death-defying week off work, I think I've now reached the stage of my illness where I need to spend a month convalescing on the south coast with a sea view and some sunshine. Unfortunately I'm already there, and I feel no better. My actual symptoms have improved a little: I feel less achey, and I'm talking myself into a belief that my throat is less sore. Although every time I do talk, it hurts.

But for some reason I feel desperately tired. Frankly if I wasn't living with a hyperactive four-year-old and a crying baby, I could happily sleep all day. As it is, I can barely sleep at night. I'm tempted to go into work just to have a nap in a dimly lit grading room.

But at the moment I'm sticking it out at home, trying to recuperate. On the insurance front, we're still waiting for the report from the plumber, which is disappointing as the council gave us the impression on Monday that they were sending it out immediately. On the bright side, I've been through a box of old receipts, guarantees and general junk that lives under the bed, and in addition to finding the one receipt Churchill have asked for, I also found this...

It's a signed photo of Nick Abbot, circa 1997, and is worth marginally less than nothing. By which I mean you'd have to pay someone to take it. I was going through a difficult period in my life at the time, and felt that a picture of a Talk Radio presenter might help ease my troubles. So I wrote in and requested one. It was shortly afterwards that I heard Nick mention on air that he gets the work experience boy to sign all his photos.

But I'm treasuring it nonetheless, particularly as it's one of my few paper possessions that wasn't dripped on by flood water. On that subject, I'd just like to thank all the people who have offered advice regarding her upstairs, and our claim, small or otherwise. Lisa and I have discussed it at length (which is why my throat is so slow to improve), and at this point we're still undecided. It's essentially a battle between what's fair and just, and what's best for our own peace of mind.

The small claims court seems like the most sensible option, but when you're permanently separated from an oddball by just a few inches of leaky concrete, it makes you reluctant to risk bringing further trouble raining down on our heads. She's a bit of an unknown quantity, owns a couple of scary-looking dogs, and might not be worth antagonising for the sake of a hundred quid. Which isn't the fair option, of course, but might just turn out to be wise.

At 7pm last night, 54 hours after putting a note through her door, we finally heard back from our neighbour upstairs. She didn't knock, shout sorry through the letterbox, or leave us a nice bunch of flowers, but she did return our note with this message attached...

That's the entire message. There's no apology, no offer of compensation, no concern or enquiry about the damage. And I don't know why it took her two days to write it. I can only assume she was perfecting that swirl on the 'd' of 'do' with her expensive fountain pen. Although with no insurance, she'd better hope it doesn't leak on her sofa.

Anyhoo, as I understand it, if the lady above did have insurance, then Churchill could have claimed back our £100 excess from them and returned it to us, along with the possibility of compensation for the loss of items with sentimental value, such as our signed Julian Clary book, which was completely saturated. As it is, that hundred quid is gone, along with any hope of compensation for our suffering.

Morally speaking, she really ought to pay us that money out of her own pocket, and having taken some free legal advice via numerous internet forums, it appears that she is liable for that £100 excess, as she was negligent in leaving her washing machine running while she went out for the evening. However, that would involve us pursuing her through the small claims court, and after all the hassles we've already been through this year, that's something we're unlikely to do.

It doesn't seem right, though, that someone can choose not to buy insurance, when that decision harms the people living below who are responsible enough to have insured their home. Not only do we pay out every year for the policy, but we're now at least £100 down, while she gets away scot-free without paying a penny. Our premium will go through the roof too. It's just a shame that's not literally true, as it might ruin her laminate flooring.

Ok, rant over. As Lisa's been telling me all morning, accept the things you cannot change, change the things you can, and have the wisdom to know the difference. And then put a hose through her letterbox and see how she likes it.

On the bright side, we've had a phone call from the council this morning, promising to send us a report from the plumber, so at least we're getting somewhere there. With a bit of luck, we might actually be in a position to prove our case by the end of the week. Which will be an almighty relief.

Anyhoo, if you're wondering what the effect is of twelve days spent living in a damp, musty, flood-damaged flat, then here's your answer...

Well ok, I don't really know how much the flood had to do with it. To be honest, I'm still trying to pin it on Lisa's Mum. But let's face it, living with damp walls and ceilings can't have helped.

Either way, I went to see the doctor this morning, and he signed me off work for another week. He said my throat is "red raw", which I could have told him myself if it didn't hurt so much to talk, but he said I'm probably not contagious any more. Although I might have RSI after spending twenty minutes pressing the redial button on my phone just to get that appointment.

So what with one thing and another, it's not been the best of years so far. But it has had one undeniably bright spot. Stefan and Andrew turned up on our doorstep yesterday with a home-made carrot cake. I think they'd read my blog post about losing half a stone, and decided to take action. Although with hindsight, I wondered if Stefan was on an undercover mission from my boss to find out if I'm genuinely ill. Either way, it was a touching thing to do, and after a week of unfeeling insurance companies, uncaring neighbours, and unending illness, it cheered me up no end. Unfortunately, having eaten next to nothing all week, one slice of the world's nuttiest, fruitiest and most gorgeously delicious carrot cake was enough to make me queasy.

So I waited a good twenty minutes before having a second slice. Upper respiratory tract infection or no upper respiratory tract infection, some things are too good to miss.