1. Poor quiet baby, poor sick, feverish little boy- right, if you're well enough to scoff down fistfuls of cereal and to giggle at 'Where's The Baby' and to kick me in the face while I'm changing your old bot and to wave at me as you disappear out of the kitchen hand-over-hand around the airer, then you're well enough to go to nursery.
2. Skrith. Thud, thud. Skrith clat. That's the sound of our post -- including two new-to-me paperbacks -- coming through the door.
3. In the days when I was Godfather Timothy's housemate -- I was crippled for weeks by a mysterious pain in my right hip. It made me limp, and that messed up my knee and my other ankle, and I finally got help. The GP sent me to a physio who asked: "Is that your pain? Is that your pain? What about that?" And none of them were, so she gave me a massage and sent me home. It recurs from time to time, and I'm more self-aware these days so I understand that it's caused by a tight muscle in my bottom -- but I'm always too shy to ask a therapist to massage there. The pain came back today (strangely, Alec's nursery is above the physio centre and I'm on the stairs when it stabs me right in the leg). Once the baby is in bed, I tell Nick and with good grace and lots of sympathy he does his husbandly duty.