Can't smell, look of a blogger and coffee cake.

1. I have such a cold -- I can feel the peppermint oil on my pillow cooling and clearing my nose, but I can't smell it.

2. It's been a chase across town in the rain -- but I spot Mr London Street in the Corn Exchange. I know it's him although I've never seen him before because... well I don't know how I know, but I do. Perhaps bloggers have a look about them.

3. Once the baby has gone to bed, we have the last two slices of that coffee cake. I can't taste it now -- except the bitterness and the sweetness -- but I can remember how the first slice tasted yesterday.

Tales, pincer grip and work experience.

1. For my birthday Nick gave me the second Tales of the Ketty Jay book -- The Black Lung Captain. I know that he enjoyed the first of Chris Wooding's swashbuckling diesel airship pirate caper, so I'm looking forward to discussing this new instalment with him. I've watched Firefly since reading the first book, and these books are more of the same but with enough differences to make it interesting. The crew of the Ketty Jay are less wholesome and more haunted than the Fireflies; but their internal battles are handled with as much skill as the external battles -- which are frequent, splattery, and often funny.

2. Alec spots a fragment of last night's cabbage on the table beside him. He picks it up, examines it and then drops it on the floor. He --sometimes -- picks things up between his thumb and finger, rather than trying to use his entire hand.

3. I settle down to work on my listings and discover that the work experience girl has done a better job than I realised, and got further along than I realised, too. I wish I'd thanked her more and better.

Sleeping on, our neighbourhood and soother.

1. I hear Nick's alarm go in the attic at 6.30am -- he'd promised last night to come and take the baby away so I could have a lie-in. But the baby is sleeping, and I am too dozy-dazed to push for a shift change. An hour later -- which is much more civilised time -- we all wake up. Then Nick comes down, and I am left alone to catch up on my sleep.

2. "Ohh, what's that arch?" wonders Becky. She and Scott are former neighbours and they've come down for a walk and coffee. A morning spent with them has put a pleasing shine on streets and views that we have allowed to turn dull with neglect.

3. A mug of honey, hot water and apple juice for a sore throat.

Better in the morning, yeast and in bed.

1. It's been a rough night -- Alec has a cold, and has been burning hot and feeding every hour. But now morning is here, and he is cooler and laughing at all his normal amusements.

2. We ordered in the wrong kind of yeast, so I've been baking bread by hand for the last fortnight. I've always used a machine up until now, but when Grayson Perry came round he made a remark that needled me rather, about using a machine to do a craft.* I opened my mouth to say that I never hand baked because I didn't like the feel of dough -- but then I thought that this was not an argument I wanted to have with a potter. Anyway -- the more I get to know dough, the more I like it. I've discovered that the sticky feeling that bothers me so much wears off as you knead. I've discovered that arms that spend all day hefting a weighty baby are equal to kneading -- and that it only takes ten minutes of hard work. Then there's a bit time to go and do something else, before the pleasure of punching down the sponge and hearing the bubbles pop.

3. I'm so tired, and it's going to be a difficult night -- but I do like having Alec as a warm bundle in bed beside me. He feels needy and pathetic and just wants to be held. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't be happy in with me -- he would roll and wriggle and squirm until I put him back in his cot.

* In one of those ah-ha moments, I discovered that GP has curated a show at the British Museum on the unknown craftsman.

Adoration, our summer and trying to stand.

1. An elderly lady with the sort of white, soft hair that I want to touch: "I couldn't leave without saying how adorable they are." Alec and the twins look up at her wide-eyed. Later a man comes up and guesses their ages (incorrectly -- they're eight months, the same as his new grandson). And still more later, another grandfather is laughs at Alec's clapping ("We've got a sealion here!" and leaves his own granddaughter hanging disappointed in the next swing along.

2. Finally... one of those long, hot summer days that feels as if it will never end. The park is full of ice creams and wasps and we cluster in the shade. We're all wearing jeans because it looked a bit dull this morning.

3. At the library I kneel up and sit Alec on my knees. He keeps trying to stand -- and the librarian smiles at him. At the end, she says: "He's already got a sense of rhythm."

4. The table in the toddler's play house is just the right size for Alec to practise standing. A boy who might be four climbs in through the window and leans across the table and examines him. "Not too close, Zack," says his mother. "He's got a new cousin of seven months and he's absolutely smitten," she explains. I think Zack is being very good -- and Alec seems rather taken by him. They have a conversation about cake and tea (I have to supply Alec's part, but I like to think I am qualified to say what he would have said.)

Tiny cakes, up to the park and good night.

1. The mother and Alec have brought back tiny fairy strawberry fairy cakes and flapjacks from their morning shopping.

2. At the end of work, I walk up to the park to meet them. I feel like a dad instead of a mum.

3. As I am adding milk to Nick's tea, I hear him call down the stairs: "Little man bagged and a bit cross." I put the mug by his plate of sandwiches on the table, and go upstairs -- quietly -- to give Alec his last milk.

Design, gardening and refusing.

1. Chris the designer has gone to town on our lead feature for the October issue. It looks great, and there's a bit of a buzz in the production room. We're worried about what the publisher is going to say... and then the email comes back: he likes it.

2. Everyone is in the front garden when I come home. Alec is lolled in his pushchair, very asleep; the mother is filling a black plastic sack with weeds.

3. He's been turning his head and making a tight line with his lips every time I offer the spoon. I put his meat and potatoes to one side and start eating some fruit and yoghurt... and suddenly he's interested.

PS: This is what all the fuss has been about -- I'm working as acting editor of a new magazine.