Chickenpox

G's remarkable run of having avoided all of the main childhood illnesses finally ended this week. Nursery called on Wednesday afternoon to say she'd come down with chickenpox. Nearly three-and-a-half years with nothing worse than a couple of mild bouts of conjunctivitis means we've all been pretty fortunate, and I didn't mind too much staying in on Thursday and Friday to take care of her.

Taking Calpol ("pink medicine") is something G does quite willingly, but then it is sweet enough to make me consider a sly spoonful whenever I get it out. But rubbing the inevitable calamine lotion over G's spotty body was a bit more like hard work. Trying to attack a particularly large scabby one in her left ear, I had to virtually pin her down over my knee to keep her from wriggling, while also trying to get her lengthening hair out of the way.

I got the cream on, but it didn't last very long. Twenty minutes later, as we were sat next to each other on the sofa watching TV, G said: "Daddy, look!" and I turned to see her holding out her finger, the scab from her ear on the end of it. Almost enough to put you off Twiglets for life.