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.