I am finding our new routine of pottering about in the morning, finding a pub at lunchtime, sitting in the sun all afternoon, and having a child cook dinner in the evening very pleasant. Sad that this decadent life can only continue for another day or two till Bobby goes back to work and my puritan work ethic kicks back in.

Though Sophie's dinner cooking last night was a touch fraught - she chose to make individual omelettes and potato wedges and salad, with tiny milk tarts for dessert, and - though she did the milk tarts extremely competently - the omelette part was a lot trickier than she'd anticipated, what with the beating of the eggs and the hot frying pan and the sharp knife for the tomatoes and the potatoes. And she wouldn't let us help, which left us cowering and wincing in the livingroom, blaming each other in whispers for having let her choose something so fiddly.

However, eventually she let Emily help her with things like getting the omelettes out of the heavy pan and onto the plates, so she survived more-or-less unscathed. "Just a small cut mom, and there wasn't even any blood really."