My daughter has had her first kiss. She’s 10 months old and wasn’t at all fazed by the charms of a blonde, blue-eyed 15-month-old toddler.

He spends most days with her at our childminder and he has clearly grown extremely fond of Betsy.

I know this by the look of delight on his face as she arrives everyday.

His milk-tooth grin lights up his face. It’s that blissfully innocent and honest affection that is only prevalent in children with nothing to tarnish a beautiful friendship.

The only transient animosity is brought on by wanting the same toy or those short-lived tears as Dora the Explorer is hidden under the sofa.

I witnessed this kiss – their arms outstretched to administer a hug resulting in an innocent peck on the lips.

Aren’t children wonderful! My childminder, however, does deserve a sainthood or some recognition in the Queen’s honours list as day-in, day-out she entertains, cares for and has the ability to make my daughter laugh like I can only dream of.

Most women when asked what’s the one thing they couldn’t live without would say their mascara… I say my childminder.

Last week I had woman flu.

Well, that’s what my husband called it but what would he know about being “properly” ill.

A man gets a sniffle and then deems that he has only weeks to live. My illness was genuine. Women aren’t really allowed to be ill, or certainly not able to lie in bed moaning at half hourly intervals, demanding the odd pill and a glass of water to relieve the pain. I didn’t venture too far from my boudoir not least beause I didn’t want to be caught in my beloved animal print housecoat (have toyed with a onesie but decided looking like a pantomime snow leopard was a bad idea) and Betsy was also feeling less than great with her overproduction of teething dribble.

Looking after a mobile baby is hard but while nursing a pounding head is doubly testing.

 

I do love the colours of the countryside at this time of year, I enjoy the bracing air with the crisp crunch of leaves underfoot. Weekend downtime is most enjoyable among the backdrop of Chipping Norton or indeed the surroundings of Charlbury… as was our rambling route of choice last weekend.

We snubbed the predictable scenery of the Cornbury estate in favour of a muddy footpath on the outskirts of Charlbury.

Stumbling upon the HQ of Charlbury Canoe Club on the bank of a sneaky little part of the river I thought that the slightly submerged pontilla would be an ideal place to wash off my wellies.

What I didn’t predict was that the partially submerged platform would be more slippery than a banana skin on an ice rink.

Thank goodness for the foresight of my quick-thinking husband who, as I was halfway through the splits and on my way into the ice cold muddy water, grabbed my arm and steadied me preventing my fall.

Didn’t fancy a bout of swamp flu!