In the span of the last twelve months, four daughters were born to four fathers (strictly speaking, four mothers had a bit of a hand in proceedings, but they don't call it herstory do they?). Each was born with their own unique talent. From left to right; Aoife, able to cry tears so silent only dogs and her father can hear them; Ruby, able to make teeth grow at will. With other babies you'd think that look of intense concentration had you reaching for the nappy bag, in her case it probably means she's pushing another tooth through; Hannah, able to bewitch and beguile male suitors of all shapes and sizes, particularly ones called Dylan, who just happens to be seated to her right. Note the proprietary hand placed on his leg to warn off any bitch who fancies making a play for her man. And finally, Olivia, given to dispensing kissess with an abandon quite shocking considering her human contact phobic of a father.

Yesterday, these four young females came together from all corners of the Kingdom - from Bicester, from Bolton, and, with no regard for my fondness for alliteration, from Chorlton, for an historic first summit. Dylan Lowe is the lucky young gent squiring the young ladies. Not pictured the four fathers all manfully fighting back the tears, though Mike's were mingled with a 'Get in there my son!' as he saw Dylan work his magic. As the mighty Flight of the Conchords sing, I'm not crying, I've just been walking in the rain'.