It started with a phonecall. I'm sat innocently at mys desk, gathering my thoughts (ie frantically thinking of what to get them to do) in those final minutes before the bell rings to signal the end of break (though this being a sixth-form college, it's a notional bell rather than a literal wheezing and clanging one). So my phone rings. My phone never rings. It's Nursery. They don't want to alarm me - too late for that, as it always is whenever anyone uses that phrase - but they think that Olivia has chicken-pox and if it isn't too much bother could I please be there in ten minutes to get her off the premises.

Of course I know exactly what to do in such situations; phone Cath and get her to do the pick up. Only Cath isn't answering. Before you can say, 'Sorry kids I'm going to have to canvel the lesson and you wouldn't believe the exciting activities I'd been planning...' I'm tearing out of college.

Sure enough the child is riddled with the pox; they're practically multiplying before my eyes when I eventually arrive it's safe to say that all plans for the weekend are on hold.

Three days later and I have had to throw a Beckham - day off due to poorly offspring and I am busy discovering just how many hours in the day there are; millions of them it seems; if days are this long why haven't I caught up with my entire work backlog?

Must dash - time for the umpteenth application of calamine lotion today.