This afternoon my niece died. I haven’t heard any other details yet; the fact that the leukaemia treatment was going well seems to imply that she simply couldn’t fight against something else on top of it. That is usually what happens.

Hopefully I’ll be able to talk to either my sister or my parents tonight.

This week we are getting Little Nutter settled into his new school routine.

He is spending a few short sessions in the before & after school club and getting to know his teachers. Things are going well, and he is having lots of fun.

This morning I dropped him off on the way to nursery with Tiny Flirt, and the pair of them trotted into the club happily and explored the toys. I had a quick chat with the teachers, and then picked Tiny Flirt up and carried him out of the door. Little Nutter, as usual, glanced at us as we left.

Tiny Flirt looked over my shoulder and shouted to his brother, “Time to go!” I told Tiny Flirt that no, his brother is staying.

We walked out to the car, and Tiny Flirt started to shout frantically, “Dad! DAD! DAAAD!”

I strapped Tiny Flirt into his car seat, and he started to struggle: “No! No!” He started shouting out his brother’s name.

As we drove out of the car park, there was nothing but despondent wails of his brother’s name, and the occasional sniff.

At nursery, when I left him, he was trying to get at the telephone…

We couldn’t get into Tiny Flirt’s bedroom tonight. We wanted to check he was sleeping well but the door was jammed. All we could see in the couple of inches it would open was a pair of tiny feet on the floor, hard against the door and stopping us from opening it further. The snoring should have reassured us, but we had to interfere.

It took a couple of minutes but I eventually squeezed into his room and picked him up off the floor. As a reward for tucking him snugly into his bed he howled at me, punched me on the nose and demanded some fruit juice.

Ahhh, bless.

Meanwhile, Little Nutter doesn’t want to sleep any more. Life is far too interesting, so what’s the point? He eventually dozed off in his bedroom doorway, propped up against a toybox so he can easily observe all comings and goings.

Little Madam has started a money-making racket that the mafia would be proud of: tidying and cleaning rooms. It is, as usual, my fault. I offered her 50p a room.

Tonight, the family room is cordoned off with toy traffic cones and she is industriously dealing with the mess of the day. I have already been severely reprimanded for leaving a pair of shoes, a coffee cup and a book lying about - and she has been complaining about the excessive weight of her purse.

And finally, Darling Wifey and I have declared war. We only have one DVD player in our sitting room, and it cannot play Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Simpsons at the same time. Much as I appreciate Buffy’s delightful one-liners, she is not fit to tie the shoelaces of my idol, the Great Philosopher himself: Homer Simpson.

We have worked out what is happening to our teaspoons, and now regret teaching Little Nutter to put his rubbish into the bin. (Remember that scene from Fantasia, where Mickey Mouse is the the Sorcerer’s Apprentice? That’s what happens when you teach a boy with autism to put stuff in the bin.)

Then there’s the small matter of DVD players: we are on our third since Christmas. When the film finishes, Little Nutter destroys the machine in retribution. Thankfully, Tesco sells DVD players for ?30 - because otherwise we would be reduced to putting on shadow puppet shows using my “indestructable” Maglite (motto: “It’s never dark in America.” What are the odds of Little Nutter proving that one wrong?)

And a great big “Thanks” to Robert for the gifts he sent via Darren. The gift-wrapped T-shirt was the first item of clothing that Little Nutter put on when brand new. In fact, he was so thrilled with it that he wouldn’t let me take it off him until two days later - when I gave up trying and just gift-wrapped a whole clean outfit.

Four days of utter relaxation in Prague. Bliss.

Upon return to Blighty, however, the problems started. Our flight was delayed so we landed too late to catch the last train to York. No problem, we thought - we know plenty of people in London, so we’ll crash with them and get the first train in the morning. But no, that was not good enough for the Mother-in-Law, who needed us at home before six the next morning so she could leave for an urgent appointment.

So at half midnight on Friday night I found myself at a car rental depot, credit card in hand, being asked whether I preferred a petrol or diesel powered Skoda. Since being flayed alive or spending a night at the Holiday Inn weren’t available alternatives, I was forced to take one of these two “cars” and drive it for the next three and a half hours.

Then, at home at 4am, our arch-nemesis the Mother-in-Law wanted to show us how she had enjoyed her 88 hours of free reign in our house. She showed us the folded towels, the beautifully arranged fruit bowl, the freshly vacuumed carpets…

Inevitably, the reason why we had spent half the night in a Skoda was because the Mother-in-Law had to leave to go to a sale. I almost put her in her car there and then (in the boot, wrapped up in an old carpet…)

Since then we have been picking up the pieces. Our duvet was missing for a further three days. It was found in the top cupboard of Little Madam’s wardrobe. In a statement, the Mother-in-Law said: “It was lying on your bedroom floor, so I thought you didn’t need it. I can’t remember where I put it.”

Little Nutter’s disability parking permit, which took six months of negotiation and pleading with Social Services to get, was kept in the Mother-in-Law’s car when she left. Her statement: “It’ll be useful for when I’m looking after him. Why don’t I keep it and you get another one?”

The key to the letterbox was lost. The Mother-in-Law’s statement: “You shouldn’t have to worry about that. I always catch my postman.”

But we are so grateful for her kind offer to babysit…

The evidence:

Nothing is ever thrown away. Result: you can’t fit a rollerblade into our garage, never mind a car.

The Season 2 Boxed Set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer has to go back to the shop because the presentation box doesn’t match those of the other seasons. And whilst we’re on the subject, The Simpsons Boxed Sets have to be hidden because they clash with the carpet.

Half of our kitchen equipment was thrown away this week, because she didn’t like the cupboard.

We spent three hours lost in the World’s Biggest Maze this afternoon because she said she “fancied a nice walk.” She then blamed ME for her blistered feet.

And whilst we are on the subject of feet: I do appreciate that you are not Imelda Marcos, but surely in the four cities we have been shoe shopping in recently, there is at least one suitable pair?

She met an up-and-coming author tonight, and he signed something or other. When she got home she said, “I’ll save that. If he becomes famous, that’ll be worth something…”

And finally, she says that painting the ceiling is a good alternative to marathon training…

(That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.)