Grey Paris, gay Londres

I've just had an I-can't-believe-I'm-that-old birthday and am in the grips of a mutating cold that's simply refusing to go. Our recent sans enfants trip to sub-zero temperature Paris was lovely but I felt so ill I certainly didn't make the most of it, and so returned feeling rather sorry for myself. Everything seemed so very old and so very grey.

What I needed was a good dose of my children to take me out of my sombre mood, but I also needed them to be calm and quiet so I could convalesce on the couch. And bless Daisy and Buddy, they really got that. Buddy mostly read and played with the Lego, and Daisy decided to play hairdressers.

She started with Daddy's hair. I was instantly cheered just by watching them both in the salon; her careful and fastidious brush work, her little hands smoothing Daddy's curls, and hearing her small voice instructing him to sit forwards or keep still or close his eyes while she sprayed water onto his head. He was a good customer too. He tolerated the avant-garde style she'd given him - not quite as outrageous as the picture currently on the Paris Metro Map below - and looked appreciatively in the mirror with barely a giggle.

Then it was my turn. And since I'd decided to take a bath, Daisy the hairdresser said she would wash my hair for me. I should point out that by this time she'd dressed up for the part - she was now in a rainbow-ribbon skirt and had fashioned an Alice-band into a headdress loaded with multicoloured feathers.

And so it was this colourful vision of a girl who shampooed and conditioned my hair with all the patter of a professional, who then brushed, styled and clipped it up to her heart's content with her favourite sparkly accessories. She even found my hairspray to fix the whole look. *cough, splutter*

And, at last, I began to cheer up. Not in gay Paris - but at home in Daisy's Beauty Salon with her crazy hair-dos and rainbow-coloured clothes. How could I not?