Highlight may not be the most apt terminology, but certainly a four day stay at Edinburgh’s wonderful Sick Kids with Tallulah unsurprisingly dominated matters recently. 

Her seemingly unremitting cheer in the face of relatively manageable childhood eczema was tested as she developed a fairly vicious series of skin infections, which decided to converge en masse on her mini immune system.

While seeing one’s progeny in discomfort of any kind weighs heavy, the delirium and pain they have to beat at times surely softens the hardest heart. For yours truly, who can become misty eyed at the simple thought of his youths save for their regular kindnesses and humour, I mercifully handle matters like this better; if not it would all be a bit too Gwyneth or Kate in front of the nurses for all concerned.

There is also, though, a curious quality to such episodes- an excuse (if one were needed for a professional boring parent such a I) to focus unapologetically and resolutely on the wonders we share our homes, and the best of our time with.

Such trips and visits seem rigged for absurd humour as well; in this instance my wife, a colossus of a mother and eminent pragmatist, ventured to the shops to get provisions for us, as I would be staying overnights with the baby criminal while Oran stayed at home. The return was markedly less than triumphant, and likely she couldn’t have fared much worse had she wilfully set out to buy the most arbitrary,obtuse fare on offer for the maximum price. As we counted our blessings that she hadn’t brought spark plugs or a travel rug amidst rich tea biscuits and the like, the absurdity of such scenarios seemed all too resonant.

Elsewhere, the distraction of nurses as transparently daft as us joining in mass renditions of one finger, one thumb to distract from cannulas, drips and the like must compel every bad cliche politicians will ladle on these wonders in our midst. Nurses, of course, don’t strike; however it remains an absurdity that they are still not rewarded, and lauded more than those haphazardly perpetrating the idiocy, incompetence, and avarice in our midst.

I have to confess as well that the chance to tackle the Sunday papers and read my book in relative peace between four hourly treatments was a fairly sizeable silver lining to the moderate cloud, tempered as it was by the fact that nothing overly untoward was afoot. Worse, there was a degree of disappointment when Sky Sports never came on the TV, and Sky Go seemed a bridge too far in the circumstances, which roughly translates to there was nothing that compelling on. As it turned out, YouTube on my phone was a major saving grace for Lula throughout, as was the ever increasing mountain of toys and books from home which helped immeasurably.

Meanwhile, the private room necessitated by isolation from her yet to be specified infections was markedly more blessing than curse, save for when a couple of doctors came to entertain the ward. As they stood on the other side of the glass door dressed as clowns with ukelele and feather duster in hand Lula’s face lit up, although passing their card under the door served as a swift reminder of the temporary quarantine at hand.

Lula’s innate ability for mischief still meant sleep defying antics at absurd hours, shouting at passing staff, and the requisite tomfoolery which rendered our adventure strangely fulfilling, and indulgent, for me at least, especially as Mum had to deal with us, Oran and all the attendant additional vagaries of life. As she lay sleeping with a swollen jaw and with skin ravaged by the infections, she naturally remained the most beautiful girl in the world, with the happiest, luckiest Dad for many a mile around.