I'm quickly becoming obsessed with faked tilt-shift photography. There may come a time when all my photographs – firstborn, graduations, the lot – are made to look like the subjects are on a model train set. There are a bunch of my experiments now on the Flickr album.

My lady wife has returned home after a brief soujourn in The Mother Country; on passing the border, the poor tot promptly succumbed to a cold. Evidently, she has become A Soft Southerner. Her mother responded appropriately, though, forcing tumblers of Bailey's between her parched lips, and encouraging the cat to keep her company. Not that the cat needs much encouragement – I've never met such a talkative beast. Apparently, she – the cat, the cat – has now adopted the habit of only sitting down to eat at the same time as my in-laws; regardless of the time her food is put down, she only appears when the humans pick up their cutlery.

In other news, a small area of flesh on my wrist looked like crispy bacon this morning, on account of me inadvertently – unlikely as that adverb may seem – pressing said body part against the heating elements of our grill. But worry ye not: thanks to the frankly terrifying regenerative capabilities of Elastoplast's spiffy new SilverHealing plasters, it looks much more like normal skin. I imagine it will only be in years to come that the metallic nature of the patch of bio-engineered skin on my wrist will come to light, when I inexplicably start setting off airport security systems and saving-the-world-while-wearing-my underpants-on-the-outside.