First

My daughter spent an amazingly exciting week away at camp, sleeping in a tent, going to Thorpe Park, swimming, having campfire sing-songs, and even caving. So what was her answer when I asked her what the “best bit” of her trip was?

“Spag bol. We had spag bol, Mum.”

Similarly, when she went to a pop concert at Wembley Arena with the Guides, and saw JLS and a host of other young chart-botherers, what was the highlight for her, when quizzed? 
“That chicken pasta meal you packed for me, Mum.”

Our recent holiday on The Isle Of Wight? 

“The sea food platter”.

Can you see a pattern emerging here?

Today, we were round my Mum and Dad's. My husband was working, so didn't know anything about a little gift 'Nanna' had given my daughter: a signed photo of young Arsenal and England star Jack Wilshere, sorted out for my little Gooner by a friend of a friend.  (By the way, my husband, despite being a Spurs fan, manages manfully to curtail his instinctive hatred of the Arsenal when it comes to my daughter's love for them.)

When he arrived back home and settled down for a catch-up chat with his favourite girl, and asked her if anything good had happened today, her face lit up like a beacon. "Ah, bless," I thought to myself. "She's so excited about that picture, she can't wait to tell her Dad!"

Grinning from ear to ear, she looked up at him, her eyes shining.

"We had a LOVELY lasagne."

Now I enjoy a meal as much as the next chubster. But for people with Prader-Willi Syndrome, food is such an all-encompassing force in their lives that it really is their first, their last, their everything.

(Cue Barry:)