When she fell over and scraped her knees, it was not until she appeared at my side that I realised she had been hurt.
And when I picked her up to soothe her, instead of bursting my eardrums with her trademark roar, it was like having a little budgie squeaking on my shoulder.
Ditto the squabbles with her big sister. There would be a tug at my skirt and wild gesticulating, but no dialogue (unless she was the antagonist and had set her sister off, in which case there was enough dialogue for the both of them).
And the tantrums all but disappeared.
At first, they were like a form of primitive break-dancing - writhing around on the floor with no vocals to identify them as tantrums.
But then they started to wane.
Without an audience, she simply gave up.
One evening, having been warned numerous times about getting out of bed, I shut her in her room.
From behind the closed door, there was silence.
I read Miss Five her bedtime story before returning to see what the damage was.
Expecting to be greeted with a tear-stained face, I eased open the door to find a very chipper Miss Three sitting in bed playing with her soft toys.
She had obviously decided there was no point throwing a tantrum if no one could hear it.
Perhaps, if her affliction lasted long enough, she would lose the ability altogether, I thought wishfully.
But, alas, no.
When her voice came back a few days later, it was like being reunited with a long-lost friend.
Miss Three and her voice were inseparable. And she used it to maximum effect.
Needless to say, I will not be stocking up on lozenges for winter.
