Somewhere between Norway and Amy Winehouse, you do start to think that things could be a lot worse in the Gardner household. We might have a gap in Lisa's teeth, my wallet and our family tree, but at least we're not dead. Although I'm probably tempting fate there.

We drove over to my parents' again on Friday evening for another weekend of supported living. It's like sheltered housing for the tearful, but with meals all-inclusive, and baby-sitting thrown in. Amelie managed to eat an entire punnet of blueberries during the journey, which equates to about six of her five-a-day, and meant that by the time we got to St Leonards, she was so full of superfood, she looked like Violet Beauregarde. She'd also had a little accident in her car seat. Which I suppose is an appropriate place to have one.

Lisa spent most of yesterday in bed, while I made it one stage further by vegging out on the sofa, but in the evening I successfully persuaded my wife to come to Tescos. Lisa's only been out four times in the past fortnight, and they were all trips to the dentist, so it was a step forward for her to mingle with the great British public. Especially the type you get in the Hastings branch of Tesco.

Her facial bruises have completely vanished now, so if she knows what's good for her, she'll keep her mouth shut, and no one will ever know the state of her broken teeth and heart. Unfortunately, it's not easy living your life without talking. Especially if you're Lisa. It meant that we walked around Tescos like some kind of ventriloquist act - me making conversation, her replying without moving her lips. If she had more than a sentence to say, she'd put her hand over her mouth like she was telling me a secret. I'm sure the other shoppers thought we were gossiping about them. Which wasn't always the case.

Lisa saved her best move for last though. We were at the checkout, and the woman was trying to scan the small pack of chocolate truffles that we'd bought for purely medicinal purposes. When they wouldn't go through, she asked me how much they were. Naturally, as someone with no interest in chocolate, I didn't know, so we both turned to Lisa, who was loading the conveyor belt at the other end of the checkout, and said "How much were these?".

She'd just retrieved from the trolley a twin-pack of t-shirts for Amelie, so she reacted instinctively with the reflexes of a jungle cat, held the hanger to her forehead, covered her face with with fabric, and said "A pound!" through the armpit of the veil. I don't think the woman suspected a thing.