Sussex Police have released a CCTV image today in the hope of identifying a man who robbed a betting shop in Worthing. And here it is...


I like to think I never forget a face, but frankly that could be Lisa and I'd be none the wiser. I think we need a new law banning robbers from wearing balaclavas. If Ladbrokes want to make back the money they've lost, they should start taking bets on the man being recognised.

But crime-fighting aside, I had to go into hospital this morning. Well ok, I have to go into hospital every morning, but today I went to a department with fewer cakes. I actually had an appointment with a consultant. Yes, two years after first being diagnosed with bacterial prostatitis (apologies if you're eating your dinner), my GP has finally got bored with it (and me) coming back every few months, and referred me to a urologist.

So I spent an enjoyable half hour this morning sitting in a waiting room full of middle-aged men. I didn't know whether to be pleased that I was the youngest person there, or alarmed that my prostate's packed up twenty years early. I went to the toilet at one point, only to find a huge sign on the door asking urology patients not to urinate in case the consultant wants to check your rate of flow. It makes you wonder why they don't just lock the door. Or vandalise the urinals.

As it turned out, I wasn't subjected to a speed trial of my urine. I did, however, undergo a physical examination which involved a pair of gloves, a finger, and a lot of lubricating jelly, after which he posed the question "Is it ok if I check your testicles?". Fortunately I had the balls to say yes, and as a result, he now knows me better than Lisa. At least she has the decency to turn off the lights.

Anyhoo, the upshot is that he's given me a three-for-one deal on pharmaceuticals, by prescribing me an antibiotic, an anti-inflammatory, and a drug to treat the side effects of both. If that one gives me side effects, I'm in trouble. I then let a nurse take the piss out of me, before heading to OPD for a blood test. I've got to go back in July, but the good news is that by then I'll be working directly above the urology department. On the downside, I'll be passing people on the stairs who can picture me naked.

Ah, the joys of living in a basement flat in Brighton...


My neighbours in Kemptown have quite a way with words. It's not everyone who can write a sign which includes the words 'please', 'thank you' and 'pissing'.

But talking of unlikely signs, here's Amelie at a Fiery Food Festival...


Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. But a chilli pepper might.

To be honest, neither Amelie nor I are big fans of spicy food (although I've been told I'm hot stuff), but that didn't stop us walking all the way to Hove for the festival on Sunday. Of course, in an ideal world, the Fiery Food website would have made it clear that they'd be charging a £2.50 entry fee before we trekked two miles along the seafront, but you can't have everything in life. I considered trying to get in without a ticket, but you don't really want to go breaking and entering into an enclosure full of people armed with pepper spray. So we peered through the fence, sniffed the air, and then walked home empty-handed. Frankly I can do without fire in my belly.

When I came out of work at lunchtime today, I spotted a lost-looking woman wandering aimlessly in the hospital grounds. To be honest, she wasn't hard to spot. I'm not saying she was fat, but if I'd wanted to talk about her behind her back, I'd have needed a full tank of petrol for the journey.

She called me over and asked for directions to a department I'd never heard of, so I helpfully pointed her towards one with a very similar name. She assured me that no, that wasn't the one she wanted, and that she was there to attend a clinic to give her advice on exercise.

Frankly I was none the wiser, so I suggested she walk back down to the main reception in A-block, about a hundred yards down the hill, and ask for directions there. She looked indignant and said "I've just walked all the way up here. I'm not going to walk all the way back down there."

You can't write comedy like that. I was tempted to give her some of my own advice on exercise, but I wasn't sure she'd appreciate it. Personally I don't think the clinic exists. I think it was just her doctor's way of getting her off the sofa.

But in news even more ground-shaking than a fat woman walking down a hill, Lisa's mother has stumbled upon documentary evidence which could disprove the widely held (and often mentioned) opinion that Amelie looks like her Dad. As unlikely as it may sound, it's just possible she could look like her Mum too. Following close examination of a photo that even Tony Robinson and Time Team would have struggled to unearth, I hereby present Exhibit A: Lisa in 1971...



The defence rests.

Lisa's Aunt passed away at about five-thirty yesterday afternoon. She was one of the loveliest people I've ever met, so it's obviously very sad, but she and her husband celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary last month, and she lived to see Lisa start a family, which was always one of her dreams, so there's a lot to be thankful for. I've eaten a lot of her cakes and biscuits over the years, and she paid for Amelie's play mat, but personally I'll remember her for all the times she made me laugh, most notably when she rewrote the front page of the Argus.


Amelie may not remember her Great Aunt, but she'll grow up hearing a lot about her.

It's Easter! And the good news is that Christ isn't the only one who's risen. Amelie's been up half the night too. Fortunately I was allowed to sleep from 7am until 10am on the grounds that listening to Lisa getting up and down all night had made me quite sleepy, but having crawled out of bed mid-morning and opened a box of Lindt Lindor, I've been forced to take charge of the Easter chick while Lisa sleeps for a few hours. We're planning a hospital visit later, and judging by the way Lisa looked this morning, I think she might stay there. If only Chloe could sing lullabies.

But anyhoo, if you're wondering how to shift those extra pounds after Easter, the answer's simple: fifty press-ups every morning...


It's done wonders for Amelie's bingo wings. Although the only six-pack she's got is of Pampers baby wipes.

So with the family's exercise regime in place, Lisa, Amelie and I went out for a slap-up meal at Strada yesterday...


Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking Phil, the long hair suits you, and you've clearly lost some weight, but at the end of the day, haven't you just copied Lisa's fringe? Well as it happens, that's not me. It's actually our friend 'C'. You know, the one who lives in a ghetto. Yes, four months after posting a photo of the back of her head, you can finally see what she looks like.

Anyhoo, C came down to see the sea yesterday, so we took her out for lunch at the marina. I've never been to Strada before, but it was very nice. Well, I say very nice. To be honest, I wouldn't go there again if you paid me, but Lisa seemed to like it. Maybe I just ordered the wrong dishes. Frankly our starter of "hand-stretched pizza bread" had been stretched to breaking point and came out like a giant cream cracker. I could be wrong, but I don't think you should be able to snap a pizza. As for my main course, I put on my best Italian accent and ordered the 'Orecchiette Salsiccia e Broccoli'. It turned out to be ear-shaped pasta with no sauce. Even the dessert was disappointing. And the tragedy is, McDonalds was only a hundred yards further on.

It was well worth going though, because C gave us a box of chocolate seashells which are very nice indeed (I can say that because I've eaten most of them already), before presenting Amelie with a multi-coloured twisty rattly teething thingy. The manufacturers claim that it "Teaches baby cause and effect", which seems a little unnecessary to me. She already knows that if she cries, we come running. And on that subject, I've really gotta go...

Sometimes the things you really want in life seem just out of reach...

But at the end of the day, you can always suck your thumb.

If there's one thing I like to do on a bank holiday weekend, it's to visit a ruined castle...


I think it's the inflatable version of the West Pier. And frankly, with attractions like that on our doorstep, anyone who chooses to go all the way to Bodiam this Easter must be mad.

Anyhoo, I snapped that photo this afternoon when I took Amelie for a long walk along the seafront. Well, I say walk. We kind of half walked and half swam. I'm not saying it rained a lot, but I spent most of the journey trying to remember my tsunami training from the NHS induction course.

The good news is that Amelie's buggy came complete with a PVC rain cover. The bad news is I didn't take it with us. By the time we were halfway to Hove, her cosytoes was more soggy than cosy, and I could have kept a goldfish alive in the puddle on her lap. I had to stop every hundred yards just to wring the water out of her bunny ears.

Anyway, let's just say it was grim. Frankly, whoever called this Good Friday should be crucified. People were so desperate for shelter, they were actually queuing at the Sealife Centre. That's how bad it got.

Against all the odds, however, Amelie and I eventually made it to Western Road, where we took cover in the Shelter charity shop and wondered if we were the only people who could see the joke, before buying some tomatoes in Sainsburys and starting the long paddle home. We eventually squelched our way through the front door at four-thirty, cold, water-logged, and with every chance of starting a flu pandemic in Brighton. Forget global warming, from now on I'm driving everywhere.

I think bunny ears are the new black...

They seem to suit anyone. Frankly if they came in my size I'd be wearing them to work.

As it happens, that aural extravaganza was given to me outside the pharmacy stores last night by the Backswing Boy from Monday's post. He bought them in the Eastbourne Arndale Centre when he should have been working. To be honest, I think he only gave them to Amelie because he couldn't get them on himself. I'm just surprised he didn't keep them for his cat.

But Easter gifts aside, my employers are currently planning for a 'Flu Pandemic or Major Incident'. Which is reassuring. They hand-delivered a questionnaire to my flat yesterday afternoon, so they've obviously twigged that I live just across the road from the hospital, and see me as being ideally placed to respond to a nuclear attack by walking to work in a fallout suit.

Aside from asking if I can still make it in for 9am if the country runs out of petrol, the questionnaire also asks if I have any 'unqualified skills' which could be put to good use in an emergency. As it happens, I'm unqualified in all sorts of areas, so I was tempted to tick most of the boxes, especially the one about "unqualified midwifery". I survived a tsunami in the birthing pool when Amelie was born, so I think I could deliver a baby with flu.

To be honest though, I'd rather the UK's fuel supplies didn't dry up in the near future, because I've just bought myself a new car. I know, first the vacuum cleaner and now this. Anyone would think I've got a new job. I actually went to the same dealer who supplied my previous car. They treat me like a son there, and make sure I get a good deal. Possibly because they're my parents.

Yes, just twelve weeks after taking ownership of my Mum's car, I've had enough, and insisted on buying my Dad's. If this one's no good, I'll be on to my brother. Anyway, it's only two years old instead of ten, so bearing in mind that it took me three days to ruin the old one, I reckon I can knacker this car in a fortnight.

Amelie's ready for Easter...


It's no wonder she won't stop rabbiting on in the middle of the night.

I took the afternoon off work today to look after Amelie while Lisa went to visit her aunt in hospital. It gave me the chance to do a hospital visit of my own, by dropping into the HR department on the top floor of the Sussex Eye Hospital, where I handed in my Criminal Records Bureau disclosure form and asked them to let me photograph children. Well, the retinas of diabetics over 12. They accepted my request, asked to see my passport, and said they'd get back to me. To be honest, it was all pretty much the same as my visit on February 11th last year, except that I'm more tired these days and can't make it sound as funny.

So with promotion imminent, Amelie and I headed across town to Argos, where we picked up a new vacuum cleaner for eighty quid. Frankly my old one sucks, but not in the way it's meant to, and I need something to pick up all the pureed food that Amelie spits onto the carpet. She's still unconvinced of the tastiness of pear and potato, but the good news is that she tried some organic apple yesterday and loved it. At least that's what Lisa told me.

So at half past eight this morning, with Amelie strapped into the feeding hot-seat, Lisa called me over with the words "Come and see how much Amelie loves apple!". Which is the very definition of tempting fate.

What really gets me is the look of desperation in her eyes which says "Help me, Daddy"...

I should add that Lisa only gave me permission to publish that video on condition that I remove the embarassing audio of her making ridiculous noises. So if you could turn the volume down on your speakers, I'd be grateful.

As any kingpin will tell you, there are basically three elements to the perfect bowling technique...


        The Backswing                         The Hold                             The Release

Ideally the ball should rarely go as high as your head, you should try to avoid standing like a hunchback with sciatica, and above all, don't look like you're wearing clown shoes.

But if you can put it all together successfully, you'll end up with this...

Note the swish of the left hand five seconds after releasing the ball, an optimistic technique designed to persuade the ball to veer back on course after a dodgy delivery. Opinion is divided as to whether it works. Lisa says it does, the rest of the world disagrees.

Anyhoo, as the documentary evidence above shows, Lisa and I went bowling yesterday afternoon with our pals, S & A. And I can prove they're our pals...


The scoreboard says so. Although if I'd entered our initials the other way around, it would have said SLAP.

I've been bowling a few times before (including the time I bowled Lisa over), and Lisa likes eating Skittles, so together we made a pretty formidable team. Especially when you factor in the cheerleading efforts of Amelie. I was going to make her a 'Go Daddy!' banner to hold, but I knew she'd only eat it, and I didn't want the sound of her choking to put me off my stride.

As for our opponents, they were an international outfit comprising a Canadian with bowling in his blood, and a Slovakian starved of skittles by the iron fist of communism. To be honest, they both claimed to know nothing about bowling, a fact which may have influenced Lisa slightly when she offered to bet me a pound that she wouldn't come last. I'm still deciding how to spend my winnings.

Anyway, if there's one thing I learnt from Saturday's Grand National, it's not to underestimate an outsider. You might think that someone who's never picked up a bowling ball in his life, and had no idea you have to wear special shoes, could never beat a couple of seasoned pros (and Lisa) in his first ever game. Needless to say, you'd be wrong.

Unfortunately I don't have a photo of that. But feast your eyes instead on the scores above, which came from our second game, a mighty contest in which I powered to (joint) victory, crushing my opponents like a bowling behemoth, with a near-faultless display of pin-pushing. How I only scored 91 out of 300, I'll never know. I think it's some kind of computer error.

So with the sweet smell of victory (and the odour of hired shoes) filling my nostrils, I took Lisa to McDonalds to toast my success with a Creme Egg McFlurry. Whereupon I peeled off the Monopoly sticker from the side of my cup, and promptly won a free apple pie. I thought I must be leading a charmed life. Until I burnt my mouth on the filling, and had to stagger home in pain.

The trouble with forcing Amelie to eat potato against her will is that she's liable to take revenge by making us listen to modern jazz all night. On the plus side, I think she's got a definite talent for scat singing which we may be able to exploit for financial gain, but on the downside, it's hard to plan your daughter's career when you can't keep your eyes open.

So I got up early this morning in the hope that Lisa could get some sleep while Am and I had fun in the sun. And what fun we had. For a start, I learnt the useful fact that Amelie loves the sound of my carpet cleaner spray. I only have to squeeze the trigger and she starts laughing, which is good to know. Admittedly I would have preferred to find that out without going through the trauma of seeing her projectile pooing across the living room floor, but you can't have everything. At least she was happy for the half hour it took me to clean it up.

So with the carpet gently drying in the April sunshine, Amelie and I hit the streets and went for an early morning stroll along the seafront. It was pretty uneventful. Apart from the UFO encounter and alien abduction. Looking down over the crazy golf course by the pier, the sea suddenly came alive with weird flashing lights...

I couldn't decide if it signalled the rise of an alien creature from the depths of the sea, or the landing of some kind of spacecraft, but either way I thought I had the new Cloverfield on my hands, so I kept filming. The authorities sent in a dog handler to investigate, but as the hound was sucked out of the sight by the UFO's tractor beam, the man lost the use of his legs, and the whole operation went tits-up. So we went to the corner shop for some porridge instead.

It was quite exciting while it lasted though. And it gave me an excuse to do my E.T. impression for Amelie. To be honest, she didn't seem that impressed, but let's face it, the words "Phone home" aren't going to mean much when your Mummy never turns on her mobile. I should have gone with "Ouch" instead.

Of course, I suppose it could have been the sun reflecting off the mirrorball on the roof of the pier...


... but I think aliens is more likely.

Well ok, that didn't go quite according to plan. I think my main problem was the length of the race and the fact that they had to jump fences. Take those two things out of the equation and I'd have been laughing. Frankly it's all a conspiracy to make me look like I don't know what I'm talking about. But still, it could have been worse. Lisa's horse was dead by four-thirty.

Anyhoo, if there's one thing guaranteed to take your mind off the national disgrace of another grand travesty, it's the happy smiling face of a baby.

Yes, that look of neverending joy and contentment can mean only one thing: Amelie's moved on from pear to potato...


We're going to save a fortune on chips.

Sadly, telling someone to get well soon, and sending them the most positive of thoughts, doesn't always work. It seems that Lisa's Aunt won't be getting her wish to see Amelie grow up after all. So the mood around these parts is a little sombre, and we all feel like making the kind of face Amelie makes when she tastes pear puree.

But the good news is that I know the winner of tomorrow's Grand National, and I plan to spend every penny of my winnings on a bunch of flowers so large that they won't let me through the doors of Vallance Ward without six boxes of chlorphenamine.

So without further ado, the first four past Red Rum's headstone tomorrow afternoon will be...

1st. Offshore Account at 33-1
He's done nothing for two years. Which is why he's going to win tomorrow. He's gone completely under the radar, and everyone's forgotten how good he was as a baby. I'll be saying the same about Amelie in a couple of years time.

2nd. Cornish Sett at 40-1
More than four years ago, I exclusively revealed the secret of jump racing success. Suffice it to say it applies to this horse. He might have only finished 12th last year, but he's been under the surgeon's knife since then, and you couldn't keep him out of the first four with a crowbar.

3rd Himalayan Trail at 33-1
This has all the signs of an Irish plot. Great last year, rubbish this year. I smell a rat...


4th. Darkness at 20-1
Owned by Andrew Lloyd Webber, and he'll come a lot closer to winning this than Eurovision.


I should add that joint favourite Butler's Cabin doesn't stand a chance, and couldn't win this race in a horsebox.

I may have eaten Amelie's one and only Easter egg at the weekend, but the good news is she's been given another one...

She only has to see a cute chick and she gets all excited. She's so like her father. The egg's not actually edible, but needless to say she won't let that stop her shoving it into her mouth. Lisa's been force-feeding her pear puree for the past two days and she needs something to take the taste away.

Anyhoo, I'd like to thank our friends S & A for the furry egg. They've already provided Amelie with a singing cat, a cuddly cow and a magic wand, so they're saving me a fortune in toys. But this one's the most educational yet, because as everyone knows, baby chicks can do maths.

As for today, I spent the morning eating lemon tart and carrot cake with the Chief Pharmacist. Well, I say the Chief Pharmacist. She actually retired yesterday, so technically I was just chatting to a pensioner. She said "I can't believe you're leaving", I said "You're a fine one to talk", then she showed me a photo of herself dressed as Maggie Simpson. I'll miss the woman. Well, I'll miss her cakes.

And on the subject of little old ladies in hospital, Lisa and I visited her Aunt in the Royal Sussex last night. She's been in there since Friday, and she's more poorly than we realised. As a septuagenarian with no computer, the chances of her reading this are slim, but she's one of the loveliest people you could ever wish to meet, and she's desperate to see Amelie grow up, so I'd just like to tell her to get well soon.