We've just discovered that when Lisa's Mum was here last Thursday, she dropped the lucky black cat keyring that she carries with her at all times to bring constant good fortune and stop her being hit by a bus. Amelie found it under the sofa. Which was quite lucky. She only went under there to eat Lisa's shoes.

It means that for the past five days, Lisa's Mum has been walking around completely unaided by the gods of good fortune. No wonder she didn't pick the winner of the Grand National. As things stand right now, serendipity is just another word she can't spell. But the point is, she has no idea. She's blissfully unaware of the state of fateful misfortune in which she's currently living her life. And let's face it, if the thing worked, she wouldn't have lost it. So I'm tempted not to tell her. It hasn't done her any harm so far, and it means her handbag will be a bit lighter from now on. On the downside, when we pop over to see her at the weekend and find her lying at the bottom of a lift shaft with a massive safe on her head, I might feel a bit guilty.

Anyhoo, I'm on annual leave this week, which is why I'm busy retrieving Amelie from under the sofa, instead of picking up pensioners' walking sticks from the side of a retinal screening camera. Lisa's making the most of a live-in babysitter by doing all the things she can't normally get done without breaking the laws on child neglect. She's currently at the hairdresser, and has booked herself a dentist's appointment for Wednesday. So it's hair today, crown tomorrow.

I've spent a lot of the past two days trying to get my money's worth out of Amelie's shoes by taking her for so many walks that they might actually be worn out before I have to buy her a new pair. But with the new series of Britain's Got Talent due to start on Saturday, we've also invested a lot of time in trying to find a way to incorporate Chloe into our stand-up comedy act. It was yesterday morning, during a rehearsal in her new pyjamas (£4 from George at Asda, if you're wondering), that Amelie finally found a way...


We're like Siegfried & Roy on a budget.

The thing about major childhood accidents is that you can't let them bother you. Just witness Marie's carefree and casual look of disdain as Amelie heads face-first towards the tarmac...


Mind you, you should have seen her two seconds earlier with her foot sticking out, trying to trip Amelie up.

Obviously I didn't help the girl either, but I was busy compiling the documentary evidence with my camera for the impending child protection case.

To be honest, I should have known something wasn't right when Amelie turned to Marie yesterday afternoon and called her a cow. At the time I thought she was just naming farm animals, but I realise now that it was actually a perceptive recognition of the woman's true character.

I thought something smelt fishy when I took the photo on the left, but I decided it was just the turtle's nose in the background. I should have known it was actually the stench of corruption in the once peaceful land of childcare. Marie's clearly trying to get Amelie to look at the camera so that she can give her a sharp slap around the back of the head.

But child abuse aside, we had a very nice afternoon with Auntie Melee yesterday. She arrived at lunchtime in her yellow Panda (which confused Amelie no end after all I've taught her about animals), and I immediately served her the world's biggest lasagne accompanied by some undercooked garlic bread. She couldn't finish either. I tried not to take it personally. Frankly even Amelie refused to eat the garlic bread.

But with the food eaten (and the Gaviscon drunk), Amelie demonstrated to Marie her technique with a toy buggy. The girl's learnt a lot from all the times I've taken her out, and made her way around the flat, banging the buggy against walls, doors and bookcases until she'd shaken it up and down and from side to side so much that her baby fell out. That's pretty much how I do it when I take her to Asda.

So with Amelie keen to break out, and Lisa close to a break down, Marie and I took the toddler out for a run along the seafront. We followed the route of next Sunday's Brighton Marathon by heading along Madeira Drive to the Sea Life Centre where the finish line will be. Frankly it's the best plaice for it. Marie's actually done a marathon in the past, and I've eaten a few Snickers in my time, but the one who really took to the course was Amelie...


I only managed a few seconds of footage, because at the age of eighteen months, she can already toddle faster than I can run backwards. I think someone should be marketing rusks as a high energy food.

Anyhoo, our attempts to wear Amelie out failed spectacularly, and the moment we got home, she continued with her trouble-making. But the good news is that by the time Marie left, she'd taught Amelie to say "mischief". The bad news is it doesn't actually stop her doing it. But at least she now tells us what she's up to.

Amelie and I walked Marie down the road to her car at teatime and waved her goodbye. I think she wanted to leave before I served dinner. We'd only gone ten yards when I realised I'd put Amelie's shoes on the wrong feet. I wouldn't mind, but when I met Marie on Brighton beach a year ago, she noticed that I'd put Amelie's jeans on back to front. If Social Services had a clothes abuse squad, I'd be in prison by now.

Over the past three years, the bear by my head might have moved roughly as much as the basket by Lisa's, but not everything has stayed the same.

This was Marie's visit in November 2007...


This was December 2008...


And now here we all are today...


I want to know who's been feeding that baby steroids. By the time we take next year's photo, she'll be the one holding me.

Our good friend Marie is coming down to visit us today, so Amelie's just had a bath...


It means that by the time her Auntie Melee gets here, Am will only have her lunch in her hair, and not her lunch and breakfast.

I didn't sleep very well last night, so I'm in a bit of a daze at the moment, but the good news is that I'll soon be able to afford all the black market sleeping pills money can buy, because it's the Grand National today. I've been predicting the winners here with uncanny accuracy since 2004, and whilst I can't remember exactly how many I've got spot on, I know it's roughly about six. Give or take five or so.

So before I pop into town for some industrial strength Nytol, here are the four horses guaranteed to be romping up the home straight at four-thirty this afternoon. Possibly with their jockeys still on board. And not all of them in a horse ambulance...

1st. Ballyfitz at 66-1. Opinion is divided on this horse. Some people say he couldn't jump a fence to save his life, and wouldn't make it around Aintree without a jet-pack. Others say he's actually a talented animal. Unfortunately, all the people who know about racing are in the first camp. I'm in the second. And I've got two quid on him at odds of 90-1. He's going to win. Trust me.

2nd. Eric's Charm at 50-1. As someone said on TV this morning, "he's old enough to smoke". He's also older than my niece. And probably less sporty. But there's life in the old horse yet. And I'll collect a hundred quid if he wins.

3rd. Character Building at 22-1. No woman has ever won the Grand National. It tends to be horses. But this year, Nina Carberry could become the first female jockey ever to triumph in the race. Except she won't. She'll be third.

4th. Maljimar at 40-1. He hasn't won a race for more than two years. And he won't win today either. But he will land me a bit of place money.

Right, that's your lot. I'm off into town to spend my winnings.

If there’s one thing I've always said about Lisa, it's that she loves a bit of tragedy. Her mother's the same. They're never happier than when they're knee-deep in a dark, depressing drama of damnation and disaster. So given the choice between a light-hearted screwball comedy and a bitter tragedy about heartbreak, devastation and death, they'll go for the latter every time. It's why they both watch Jeremy Kyle.

So imagine my delight when I arrived home from Crawley Hospital yesterday afternoon to find Lisa brandishing the DVD of ‘Days of Wine and Roses’. Actually I was quite delighted, as I had no idea what it was about. It sounded like a romantic comedy.

Admittedly, when I saw the DVD cover, I was mildly concerned, but I love a Jack Lemmon comedy, and the movie's tagline - "This, in its own terrifying way, is a love story" - didn't bother me either. After all, Lee Remick's best known as the mother of the Antichrist, so you've got to expect a bit of terror amongst the romance. I did say to Lisa "This isn't going to make us cry, is it?", but she assured me we'd be as dry-eyed as a couple of xerophthalmics by the end of the night.

Anyhoo, I'm not saying she was wrong, but I'm having to go shopping tonight. We're completely out of tissues, and I need some fabric cleaner to get the tear stains out of the scatter cushions.

Amelie might have refused to wear her sheep mask at the weekend, but when it comes to looking like a spring lamb for Easter, there's one member of this family who doesn't get a choice...


I gave Chloe a haircut on Easter Monday to make her look more seasonal. I was hoping to attach a pair of bunny ears too, but even she draws the line somewhere.

As I can personally testify, an aggressive home hair-clipping will always attract the ladies, so it's no surprise that Chloe's spent the past three days being constantly kissed by Amelie. Mostly against her will, it has to be said. To be honest, if Chloe wasn't such a wuss, and knew how to stand up to bullies, we'd be down at A&E by now with a major claw-related trauma.

Admittedly, for a few months now, Amelie's been no stranger to kissing Chloe (it's when she starts doing it to frogs in fifteen years time that we need to start worrying), but since my cat went from a woolly sheep to a shorn lamb on Monday, the girl's become slightly obsessed. If Amelie wore lipstick, Chloe would be red all over.

When I did all of this a year ago, it made most of the national papers, but frankly it feels like Chloe's had more attention this time around. Amelie won't leave her alone. She's like a paparazzi stalker with no restraining order. But on the plus side, I don't expect this little video to make the six o'clock news...


If it does, I'll be sued for breach of copyright by the makers of Tom and Jerry...


If you didn't see the mouse, it's on the computer desk above Amelie's head.

It takes a certain amount of panache to pose in front of an NHS poster promoting cleanliness, whilst wearing the contents of your breakfast bowl...


Mind you, there was a mashed banana in that bowl, so at least she's getting the principle of five-a-day into her head. Quite literally in fact.

Back in November, I shot this footage of Amelie seeking out customers for her mobile hairdressing business at my parents' house in St Leonards...


Well the good news is that as of Easter Sunday, she's moved on to carpentry and is already taking telephone bookings...


If she combined the two, she could go at it hammer and tongs.

But like an electioneering politician (or cowboy builder), when she's not conducting important business on the phone, she's out there gauging public opinion on the street. And the result, according to one passer-by yesterday, is that she's "very cute".

She and I might have spent the whole weekend eating, but we made up for it yesterday with some serious walking in the Bank Holiday sunshine. I let her toddle along the seafront to Asda in the morning, but the real superhuman effort came yesterday afternoon when she walked the entire route below, holding my hand, and waving at strangers...


I've marked all the points where she stopped to ask for a biscuit.

According to Google Maps, that's a distance of 1.7 miles. Which, when added to the 0.7 miles she covered in the morning, makes a toddling total of 2.4 miles. For someone with a stride of six inches, that's not far off a marathon. So let's examine the evidence: she's consistently funny, likes dressing in girls' clothes, and can run marathons on a daily basis. I might have to ask Eddie Izzard for a DNA test.

The problem with letting Amelie spend all weekend with people who love rubbish like this...


... is that she starts to pick up bad habits...

Mind you, it could be worse. She could be into High School Musical.

But putting aside the fact that my daughter's been gleefully led astray by her aunt and cousin, it's actually been a very nice Easter weekend. And I'm not just saying that because Lisa wasn't there for half of it. I've eaten enough chocolate to keep a small South American child exploited for at least another year, and consumed so much cake that not only do I never want to speak of it again (or scrape it off the bottom of my oven), but I'm not sure I can face the thought of eating another piece either. Which is probably good news if I'm ever going to lose the stone I've undoubtedly put on in the past three days.

Anyhoo, this time last year (give or take a couple of weeks), I was filming videos like this...


That's Big Sis coming back down to earth with a bump last March. Her career's taken off since then, but she manages to keep her feet on the ground. Although she still prefers a left-hand drive vehicle. So if you've ever wondered what it feels like to ride shotgun with a kangaroo-killing veteran of Wiltshire Constabulary's finest 'Speed Awareness' course, then wonder no more...


This time the role of instructor is played by my niece, but I'm not sure I'm in any less danger. I checked behind me after about a minute, to make sure we weren't being tailed by the police. I also honked out the real names of those involved, in an effort to preserve anonymity. Let's face it, Big Sis gets arrested often enough, without me revealing her identity on this blog.

I shot that video on Saturday afternoon during the short drive between my parents' house and St Leonards' finest purveyor of second-hand junk. Since speeding into town on Wednesday night, Big Sis had been keeping her eye on an objet d'art in the window of a nearly-new furniture shop on the seafront. It's some kind of abstract sculpture (until you work out what it is) and every time she passed it on her early morning run, it remained there, unsold and calling to her. To be honest, it's not surprising the shop couldn't sell it. The only type of artistic sculpture which is popular in St Leonards is a candlestick you could use as a murder weapon.

So when we arrived on Saturday afternoon, Big Sis asked me if I'd accompany her to the junk yard and act as her art investment advisor. And heavy lifter. Fortunately, spending other people's money comes quite naturally to me, so I agreed, and with our niece in tow, we headed straight down there.

An hour later, we returned with two candle holders, a picture, a birthday card, some Japanese mats and a plaster cast of a nose (Sis picked it herself). I told her to haggle on the price of the nose, but she blew it, and paid an amount not to be sniffed at. Most importantly of all though, we bought the sculpture. Which you probably knew if you read yesterday's blog post. They don't tend to let you pose for photos with the merchandise in the back of your car unless you've bought it.

Sis thought it was a pregnant lady; so did my Dad; whilst my niece just described it as "really bad". But as the only true art connoisseur in the family, it was left to me to identify what the sculpture was really meant to be...


It's someone with fat thighs and a small head doing the yoga 'Tree Pose'. And to the left of that is the sculpture.

It's Amelie high-fiving her cousin...


... and escaping her aunt...


... but the question is, what am I doing in the back seat of a convertible with my arm around an objet d'art..?


Sadly I can't explain at the moment, partly because I've eaten so much I can barely reach the keyboard, but mainly because I had such a good time at my parents' house yesterday, that I'm driving back over there again today. Amelie's coming with me, but Lisa's staying behind to scrub the kitchen floor.

Sometimes in life you just have to face facts: if you dress up your daughter in an Easter bonnet and try to force her to wear a sheep mask, you're only going to make her cry...


Mainly because it suits Makka Pakka much better...


But once you've dressed Makka Pakka for springtime, and picked up your DS (which is actually an iPhone I bought in Poundland), you're all set for an Easter comedy moment...


Who needs a sheep mask to look sheepish.

Stupid leaking Lidl baking tins...


I've spent the evening scraping sponge off the bottom of the oven, and trying to salvage a sheep with no ears that looks like it's been burnt by French farmers.

Let's never speak of these Easter cakes again.

It's Good Friday, and Amelie's 1½ years old today, so what better time to make a cake...


And the best way, baa none, to ram home the message that I love ewe, is to make one in the shape of a sheep.

I bought those baking tins in Lidl for £3.99, so the quality's guaranteed. Admittedly Amelie's always struggled with what the rabbit says, but she speaks the ovine language like a native, and shouts "Cake!" more often than Mr Kipling, so a bit of Easter baking is right up her street.

I took her down to Asda on foot this morning to buy the ingredients, a trip which coincided precisely with the worst weather of the entire day. Amelie was toddling along the seafront through a sleet storm, the like of which I haven't seen since... well, since I took her out last weekend.

But the good news is that we made it to Asda with only mild hypothermia, and were soon warmed up by the type of crowds they usually reserve for Christmas. We failed to buy a few of the items on our list, not because Asda didn't have them, but because we couldn't squeeze through the throng to get to them.

Fortunately we managed to gather everything we needed for a carrot cake (what else would you make in a rabbit mould?) and a chocolate sponge. Which really ought to be chocolate mint for the sheep cake.

By that time, the rain had got considerably worse, but not all of it seeped through my coat and into my jumper...


There are definitely still one or two dry patches.

Lisa feels that the photo above makes me look like some kind of predatory paedophile, but I prefer to think of myself as Daddy Bear. Either way I'll end up doing porridge.

Anyhoo, the oven's on and Amelie's just gone to bed, so give it a couple of hours and my Easter cakes will have risen again. I'm planning to get up in the morning and film Amelie in her furry sheep mask, wearing her Easter bonnet, holding a chocolate lamb cake and saying "Baa". I don't think that's too much to ask.

This is my 1,900th blog post, so if I'd started on the day Jesus was born, and written one every Christmas, I'd now be posting a photo of the first Zeppelin airship.

But in the absence of any over-sized blimps, here's a picture of Amelie with a meerkat. Simples! It was bought for her by my parents and delivered yesterday morning by my Mum, who wanted us to compare the meerkat with the one we saw in Western Road a few weeks ago. Frankly this one's much better. He and Amelie have the same jacket.

Anyhoo, there's only one thing which makes Amelie happier than stroking a meerkat, and that's biting her father. Within minutes of getting home from work yesterday, she was attacking me on the sofa and going for my spare tyre like a snapping turtle. You don't even need to click 'Play' to see how hilarious a bit of physical violence can be. Just look at the sheer joy in that freeze-frame...


GBH has never been so funny.

But on the subject of laughing policemen, the latest news from Wiltshire is that Big Sis has been hauled in by the cops again. No, really. Anyone would think she'd been speeding down Wootton Bassett High Street. To be honest, she probably has, but they haven't caught her for that yet.

This time she was tailed by the fuzz at midnight, before being stopped for frequent, sudden braking. As she put it to me in a text message, "I asked them if they had ever tried driving a left-hand drive car designed for straight American freeways along the bendy dark country roads of Wiltshire?". I don't know if she got an answer to that. They were probably too busy arresting her for impertinence. But they did ask her if she'd realised she was being followed. She said she had. Which is why she speeded up on the straights and had to brake so sharply at the bends. They responded by breathalysing her. Obviously.

The good news is she hadn't been drinking. The bad news is it means she's always like that.