The advantage of writing a public blog is that people often send me stuff in the post. Usually cease & desist orders and death threats. But sometimes, just sometimes, I get something worth receiving. And today, after spending the morning chatting to type 2 diabetics about how to improve their sugar levels, I returned home at lunchtime to discover that mine had gone through the roof...


We've got major world disasters like the Japanese earthquake, the Libyan crisis and Comic Relief, but to be honest, I can't think of anyone who deserves a food parcel more than me. I've been on a strict diet for the past week and I'm at breaking point. Frankly those chocolates are life-savers.

The box which arrived this morning contained twelve different varieties of hand-made calorie bombs which have been sent to me free of charge (or maybe the bill's to follow) by Concrete Cow Confectionery, a sweet little company based in Milton Keynes. Obviously, with the number of people out there who want me dead, there's every chance they're poisoned, but after considering the situation for three seconds, I decided it was worth the risk. And having tasted one, I know I'll die happy.

I've never met Steph, the Concrete Cow (proprietor), but her husband and I go way back. Way back to 2008, when I used to ignore the e-mails he sent to my Senators site. I like to think of him as the sixth member of Kajagoogoo. And if he'd contacted me five years earlier, I'd have married him instead of Lisa. But by the time he got in touch, the website had served its purpose, Lisa was pregnant, and I saw no point in replying. He didn't tell me his wife made chocolate, or I'd have got back to him quicker than Rik Waller on a log flume. Which is a phrase he uses himself.

Anyhoo, it's a well known fact that impartiality is my middle name (which would make my initials PIG) and no amount of free chocolate is going to buy you a decent review on this blog. Other food critics, however, are less objective...


That's Amelie doing her Michael Winner with a white chocolate lolly. No doubt her review will be featuring in Concrete Cow's advertising literature within the hour. That's if it hadn't already been trademarked by Kellogg's Frosties.

As it happens, Lisa has mental health problems and doesn't like white chocolate, which is why the eight Vanilla Moons in the parcel have found a new home in my stomach. I was going to stop at one, but I soon realised that it was possibly the nicest thing I've ever tasted, and I should probably down the other magnificent seven ASAP in case we go to war with Libya and rationing is introduced. Tragically I was forced to return to work this afternoon before I'd completed the job, and by the time I got home, Gaddafi had declared a ceasefire. But I didn't let that put me off. You can't be too careful, and if we all get radiation sickness from Japan, I could go right off my food.

This evening I've worked my way through chocolate truffles, peanut butter fudge, coconut ice, raisin clusters, peppermint creams and marzipan hearts. It's been a rocky road. And I've had a bag of that too. I even discovered something marginally nicer than Vanilla Moons. I don't want to overstate matters, but frankly I'd sell Lisa for a box of Concrete Cow's Amaretto Truffles. Although that could be the alcohol talking. They're 22% booze.

It's been a voyage of discovery, and I feel slightly seasick, but tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I've literally tasted success. And it's sweet. On the downside, I now weigh the same as a concrete cow, and my blood's more than 90% glucose. After a week without carbs, I'm so giddy I can barely see the needle rebounding off the twenty stone mark on our bathroom scales. But it was all worth it. Every velvety, chocolatey, buttery, sugary mouthful. Anyone who thinks that nothing good ever came out of Milton Keynes needs to try their hand-made chocolates. They do free delivery within ten miles of Bletchley, and frankly I think it's worth moving.

After our appointment on Monday, I was left thinking that we need some kind of miracle, and sure enough, within forty-eight hours, we've got one. Other people find the Virgin Mary on a pancake, or Jesus on toast. I've found a chicken breast shaped like a pig...


It's even got a snout. Lisa, who doesn't know the first thing about miraculous simulacra, and couldn't spot Mother Theresa in a cinnamon bun if her life depended on it, instantly complained that its tail isn't curly. Which shows a lack of faith if you ask me. The pig's clearly running so fast to the right, that its tail has straightened out in the wind. It's basically a case of swine flew.

Anyhoo, I discovered that miracle in a pack of Waitrose Tandoori Mini Chicken Fillets. Which explains why I can't afford IVF. I need to start shopping at Lidl.

Anyone who's ploughed through the 750,000 words on this blog, might be surprised to learn that I don't mention everything that goes on in my life. I still, for example, haven't published the recording I made a few weeks ago of Lisa snoring. Which proves that blackmail can work. But in addition to Lisa's night-time respiratory problems (which, to my mind, explain the complaints we've had about drilling at unsocial hours), I've also chosen not to describe our attempts to have a second baby. Partly because this isn't a porn site, but mainly because it's hard to describe a sperm test without photos. And I couldn't hold my camera with one hand.

As it happens, on Thursday, 23rd December, Lisa and I went to see a consultant at the hospital about our failure to provide Amelie with a sibling. The doctor's name was Mr Kelada, so I was hoping his first name would be Pina, but sadly the road to fertility is strewn with disappointments, and this was just one of them. He's actually called Ehab. You can see him on the NHS though, so he's basically Rehab for people without capital. And here he is online. It's hard to believe that anyone has fewer Facebook friends than I do, but there you go. He probably doesn't ignore them as much as I do.

Mr Kelada turned out to be very friendly, and informed us that due to Lisa's great age, and the fact that we already have an Amster, the NHS won't fund any treatment, but it will fund the tests to determine if treatment is needed. It would then be up to us to decide if we're willing to pay for a baby. I didn't mention the consultation at the time, but I did write about buying kids on the internet. This blog contains so much subtext, it's scary.

Anyhoo, in the twelve weeks since that appointment, Lisa and I have undergone a battery of tests, some of them bloody, others just bloody intrusive. On Tuesday, 4th January, when I received a phone call from work on my day off, asking if I could go to Crawley the next day, I decided not to mention that I was at the hospital, holding a pot of my own sperm. I can be quite discreet when I want to be.

After a total of six tests, five for Lisa and one for me (I think I had it tougher though), we returned to see Mr Kelada at 4:30pm yesterday afternoon for the results. And the upshot is...

We're pretty normal. For our age. Which is to say that we're basically decrepit and falling apart, but it's to be expected. They managed to count 109 million sperms in the plastic pot I gave them, and whilst most of those need a motility scooter to get anywhere meaningful, there are apparently enough with a decent sense of direction to get the job done. Like their owner, they could do with being a bit more active, so he recommended that I take some Selenium, but other than that I'm ok. For a knackered bloke in his late 30s.

As for Lisa, her tubes received the all-clear, her ovarian reserves are raring to come off the bench, and she's ovulating like a battery chicken. On the downside, her FSH levels are on the upside. For those new to gynaecology, FSH stands for Follicle-Stimulating Hormone, which makes it sound like a cure for baldness, and according to Mr Kelada, for Lisa to have a good chance of conceiving, it should be below 8. Lisa's is 9.7. Which is apparently borderline, but "reasonable for someone her age". Or to put it another way, she's got about as much chance of conceiving as a woman in her 40s. Which I suppose is good news if you're Tony Blair.

I asked Ehab what he'd do in our position, and he said that if money's no object, he'd go for IVF. So he obviously hasn't seen my bank statements. He added that if he were us, he'd want to feel that he'd done everything he could, and given himself the best chance of success. Unfortunately, that chance of success is about 15% and costs £4,500 a time.

Having weighed it all up last night, I headed to Boots at lunchtime today for some Selenium. And I'm telling you now, that doesn't come cheap either. This child doesn't even exist yet, and it's already bleeding us dry.

If you want Chloe to sit still on your lap for an extended period of time, the key is to stroke her gently, read to her quietly, and above all, tightly restrict her airways so that she falls into an oxygen-deprived coma...


Obviously that's not the whole Gruffalo story. I don't want to spoil the ending for anyone who hasn't read it yet, but it basically involves terrible tusks, terrible claws and terrible teeth in terrible jaws, which, when combined with a toddler who won't let go when you tell her to, results in a certain amount of blood, sweat and tears. Not necessarily in that order.

Naturally I don't want to get caught in a pincer movement between the RSPCA and the NSPCC, so I cut the film short before anyone got hurt. The full version has an 18 certificate. And is more of a video nasty.

I'm not saying that the thought of Lisa's cooking makes me feel like ending it all, but within half an hour of her announcing her intention to make cottage pie this morning, Amelie and I were heading straight for the nearest cliff...


That's just east of here. In fact it's east of half the world. We actually went for a clifftop walk at Peacehaven, home of the Prime Meridian - so called because it's only divisible by itself and Sky One.


Obviously if you're going to visit a cliff with some shadows, you really ought to do it on a summer holiday, but fortunately Amelie's one of the young ones, so we got away with it. The object in the background that looks like the top of a mosque is positioned at 0° longitude, and marks the point where the Greenwich Meridian leaves Britain, heading south towards... well, the south pole I suppose.

Here's Amelie effortlessly crossing from the Western Hemisphere to the Eastern Hemisphere using nothing but a pair of Clarks shoes and a good sense of direction...


She was last seen heading for the equator at high speed. But before she left, I took a photo of her at 12:00 GMT (Gardner Me Time), standing 5,586 miles from Rangoon...


According to the sign, she's also 2,893 miles from Halifax. But only if you go by minicab and avoid the M1.

Due to a lack of foresight in my eye-screening career, I'd left myself with only four days of annual leave this holiday season, so having been off all week, I was forced back into work today. It was quite nice though. I think one-day working weeks are the way forward. I might suggest it at the next team meeting.

The reason we didn't spend a fourth night in Eastbourne (apart from the fact that I'm not made of money, and there's only so much ice cream one man can eat) is that Amelie wanted me to go to playgroup with her yesterday. Lisa takes her to a parent & toddler group every Thursday at the Methodist church down the road, but for months she's been saying she wants Daddy to go too. Probably because she knows I've got the mind of a three-year-old and would fit right in.

So that's where I was yesterday morning: drinking tea with Lisa while Amelie ran amok with a ride-on plane. The session's held in a church hall, but it's not really a religious group, so there's no Methodism in the madness. Although there was one boy who behaved like the Antichrist. Most of them were little angels though.

It was all very entertaining, but I'm not quite sure why Amelie needed me there. Frankly I could have been back in Eastbourne and she wouldn't have noticed. No sooner had we walked through the door than she was off bouncing on trampolines, gluing glitter, see-sawing single-handed and riding anything with wheels. She also has a 'best friend' that she's been playing with for the past few weeks, and they were pretty much inseparable all morning.

Here they are calming everyone's nerves with some gentle and melodious singing. Before you watch this clip, I should point out that Amelie's birthday was five months ago...


It's lovely the way she sidles up to her friend once she realises the girl might have presents. And there's a look of appalled disdain when her companion fluffs the words to Incy Wincy Spider. But other than that, it's a charming scene of childhood friendship.

To be honest, I was wary of getting out my camera at a playgroup, in case I was accused of being the next Vanessa George, but having sat there for an hour assuming photos were prohibited, the mother of Amelie's friend whipped out the kind of camera you'd expect the paparazzi to carry, and started snapping numerous shots of the two together. She told us Amelie's the first friend her daughter's made on her own. So under the circumstances I felt fully justified in filming them both. I'm more comfortable with a co-defendant.

We made our way home via Lisa's Mum's, where we picked up a copy of The Argus and discovered the latest on our neighbourhood deathwish. Apparently when the paramedics arrived on Sunday night, they got stuck in the lift for twenty minutes. It was basically the same as my experience in January, but the emergency call I wanted to answer was one of nature. It sums up our block nicely though. If you're not on the stairway to heaven, you still end up sealed in a box.

You know what it's like. You spend three days in Eastbourne, relaxing, eating ice cream and being massaged in your pants, only to get home and find that your neighbour's murdered his brother. We've all been there. Although as things stand right now, there's every chance he could be innocent. Either way, I think I preferred it along the coast where the only thing being killed was time.

You've got to hand it to our neighbours though. There are only twenty-four flats in this block, but they've already managed to reduce the population of two of them. And that's just since Christmas. Give it another year, and the place will be empty. Still, at least we've got a good alibi this time. And the crimes are going in the right direction – the last one was on the 4th floor, this time it's the 5th. I pity the people on the 6th floor. It must be like death row up there.

Anyhoo, murder and mayhem aside, the last 24 hours of our honeymoon were as lovely as the first couple of days. On Tuesday afternoon we headed out along Seaside Road...

... where, I'm reliably informed, you can eat, enjoy, shop, live, work and play. Lisa and I only did one of those things. And, surprisingly, it wasn't eat. We actually enjoyed a full-body massage at the Mystique Beauty Salon. We were hoping to be pummelled at the same time, but as it transpired, they only have one beautician, so I was forced to spend another ninety minutes in the charity shops while I waited my turn.

It was worth the wait though. I feel I should big up the Mystique Beauty Salon a bit here. Partly because they're a new establishment, and their resident beautician is a lovely young girl who only qualified last summer, is one of the few people on her course to have found work, and is struggling to make ends meet. But mainly because they undercharged us and I feel a bit guilty.

To be honest, I'm not sure I'm cut out for full-body massages. There's something about lying on a bed in my underwear with a girl who isn't Lisa, which makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. I don't think I ever relaxed quite as much as I was meant to. Especially after she took one look at my semi-naked body and offered me a back, sack & crack wax for eighteen quid. I politely declined through the hole in the table.

The girl was very good though, and the prices reasonable. I was expecting to pay £35 for a ninety minute massage, but having been kneaded from head to toe (literally), she told me everything’s 20% off at the moment, and charged me £56 for us both. It wasn't until I got back to the hotel that I realised she'd forgotten the fiver for Lisa's eyebrow waxing. It's no wonder the business is struggling.

Having been oiled up and rubbed down, we then headed out for a meal at La Locanda Del Duca, an authentic Italian restaurant which was recommended to us by the beautician. Not that she can afford to go there. It was very nice though. Frankly I've never had better gnocchi, and they can poach a pear in red wine like no one I know.

To be honest, our entire honeymoon was like a trip to Milan (and I keep telling Lisa that). Not only did we eat Italian every night, but we made regular trips to Fusciardi's ice cream parlour. Our mere presence reduced the average age of the clientele by about thirty years, but they serve ice cream sundaes to die for. Probably through morbid obesity.

After one last trip to dairy heaven, we picked up Amelie yesterday afternoon and arrived home last night. I weighed myself this morning. And the diet starts here.

When you've eaten as much as I have, it's good to have someone to hold in your muffin-top...


Lisa only has to remove her hand, and I look like I've had a major hernia. I knew I'd regret that third scoop of ice cream.

But that was us yesterday morning on Eastbourne pier. And as it happens, we weren't the only ones taking photos. Two minutes earlier we'd passed a woman posing with her walking frame as her husband looked for somewhere to stand his stick so that he could snap a picture of her. As Lisa said "That'll be us one day". Probably next year, the way my arthritis is going.

But while I still have movement in my fingers, we decided to take up a sporting activity, so we headed straight into the pier arcade for a game of air hockey. The £1 I inserted into the machine entitled us to five minutes of play, three of which were spent searching for a member of staff to tell us why the puck hadn't appeared, after which he spent a further minute and a half banging the table with his fist, before undoing the side with a screwdriver and retrieving it manually. But those thirty seconds of play were thoroughly enjoyable. I won 3-0.

Feeling slightly pucked off with the situation, we then moved on to golf, which seemed a more fairway of spending our money. And sure enough, it proved far more successful. Once we'd worked out what we were meant to do. Which we did after we'd spent two quid doing it wrong. Here's Lisa aiming for the top doughnut with her last shot of the match...


I'd say she was the oldest swinger in town, but this is Eastbourne we're talking about. I don't know if the golf club is tethered to stop the chavs stealing it, or the pensioners using it as a walking stick.

Anyhoo, I'd write more, but sadly our three-night hotel stay with free wi-fi is drawing to a close, and we're about to be chucked out of our room. So the full account of the ninety minutes I spent yesterday afternoon being stroked by a young lady in my pants will have to wait for another day...

Lisa and I may be enjoying our mini honeymoon, but it's important not to forget those left behind. Amelie's having to cope for three long, painful days without her Mummy and Daddy, never knowing when - or even if - she'll see her parents again, and perhaps wondering how they can abandon her so heartlessly, and whether they even love her.

She's putting a brave face on it though...


That was our daughter yesterday. While Lisa and I were having a Strong cup of coffee with Gwyneth, she was roaring with laughter at the park. I'd say that was just a fluke photo, but to be honest she looks no less happy in the other fifteen my Dad's sent me. I don't think she's stopped smiling since we left.

Mind you, we're barely even out of sight. I took this photo from our hotel window yesterday...


That's my parents' house in St Leonards. If I had a better zoom, you could see Amelie eating white Magnums on her potty.

Anyhoo, I don't know if it's a measure of just what a dull, uneventful life I've led, but yesterday was one of the nicest days I've ever had. It was rounded off perfectly with a meal at Prezzo, a beautiful restaurant which was empty enough to feel like we were dining alone, without being so quiet as to make us self-conscious. The food was gorgeous, as was the company, and putting aside the fact that I've probably put on half a stone already, it was the perfect day.

Tuesday has continued in a similar vein. A coachload of pensioners arrived at the hotel yesterday, so the staff have abandoned the traditional waiter service at breakfast, in favour of a self-service, eat-as-much-as-you-like, free-for-all buffet bonanza. I've probably helped myself to a heart condition, but it was the perfect start to the day. The words 'Full English' have never seemed so appropriate. Frankly I can hardly move.

Anyhoo, Jeremy Kyle's almost finished, so we'll be off out into the sunshine again. We're heading down to the pier for a romantic stroll, or possibly a food-induced waddle, after which we're both booked in for a full-body massage at the Mystique Beauty Salon in Seaside Road. Our appointment's at 1:30pm, so we're going to have a light lunch. I'll be saying no to extra ice cream with my pancakes.

If, like me, you prefer to eschew the traditional notion of bins, in favour of chucking your rubbish straight out of the window, this is definitely the hotel for you...


We've got the first floor room on the corner with the Juliet balcony. Romeo's standing in the skip.

The view below our window might be rubbish, but so far, everything else is very nice. Admittedly the sea breeze is a little more biting than bracing, which is slightly putting me off my ice cream, but that aside, it's going well. We ended up at Zizzi's for dinner last night, where we were served by a man who looked so like David Walliams that he really should give up the restaurant trade and go straight into showbusiness. If I looked any more like Matt Lucas, we'd have had it made.

Our hotel room is very pleasant too, and features a bed so wide that it's verging on the criminal not to invite a third person into it. I'll see how things go later in the honeymoon, and maybe suggest it to Lisa. But at the moment it's just nice to be able to move three feet away from her snoring without hitting the floor.

We both slept well, and awoke refreshed and fighting fit to face the perils of the bathroom...

I decided to drip-dry on the bath mat in an effort to avoid death, but having survived our showers, we made our way downstairs for breakfast. I've yet to encounter a single member of staff here who would consider English their first language, and as a result, we've had first-class service from the moment we arrived. Breakfast was particularly good, and we left the restaurant feeling like we'd never be able to eat again.

That lasted about two hours. Frankly it's a miracle it wasn't less, as we're staying a hundred yards from this place...


Which is around the corner from here...


We were thinking of going in, but I was worried they wouldn't let Lisa leave.

Anyhoo, we've spent today exploring Eastbourne town centre. Obviously I'm not a judgemental person, and I hate sweeping generalisations, but I think it's safe to say that the entire population of Eastbourne is made up of the old and the unemployable. If you're not over eighty, you're under twenty and smoking a fag while you push your two children along in a buggy.

But the town has one redeeming feature: its thirty charity shops. I've visited most of them today, and bought up half their stock. Frankly I deserve an MBE for all my charity work. At one point I thought I'd bought so much stuff I could no longer move, at which point the woman in the PDSA shop told me there are 29 others, and gave me directions to find them.

Having shopped til we dropped, we then recharged our batteries at Costa Coffee, where we found ourselves sitting at a table next to Gwyneth Strong, who played Cassandra in 'Only Fools & Horses'. She's the exception that proves the rule about Eastbourne. Although she's probably not as young as she looks. And she might not have worked in a while.

Next door to Costa is a Thorntons ice cream shop, so we spent some time on a sunny Monday munching a couple of sundaes, and admiring the Eastbourne obelisk. It seemed appropriate with Italian ice cream. We then headed off for some afternoon entertainment. The Royal Hippodrome Theatre was advertising a show called 'Strictly Comedy & Dancing', featuring "Brilliant TV Comedian", Tank Sherman...


So we went to the cinema instead. We actually ended up at the Curzon, an old-fashioned flea-pit where they still tear your paper ticket in half at the door, and for whom 'surround-sound' means having a speaker on both walls. We saw 'The King's Speech', so the traditional surroundings were in keeping with the film. And the way the picture wobbled on the screen fitted nicely with Colin Firth's stutter.

All in all, it's been a lovely day. We're off to Prezzo now for a slap up dinner. And having sampled that sea air, we're definitely driving.

If you're paying extra for a sea view, ideally you'd like to get there before dark...


But that aside, it's like the Gardner Honeymoon Special in Hello magazine. I've never seen Lisa look so sophisticated. I'll have to get her a seat like that for our council flat. She can pose by the window and watch the junkies go by.

We're off now for the first gourmet meal of our honeymoon. I think there's a fish & chip shop around the corner...

Amelie's been invited to a Princess Party on the 19th of March, which is the kind of blatant anti-male sexism that's bringing this country to its knees. I blame Loose Women. And L'Oréal. But shameful discrimination aside, we're obviously far too cheap to buy her an appropriate outfit, and besides, she only has to put on a £3 skirt from Asda and she starts saying "Me like a princess!", so rather than waste money on something Kate Middleton would be proud of, we asked Lisa's sister to sew a bit of netting on Amelie's Christmas dress.

She had her first fitting yesterday afternoon, and at 9pm last night, we received this exclusive footage direct from the royal seamstress...


That's Gok Wan in the background. They're proving that fashion's all about showy hugs, air kisses, and describing red as strawberry.

Interestingly, in addition to getting updates from the catwalk, we also received the news that Lisa's nephew had seen a family photo at home, and thought it was a picture of Amelie. Here's the portrait in question...

Frankly that could be Rose West and we'd be none the wiser. I think Lisa's sister needs to invest in a scanner. But I can see what he means. The flyaway hair, the red dress, the way she's picking her nose in public - that could easily be Amelie. But it's actually Lisa at her own christening.

If I'd seen her looking so cute in that outfit, I might have fallen in love with her there and then. But sadly I wasn't born at the time.

Thirty-seven years later, however, I'm more than happy to take her away on honeymoon. We'll be gone until Wednesday. But no doubt I'll be blogging from the bedroom.

Aww look, it's Amelie with her favourite cuddly toy...


Or 'Chloe' as Lisa and I like to call her. It's not every cat that's happy to be pinned to a bed for half an hour by the toddler equivalent of Hulk Hogan. And Chloe's no exception. Unfortunately she gets no say in the matter.

Before Amelie learnt to walk, the only people chasing Chloe were the paparazzi, but a lot's changed since then. Over the past year, she's been knocked about, then swept off her feet, and got a bit carried away when she least expected it. In the last few weeks however, Amelie's taken the hero-worship to a whole new level. Frankly the girl's obsessed. She spends half her life throwing her arms around Chloe and telling her she's "wonderful", "super" and "a lovely pussycat". If she can't hug her within two minutes of getting up in the morning, we have to declare a state of emergency.

She's also appointed herself official guardian of all things cat-related, as a result of which I've come close to having stand-up rows with my two-year-old daughter, who insists that Chloe's not being fed enough, needs more stroking, and really should be carried everywhere. I've had to resort to putting more biscuits in the cat bowl, just to get Amelie off my back.

We even had a five minute debate yesterday about whether Chloe wanted to be put on the table. Amelie said she did. I said she didn't. And despite me offering a wealth of evidence to the contrary, including pointing out the way she was running in the opposite direction and hiding under the bed, Amelie won the day. Two minutes later, she was getting a fireman's lift onto the furniture.

So after a month of incessant stalking, Chloe needs a holiday. And as luck would have it, she's going to stay with my parents for a few days tomorrow. Unfortunately Amelie's going with her. And probably carrying her all the way. We're shipping them both out so that we can escape down the coast for a few days. My prostate's been inflamed again since Monday, and I've spent the week feeling as rough as a bag of course sandpaper, so it's either Eastbourne or the doctor. Frankly there was only one choice. My doctor doesn't do a full English breakfast.

I received this mobile phone photo at 1:30pm today...


That's Amelie having lunch in town with the son of the bloke I met on the tube last Friday. He's wearing genuine Disney merchandise, and she's holding a counterfeit panda.

It's a charming photo though. Harrison's grown a lot since Amelie decked his sister. And with Leia out of the way, there's some obvious chemistry going on there. A couple more dates and they might start to look at each other.

It's one thing to get home from work and find that your wife has changed the locks. It's another to find the whole front door gone.

This was the scene when I left for work this morning...


And this was what I came back to...


Not only did my key no longer fit, but the doorbell was gone too. I knock-knocked for a bit, but frankly it was no joke, so in the end I was forced to phone Lisa on my mobile and beg her to take me back. She opened the door thirty seconds later. It took twenty of those to work out how the lock worked.

We've actually been blessed with that new front door by the council, who presumably felt that if I'm going to take to the witness stand this summer, we could do with something capable of withstanding a few reprisal attacks. This one's so secure that we can barely open it, never mind the burglars.

It was fitted this afternoon by a bloke called Ian. I was at work at the time, but Amelie apparently woke up from her lunchtime nap while the job was in full swing, took one look down the hallway, and said:

"They're making me a new house!"

She'll be expecting a garden next.