Amelie woke up in the middle of last night, calling for her Mummy. Which was handy, as her Daddy didn't want to get out of bed. So I shoved Lisa out from under the duvet, and she duly headed off into Am's room to find out what all the fuss was about. When she got there, Amelie sat up in bed and said "Mummy, I need to talk to you about something".

Concerned that our daughter might be sick with worry about an important and troubling issue which was keeping her awake at 3am, Lisa asked what was on her mind. To which Amelie replied "Tigers. I don't know what they eat and drink".

Personally I'd have said "Toddlers who won't go to sleep", but as it transpired, there was no need to enter into detailed discussions in the middle of the night, because just eight hours later, she was solving the mystery for herself...


The answer's cake. And lots of it.

Amelie's due to start at the hospital nursery in January (three afternoons a week - we're not made of money), and they were holding a Christmas Fayre this morning, so with a month to go until her settling-in sessions, we decided to give the girl a head start by paying them a visit and having a nose around. It turned out to be well worth the trip. Amelie painted her own plaster of Paris Christmas tree decoration, had her face painted, acquired a temporary tattoo and won a prize in the tombola, while Lisa and I spoke to the staff, and checked out the facilities.

We were both very impressed, so frankly we can't wait for them to take Amelie off our hands next year. She feels much the same way. And I'm sure that excitement will continue... right up until she gets there in January and realises that the giant table full of cupcakes isn't a permanent fixture.

It's a little known fact that as a young boy, I was a kind of Billy Elliot figure around the council estates of Basildon. I was no good at dancing, but I was quite into Spandau Ballet. As a result, I never really warmed to those wild boys from Duran Duran. Although, as I confessed to Lisa on Wednesday night, I did once buy 'The Reflex' on 7" single and record it onto cassette for a ten-year-old girl I had my eye on. It was 1984, so I could do that without appearing on the sex offenders register.

Lisa, on the other hand, spent her formative years eschewing school work in favour of sitting at the back of the class, compiling height charts to compare the stature of Simon Le Bon with Nick Rhodes. And as Simon is pointing out here, Nick is only this tall...


He's also being stalked by a dodgy looking bloke who appears to be creeping up behind him as he plays the keyboards. I think it's Ed Miliband.

So since accepting Lisa warts and all (I had that written into our wedding vows), I've been forced to embrace the music of Duran Duran, and I have to say that as of Wednesday night, I think they've finally won me over. We did go and see them in Birmingham in 2005, but to be honest, I was more taken by Daniel Bedingfield than Simon Le Bon, so they didn't leave a big impression.

Wednesday in Brighton, however, was a different kettle of fish. The support act was called Cocknbullkid, so I was half expecting to see Bedingfield again, but it turned out to be a young black girl named Anita. She was very good, but the main improvement was in the headline act. It might feel like there are precious few jobs out there for young people nowadays, but Duran Duran have clearly been taking on new staff. They were only three short of a football team on Wednesday...


With an extra percussionist, saxophonist and backing singer, plus a new guitarist who could knock Andy Taylor into a cocked hat, they sounded a lot better. I was genuinely impressed.

On the downside, they were encouraging people to tweet during the evening, and displaying the messages on a big screen behind the stage, which seemed slightly pointless, and merely enabled the younger members of the audience to share their inanity with the rest of us. I could have done without hearing the views of the girls with the flashing bunny ears.

The same goes for Simon Le Bon's thoughts on the global financial crisis. When we saw Duran Duran six years ago, Simon paused between songs to adopt an expression of meek humility and declare that he was responsible for ending the war in Iraq. This time he introduced the song 'Ordinary World' by reflecting on the day's public sector strikes, and telling us that these are tough financial times, and we're all in it together. Which might have gone down better, had we not just paid him fifty quid each for our tickets.

I didn't think much of his Movember efforts either...


Beards are strictly against the rules. The man can definitely sing though. He just needs to stick to that, and not talk.

It's the first of December, which can mean only two things: Amelie's opened the first door on her advent calendar...


... and I no longer have a moustache...


The only hairs on my top lip now are the ones coming out of my nose.

Down at the Brighton registry office, another happy couple from Kemptown are enjoying their civil ceremony...


That was well worth crossing the picket line for. It gives new meaning to the phrase 'one out, all out'.

Anyhoo, I've spent today striking a pose, being a scab (and resisting the urge to picket), whilst camping it up around the hospital in a big moustache. I might end up with very little pension, but at least I've got some photos to comfort me in my old age.

By this time tomorrow, the facial hair will be gone, but the good news is that I have one last chance to show it off in public. And I don't mean my dentist's appointment tomorrow morning. It's exactly six months since Simon Le Bon phoned in sick and refused to sing for our anniversary at the Brighton Centre, but having given himself half a year to recover, the laryngitis he had in May has finally cleared up, his voice is back to normal, and Duran Duran will be taking to the stage tonight. So Lisa and I are off to celebrate seven years as a couple - quick, before we've been together eight.

I had my seasonal flu jab from the occupational health nurse this morning in an attempt to protect me from all the virally infected patients marauding like zombies across Sussex this winter. I read the list of possible side-effects, which made me feel quite ill, so I spent ten minutes having a nice sit-down in the department before returning to work. When I eventually did, I started experiencing occasional sharp pains in the top of my arm, and was beginning to think that she'd given me less of a jab and more of an uppercut. Until ten minutes later, when I realised she'd just trapped a few hairs under the plaster.

On the subject of hair-related traumas, tomorrow's the last day of Movember, so before we wave ta-ta to the taches, my boss has organised a photo shoot for me and him with one of the medical photographers. It'll be the first time they've documented insanity. And might make them wish they'd gone on strike. But as it happens, it won't be as unusual as the photo shoot I had this afternoon...

I was about to take the retinal photographs of a young woman today, when her baby, which was lying in a buggy at the side, started crying. Personally I have the God-given ability to happily ignore a crying child for a good half hour, and was about to say "Don't worry, this will only take a minute..." when she surprised me by picking up the baby, pulling up her top, and telling me to carry on while she did a bit of breast-feeding. Before I knew it, I was taking the photos of a topless woman while her child helped himself to a drink. I didn't know whether to grade the photos as R2 or Page 3.

But I successfully focused on her eyes and nothing else, and having completed the screening with no screaming, she asked me if I could give her any kind of result. So I said yes: judging by the way he was grabbing the camera while I was taking the pictures, the baby's motor skills are developing nicely.

If there's one thing I've learnt from more than nine years of blogging, it's that Mulled Whines wouldn't be half the blog it is without regular updates from my sister. In the past four years alone, she's...

• Posed as a Muslim
• Been sprung by an Arab
• Performed a human cannonball act from a speedboat
• Made a pass at a mountain
• Slaughtered a kangaroo
• Been attacked by a shark
• Taught sign language to a two-year-old
• Hobnobbed with Maltesers
• Been blunt with a popstar
• Visted Super Mario Land
• Walked on the moon
• And of course, made me feel physically sick

I could have chosen any number of links for that last one.

But I think this time she's surpassed even her own highly comic standards. She texted me last weekend to say that she was busy shooting a film with the bloke from Harry Potter. I said "Daniel Radcliffe?", she said "Who?", and we left it at that.

It transpired, however, that a friend of hers had been charged (possibly in a criminal sense) with producing a series of training videos for a chain of care homes, and was looking for talented young actors to play the roles of the residents. When he failed to find any, he called Big Sis, and having offered her sixty quid to go mental, she was straight down the M4 towards London to put a bit of method into madness by acting the part of a patient.

Her co-star turned out to be an experienced actor who'd done the walk-throughs for three Harry Potter films. If you're not sure what a walk-through is, it's like a walk-on, but with less screen time. Think 'Extras' but without the fame. As Sis said to me at the time, via a message from the movie set, "My role is a self-harming, agitated patient in a care home". I told her that sounded well within her capabilities.

Principal photography took only four hours, but for a method actor like Sis, the resulting pain can last a lifetime. She texted me on the Friday night with these hauntingly evocative words:

"My finger has teeth marks in it and hurts after today's episodes!"

It was the same for Leonardo DiCaprio in 'What's Eating Gilbert Grape'. Except he didn't have to spend his entire fee on petrol to get home.

Anyway, having heard the glowing reviews from the film set, I've naturally been anxious (but not as anxious as Big Sis's character) to see the resulting footage. So it was with great excitement that we returned home from Shoreham yesterday afternoon to find an e-mail from Sis with a link to the first clip of her burgeoning movie career. And here it is. You might want to put your hand over your face before clicking on 'play'...


It's a focused and powerful performance. Not from Sis, obviously, but from the bloke at the front. Let's face it, it can't be easy ignoring what's going on behind him. I'd have been wetting myself laughing.

Within an hour of receiving that clip, we'd watched it a dozen times (mostly through our fingers), and managed to compose ourselves sufficiently to regain the power of speech. At which point Lisa said "I'm glad my sister's never done anything like that". I've told Sis they can put that on the film poster.

With our levels of hysteria down to a manageable level, Lisa then went out for the evening, leaving Amelie and I alone to create our own powerful version of a modern movie classic...


It may not have the biting impact of the original, but it was recorded in one take and with no rehearsals. So they probably have that in common.

After watching her all-encompassing performance, you might think that there's nowhere left to go with that character, but according to Sis, there are three more episodes to come. We can only imagine what they might contain. Having seen the way she captured the subtle nuances of mental illness, I've told Sis I won't be happy unless she blacks up and comes rolling on in a wheelchair.

The trouble with young people today is that they're all getting their hair cut like Justin Bieber...


I found out today that I'm three years older than Justin Bieber's mother. It's the kind of news that makes you feel like sinking into a wingback chair with a bag of Werther's Originals. And then slashing your wrists.

But that aside, I've been looking after Amelie this evening while Lisa goes out to meet a friend. So I barely have the strength left to write this. Naturally I wanted to do my best to entertain the girl and stimulate her mind with some creative father-daughter bonding activites, so the moment Lisa left, I cleared the dining table, laid out an array of craft materials, and set about showing her how to make her own Christmas decorations. At which point she turned to me and said "I'm bored without Mummy". I wouldn't mind, but she'd only been gone about ten minutes.

Up until that point, however, she'd had a good day. We took Amelie over to Portslade at lunchtime to visit the all-new Outshine Hair & Beauty salon. It's recently been opened by Shelly, who, after sixteen years of being stalked by Lisa across the hair salons of Brighton, has finally got her own place. It was well worth the trip too, because in addition to being good with Amelie, she gives Lisa free lattes, and doesn't laugh at my moustache. Which must be hard for a haircare professional.

From Portslade, we moved on to Shoreham, and the Holmbush shopping centre, where Amelie found herself in the same boat as Igglepiggle...


They both have peculiar smiles. But only one of them looks like the Nike swoosh.

She enjoyed the 50p boat ride, but it was really just her way of softening me up for the £1.50 I had to fork out for her to climb the stairway to heaven...


... and spend ten minutes on top of the world...


Just look at that big Goofy face. Still, at least her hair looks good.

Anyhoo, if there's one thing that Isaac Newton proved about giant inflatable slides, it's that what goes up, must come down...


I'm not saying she was fast, but I think my £1.50 for ten minutes worked out at a cost of 5p per slide. The irony is that Lisa spent the whole time in Marks & Spencer's. Bored without Mummy, my foot.

After twenty-five days of hair-raising charity work, I've finally been asked by a patient if I'm growing this moustache for Movember. Up to now, it's been debatable whether or not I'm raising money for a good cause or simply attempting a bit of seventies retro chic, but clearly after three and a half weeks, there's no longer any doubt. No one would choose to look like this.

He was very polite though, and insisted that the moustache suits me. Which I think was his way of avoiding having to give me any sponsorship money.

On the subject of facial disfigurement, the good news is that Amelie's disease-ridden features are clearing up fast. Since being diagnosed on Wednesday, she's been sleeping much better, so it was clearly the worry of not knowing what was wrong with her that was keeping her awake. She's had two good nights now, and as of this morning, her spots are fading fast.

She must be feeling better too, because she appears to have retaken her position as head of this household. Lisa was using the computer yesterday and Amelie asked her to stop and do something else. When Lisa didn't immediately drop everything and let go of the mouse, Amelie walked up to her and said in a calm, yet deeply authoritative voice, "Don't touch that again or I'll throw water over you". She's also started using the phrase "For goodness sake", and regularly tells me off for deleting her iPad games to free up a bit of space. Only last night, she put her hands on her hips, tutted loudly, and said "Daddy! You deleted this game! You thought I wouldn't notice!" with a withering look on her face. I'm getting to the point where I'm terrified to cross her.

So in an attempt to earn some forgiveness for my transgressions, I took her out last night to Lidl. She's obsessed at the moment with the idea of 'going out in the dark', so I'm forced to take her out for a moonlit ride on my shoulders on an almost daily basis. Yesterday's walk took us to Lidl, and turned out to be a journey of discovery, because we found that they're selling these...

Yes, I kid you not, Lidl are selling frozen moose legs for £9.99. The moment I saw them, I thought bloody elk, that's deer. I mean, let's face it, I'm willing to pay a fiver for their ostrich steaks and octopus, but a tenner for a leg of moose seems a bit excessive. They should have done a promotional tie-in with The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show to boost sales and bring down the price. I'm sure they're not averse to selling squirrel steaks too.

In the end, we decided against the frozen moose, but the good news is that I have now started my Christmas shopping. It was my Dad's birthday yesterday (I can't believe he's still alive), and in addition to buying him a high quality second-hand gift from a charity shop, I've also sourced a remarkably fine present for my Mum. It's a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle (she asked for one, I swear) and it features this delightful piece of information on the bottom of the box:


So it's not a toy. And it's not a 1,000 piece jigsaw. But it was cheap.

It's typical. Just when I'm successfully attracting sympathy with an achy breaky prostate and a splitting headache, Amelie steals all my limelight by going down with the plague.

We noticed a couple of days ago that she was developing spots in various places (mostly in her bedroom), but by yesterday morning they were appearing on her hands and feet, and looking like tiny blisters, which seemed a bit odd. So Lisa took her to the doctor today for a spot check. And the result is...

She has 'Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease'. It's a viral infection, and should clear up within ten days. But if not, we have to burn her in a field on a bonfire of cows.

Yesterday's blog post was actually written on Sunday evening, which is just as well, because by Monday morning, we'd had the night of the living dead and I felt like calling it a day. Not only did Amelie wake us up numerous times with big cries in the small hours, but I was struck down at 4am with a recurrence of my chronic prostatitis. I struggled into work (late, and with an overgrown moustache), but by mid morning I was suffering with a splitting headache, and feeling inclined to throw up over a retinal photograph.

So I came home early, in the hope of being well enough to rush myself into hospital this morning. Horsham Hospital, to be exact. I still feel a bit rough, but I did indeed make it up the A23 today, and carry out a clinic without being carried out on a stretcher. I soaked my moustache in soluble aspirin, so I could get a hit just by licking my lips. It seemed to get me through the day.

The good news, however, is that I'm now in a position to self-medicate with super-fruit. Having spent Saturday afternoon at Raystede, mingling with some dodgy looking animals from broken homes, I decided to spend the evening hanging out at Asda. It's basically the same, but with less chance of being rescued. So I was vegetating in the fruit aisle, when I noticed that they were selling boxes of four pomegranates for three quid, with one of these thrown in for free...


That's an Arils Removal Tool, and you wouldn't guess it from the photo, but it was the winner of the Fruit Logistica Innovation Award 2010. No, really. I must admit, I assumed 'Arils' was the brand name until I looked it up in the dictionary.

Anyhoo, it's a well known fact that I'm the biggest pomegranate fan since Persephone, but tragically I'm forced to buy the seeds in plastic sealed cartons due to an inbuilt inability to get them out of the fruit. Trust me, I've tried. But as the juice stains on my shirts will testify, I've met with limited success. So every week I buy the pre-packed trays at great expense and even greater personal risk. They have a habit of fermenting within five days, swelling up the carton, and exploding all over the fridge. Although some of my most intense moments of clarity have come after eating them.

So what I've been wanting all these years is a foolproof method of getting the arils out of the husk. And now, at last, Asda have given me one for free...


Looks great, doesn't it? Unfortunately the reality bears very little resemblence to the video. I was there for half an hour last night playing some kind of crazed game of Whack-a-Mole with a pomegranate. Either you tap it politely and get nothing, or you beat the living daylights out of the fruit and end up taking the pith. I think I'll save it for Red Nose Day and stick it on the front of my car.

Lisa discovered a 'Height Predictor' tool on the internet at the weekend, which uses the scientifically proven Khamis-Roche Method to accurately reveal how tall your children will be as adults. So we entered my height (5'7") and Lisa's height (5'5"), plus Amelie's height (3'6"), weight (42lb) and age (3), and having analysed all the data, it told us she'll be 5'9" by the age of 13. We've only got ten years before she'll be looking down on us. Although in many ways, I think she already is.

So while we're still able to look her in the eye without the use of a stepladder, we decided to take her out for some fun in the sun on Saturday. We'd had a slightly stressful morning, after I had a flash of inspiration and decided on the spur of the moment that what Amelie would enjoy more than anything on a bright November morning, was for me to get out my old PS2 dance mat from under the bed, and for the two of us to boogie on down in the living room for a couple of hours.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. The time being 10am. By ten-fifteen I'd realised that the dance mat wasn't where I thought it would be, and by ten-thirty I was turning the flat upside down looking for it. I eventually found it at eleven. And that wasn't all I found. I also discovered that if your Playstation's done nothing but gather dust on a shelf for two years, you might struggle to get it working.

But two hours, numerous tears and a lot of regrets later, we were finally up and dancing. At which point Amelie took one look at the game, told me she didn't like it, and ran out of the room crying. To say it was a disappointing end to all my hard work would be like saying that Burlesconi was only slightly corrupt.

But what really gets my goat is this...


That's Amelie having a lot more fun with a lot less effort from me.

We decided to take her out on Saturday afternoon to the Raystede Centre for Animal Welfare near Ringmer. We took her there in June, when we pretended it was Drusillas Zoo Park, but we decided to come clean this time and admit that it's an animal rescue centre. Unfortunately she associates the word 'rescue' with me retrieving her cuddly toys from behind the sofa, so she spent most of the time asking why the animals were stuck, and how we could pull them out.

But despite the confusion, a good time was had by all. Not only did we manage to cross the wooden bridge to Goose Island with no more than two or three tantrums...


... but we also saw a variety of interesting animals. Here's a hot bunny girl having a bad hair day...


Sorry, wrong photo. That's my wife with no make-up in the cafe. Here's a hot bunny girl having a bad hair day...

Or possibly a bad hare day. Surprisingly, however, that wasn't the oddest small mammal we saw on Saturday. Raystede has become so overrun with rodents since we last visited, that they're on the verge of being sponsored by Rentokil. But in addition to rehoming rats, hamsters, gerbils, chinchillas and spiny mice, they also had two destitute degus. Although they looked more like obese gerbils.

Not only is the degu an ideal pet, but you can have a lot of fun with them in the lab. According to Wikipedia (so it's bound to be true), "Degus entered the research spotlight due to their unique relationship with sugar and diabetes, but are also studied for a wide variety of other reasons. Neuroscientists at the Riken Institute in Tokyo, Japan, used degus for research into tool use in animals with good eye-and-paw coordination, in which they spontaneously learned to use a tiny rake to retrieve out-of-reach seeds. Degus have also been found to spontaneously stack objects in order of decreasing size. In both cases it is the first time these behaviours have been recorded in animals other than apes and birds."

They're naturally diabetic, can use gardening tools, and appear to have OCD. Lisa had to physically restrain me from adopting one. I'd have it cuddling my patients, sorting out my window box, and alphabetising my CDs within hours.

I don't know how I'm going to find the time to write a blog post if I spend all weekend doing stuff with Amelie, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it...


I'm not alone in that photo. Amelie's behind me, playing Poohsticks. On a lake.

I think three years spent listening to her decrepit old parents moaning about their minor ailments has finally had an effect on Amelie. She walked into the kitchen this morning and said this:

"Mummy, my knees are a bit achey. Can I have a cuddle?"

Mind you, she needs a lot of reassurance at the moment, because as of two days ago, she's officially ugly. I forgot to say that The Argus announced the winners of the Cute Kids Contest on Wednesday, and sadly, Amelie didn't quite make the grade. Her category was won by a little girl called Cheska, but according to the report, the most votes were polled by the winner in the 1-2 years category, a girl called Summer (she sounds like a seasoned professional), who racked up 334 texts.

Apparently there were 14,100 votes cast in total, and 1,100 children who entered, so ignoring the Summer loving which happened so fast, I make that an average of only 12 votes per child. Frankly if we hadn't lost touch with Lisa's father's side of the family, we could have won this thing.

But on the subject of things I've forgotten to say, I went for a little walk in Crawley at lunchtime yesterday, and discovered a new Indian Takeaway called Argy Bhaji. It's shop names like that which make my life worth living. I wanted to take a photo, but tragically, it's positioned right next door to a sex shop (that wasn't why I was in the area, I swear), and I was terrified that a customer would emerge just as I pressed the shutter release button, and I'd end up being accused of trying to take pictures of porn purchasers. So I didn't dare get out my camera.

But fortunately, I've found a photo online...


That's Xes Desire on the right. It's for people who are a bit backwards about sex. At least in terms of the spelling.

I was listening to the radio news on my way up to Crawley this morning, and they were talking about the fact that gourmet sea salt is apparently no better for you than bog standard table salt. The only difference you get with the expensive brands is that you'll end up with less money to spend on your blood pressure pills.

So I was pondering this news as I drove up the A23, only to exit at the Crawley turn-off and find myself driving up the slip road directly behind a car with this registration plate:

S99 SLT

Is it just me, or is that slightly spooky? It was as though fate wanted me to see salt as well as hear about it.

Anyhoo, I don't want to give the impression that I spend all my time tirelessly raising money for charity, but in addition to the hours I've spent cultivating an impressive moustache (hair doesn't just grow itself, you know), I also raised a substantial sum for Children in Need today. The receptionists at Crawley Hospital were holding a home-made cake sale, which involved the clever use of a yellow sharps bin as a charity collecting bucket. I presume they wanted to prick people's conscience and make a worthwhile point. So I spent the day diligently raising money... out of my left trouser pocket, and handing it over in return for numerous baked goodies.

Obviously I'm on a strict diet, but they'd placed the cake table directly between my room and the waiting room, meaning that I had to spend the day trekking past sugar loaf mountain with a stream of diabetics. Under the circumstances, I felt the most selfless thing I could do was to help my patients avoid temptation by eating the evidence myself.

It was a rocky road. After which I had a chocolate brownie and some carrot cake. By the time I was eating the clotted cream sponge, I felt like I'd done my bit for a good cause. I'll be booking myself in for a diabetes test next week.

I'm a bit busy this evening eating toast sandwiches, checking my salad for dead birds, and pondering what hamsters can teach us about adolescent sex. So I don't have much time to write a blog post.

But the good news is that Big Sis has e-mailed me the photos she took at Amelie's Christening the Sunday before last. So here's Lisa nailed to the cross...


And here are my brother and sister in Christ...


I know half my family are now Catholic, but that photo alone makes a pretty powerful argument for the use of contraception.