In the words of Errol Brown, "I believe in miracles...". And I'm from Brighton, thanks for asking.

It's twelve days since my jury service was interrupted by a criminal gang and I received a letter from Ethical Parking Management informing me of their decision not to uphold my entirely legitimate appeal against their unlawful clamping of my car. Despite being halfway through the trial of the century, I took some time out from my deliberations that weekend and spent a couple of hours in the pursuit of justice.

With help from my legal secretary, Lisa, (who does all the work and gets none of the glory), I wrote a letter of complaint to Brighton & Hove City Council, and included a copy of my clamping invoice, appeal letter, EPM's parking regulations and their response to my appeal. The council replied to say they'd investigate, and this morning they wrote back to me.

Their letter re-states the circumstances of the incident, before going on to say this:

"Ethical Parking Management have provided photographic evidence which was taken at the scene. I am satisfied that your vehicle was correctly parked in a visitor bay and that there was a visitor parking permit displayed in the windscreen of the vehicle.

Therefore if a valid permit was being displayed and your vehicle was parked correctly then the clamping company would be incorrect to immobilise the vehicle under the terms of the contract that they hold with us.

Finally, concerning the reason stated by EPM on the invoice you have provided with your evidence, namely that the permit was being misused by you as you 'had left the site immediately':-

Whilst it is true that the visitor bays at [name of sheltered housing complex] are for visitors only and that it may have seemed to their operative that the bay was being improperly used in this instance, EPM operatives are not authorised by Brighton & Hove City Council to make a judgement of this nature.

As this is the case and as your vehicle was parked by you in a manner which was in accordance with both the clamping contract signage in place at that site and the information supplied to the resident you were visiting by the Car Parks & Garages Team, I am satisfied that Ethical Parking Management were incorrect in applying a clamp to your vehicle in this instance. I therefore uphold your complaint and have instructed EPM to refund the £100 clamping release fee to the same account which it was paid from at the earliest possible opportunity.

In addition I have requested that EPM provide you with a letter of apology which will be sent to your home address."

I know the refund of my money is the main thing, but it's the apology I'm really looking forward to.

I've spent today managing to completely avoid doing any programming...

I think this is why computer geeks don't have girlfriends. Women are far too distracting. And babies don't look after themselves either. I tried it all morning with Toby, and it just made him cry even more.

That photo's like a 'Where's Wally?' picture, but with Amelie playing the wally. Trust me, she's there somewhere. But with the exception of a few questions on the intricacies of Python functions, the biggest puzzle in my life right now is this one...


Now, I'm no stranger to talking nonsense at the wheel of a moving vehicle, but what the heck is she gibbering on about? Lisa's position on the nearby bench wasn't in question, but "I can do this from the back of my eyes"??? What?? Let's face it, I do this sort of thing for a living, and I still don't have a clue what she means.

I can only assume that the g-force from the rocking has detached her retinas. Which might explain why she staggers off down the hill like Donald Pleasence at the end of The Great Escape. There's a Nazi waiting for her just out of shot. No really, we live on a council estate.

As the old saying goes, if you want something done, ask a busy person. I haven't got time to explain that, but trust me, it's true. So in late August, when my paternity leave came to an end and I returned to work with the mind of Ozzy Osbourne, the body of Billy Bunter and the schedule of Nicola Horlick, I decided to ask some serious questions of myself by signing up for a university course in computer programming.

No, really.

At the time I felt a bit like a zombie, which makes a lot of sense, as it's not the action of someone with a functioning brain. The course in question is an online extravaganza run by the prestigious Rice University of America (I think their dean's called Paddy Field), and is administered via Coursera, which was launched earlier this year, and provides free undergraduate courses to anyone in the world with an internet connection. I thought I'd get in quick before they start charging.

Having browsed through the courses on offer, I eventually signed up for An Introduction to Interactive Programming in Python, which presumably features a lot about spam, taught by a professor called Monty. I also put my name down for Clinical Problem Solving, but that one doesn't start until January, giving me plenty of time to fake an illness and pull out. Problem solved.

The Python one, however, starts on Monday, and is due to last for eight weeks. When I signed up back in August, mid-October seemed a long way off, and I assumed my life would have settled down by then into a relaxed, care-free existence filled with spare time and boredom. In reality, I'm no less busy than I was in August. And I'm slightly more stressed. But as of Monday, I'm supposed to find 7-9 hours a week to watch video lectures, do quizzes and complete mini programming projects online.

Here are my four professors hanging out before class...


That's what passes for fun when you've got a PhD. Personally I'm aiming to prove that it's possible to have a detailed knowledge of computer programming and still be at the cutting edge of coolness, which is why I'm taking this class. I can work on the coolness later.

The professors state that "People who finish this course won't be professional programmers, but they will know just enough Python programming to have fun and be dangerous". So I'm expecting to be able to program weapons systems and write viruses. For my own amusement.

Assuming I don't drop out, that is. Since signing up in August, more than 54,000 people have followed my example, so it's getting pretty crowded in the classroom, and I'm feeling a little intimidated. They released the first week's lectures a bit early, to give students extra time to get acclimatised, so I'm already up to my neck in strings, functions and variables. And sinking fast.

By this time next week, I'm supposed to have programmed my first game, which at the moment seems unlikely. I might have to trawl the class forums for a nerd I can start bullying. It could be my only way of getting the answers...

After two weeks of being judgemental, my first stint of jury service is finally over. And I think the British tax payer got their money's worth out of me. Having completed two gruelling trials by the end of Tuesday, I thought they might give me the rest of the week off, but to my surprise, I was informed on Wednesday that my services were still required down at the law courts. Apparently there was a burglar out there who needed my particular brand of justice.

Needless to say, my only personal experience of theft was when I stole Lisa's heart eight years ago. Unless you include all the times I've failed to scan stuff at self-service checkouts. But despite that, they felt I was just the kind of juror who could weigh up a burglary charge with speed and precision, and return a verdict by the end of the week. I see jury service as the most vital of civic duties, but I haven't checked my e-mails for a fortnight, so I told them I needed to be back at work on Monday. They responded by assuring me that the case would be over by Friday afternoon.

And so it proved. Hanging might have been removed from the British legal system in 1969, but hanging around is still very much a part of the court process. So having been kept waiting for inordinate periods of time while shadowy deals were done in dimly lit back rooms (mostly over who gets the sandwiches), we were eventually told that the defendant had changed his plea to guilty, and the trial was being abandoned. He must have seen me striding up the courthouse steps with the air of a young Perry Mason, and realised he didn't have a prayer.

My jury service might have ultimately fizzled out into nothing, but over the course of the two weeks, it was a very worthwhile experience. It's taught me that the job of a barrister is essentially a dull one, although not quite as dull as being a judge, but my overall interest was huge, and for the most part I loved every minute. Although it drained me faster than Amelie with a Fruit Shoot.

It also gave me the chance to read a book (not in court, I hasten to add, but in the jury assembly room), which is no mean feat for a non-reader like myself. I actually read 'The Code Book' by Simon Singh, from start to finish in nine trialling days. As a result, I'm now attempting to clear some time in my schedule to crack The Beale Ciphers, and pop over to America to dig up some treasure. I think I can have it done by Christmas, assuming Lisa looks after the kids.

In the meantime, we've had an official letter from Am's nursery...

They want us to dress our child as a monster. Which makes a change from dressing our little monster as a child. The alternative is to opt for her favourite scary character. So we're going to give her a cigar and some jewellery, and let her go as Jimmy Savile.

Today is World Sight Day, an annual day of awareness to focus global attention on blindness, but while my colleagues were broadening their view of diabetic retinopathy with a day-trip to London, I've spent six hours looking at the inside of Hove Trial Centre. Which seems aptly named when you're kept waiting indefinitely with no explanation.

But just when I thought I might never see daylight again, they let me out for an hour at lunchtime, and I found this eye-opening vision of loveliness in a nearby charity shop. Not only is it a sight for sore eyes, but it looks like an eye-witness account of Lisa's life with me. And I can answer the question on the cover.

She basically just apologised, and promised she'd never eat my chocolate again.

Having spent the past week embroiled in under-age groping allegations myself (I should probably rephrase that), I was pleased to see Freddie Starr on the news last night, making his position on paedophilia absolutely clear...


Child sexual abuse just isn't his style, and whilst others might feel quite loving towards paedophiles, Freddie simply can't stand them. Which seems a bit judgemental to me. Still, it's nice for him to clarify his position in public. Whilst standing next to his fiancée who's 35 years his junior.

On the subject of sex and children, Lisa finally had her contraceptive implant fitted yesterday. The surgery had made her an appointment for 5:30pm, which was good timing, because it gave me a chance to get back across the city from Hove Crown Court in time to pick up Amelie from nursery, and get home to look after Toby before Lisa had to leave at ten past five.

Unfortunately the doctor phoned a couple of days ago to say that she was changing the appointment to 5 o'clock because she didn't want to work any later. I know how she feels. It's an inconvenience, and means you might end up missing The Simpsons. As a result, we had to get Lisa's Mum over to mind the baby for half an hour, while I rushed back from court to get Amelie, Lisa got the bus to the surgery, and I then drove my mother-in-law home.

It was all worth it though. Or it would have been if the doctor had actually called Lisa in at 5pm. Unfortunately they kept her waiting for forty minutes, making the whole operation a waste of faffing time.

But the good news is that Lisa's now implanted. She came home with a Mr Bump bandage on her arm, and this plastic card which she has to keep about her person at all times for the next three years...

It's in case she gets hit by a bus, and the paramedics mistake her implant for a bit of shrapnel. The consequences could be disastrous. The moment they whip it out, and I catch sight of Lisa looking sexy on the emergency ward in a green surgery gown, we could have a third child on our hands.

My second trial as a juror finally came to an end this afternoon after five days of intense evidence, arguments and debate. My first experience of jury service last week was a simple case of handling stolen goods. This one was a little more challenging. The defendant faced a total of twelve charges: four counts of sexual activity with children, four counts of sexual assault, and four counts of offering illegal drugs to children.

We found him not guilty on all charges. Which is quite a responsibility to take, and not a decision you want to get wrong. When I arrived at the court last Monday, the first thing I was given was a leaflet telling me how to get support from The Samaritans if I end up on a case I find upsetting. It never really came close to that, but it has to be said that a trial of this nature does take it out of you emotionally.

For an entire week (five days in court, two days in thought) you're completely immersed in the minutiae of a case which affects many people's lives in numerous different ways - all of them negative. And you have the weight of those negative outcomes on your shoulders. Strangers' lives will be ruined - temporarily at least - regardless of the final decision you make. But you want to be sure that you don't ruin things for the wrong person. And sadly, you may never know if you did.

Having spent each day listening to conflicting accounts, making copious notes, and trying to sift through the weight of evidence in an attempt to get close to the truth, you're sent home with the advice not to think about the case until the next day. Advice it's impossible to follow. If you have any kind of conscience, you live the trial, day and night, till it's over. And probably for a while afterwards. On arrival this morning, three of my fellow jurors told me they didn't sleep last night.

So it's been an utterly draining week, and I've been feeling increasingly unwell all day. I'm very happy with the verdict in the case, but the outcome of the trial for me personally is exhaustion, headache and nausea. I was back in time to pick up Amelie from nursery today, and there was a sign on the door as I went in, warning that they've had six confirmed cases of vomiting and diarrhoea this week. I've felt steadily more sick and achey as the evening's gone on. I just don't know if it's a pre-school bug or post-traumatic stress.

Today's important life lesson is that four hours locked in a jury room is surprisingly draining, and leaves one incapable of coherent blogging.

We'd also been promised a phone call today from the council about the ethics of parking management, but that's failed to materialise. Much like the refund of my money. The whole saga's a bit of a trial, and this trial's turning into a saga. It's no wonder I'm tired.

The problem for Toby is that as a Gardner male, he's inherited the gene that makes us look fat in photos...

In reality we're all stick thin, lean and muscular, but whip out a camera and we instantly put on three stone. I think he looks like my Dad in that photo...

It's all in the cheeks. And the high forehead.

As it happens, it's my parents' wedding anniversary today, so HAPPY ANNIVERSARY to you both. This time last year, we surprised them with an all-expenses-paid fine dining experience, and a professionally printed photobook of their lives. This year, the surprise was much greater. For us at least. We only remembered it an hour ago.

It's particularly annoying because my parents' anniversary comes exactly one week after my own, so it should be easy to remember. And it is. But only for about twenty-four hours. It was fresh in my mind last Sunday when we accepted some free babysitting from my parents so that Lisa and I could go out for a meal, and I resolved at the time to return the favour by getting them a cheap card. It seemed like the least I could do. So having finally been released from court last Monday, I got the bus along to Churchill Square and bought two anniversary cards. I then congratulated myself on remembering the date. Before promptly forgetting it again.

It was just after 2 o'clock this afternoon, as Lisa got Amelie ready for her swimming lesson, and I sat here telling Toby how much he looks like his Grandad (chubby and asleep on the sofa), that I remembered what today is, and realised with horror that I'd never sent the cards.

But whilst I might have the memory of a goldfish, I also have access to a scanner. So in the immortal words of Jim Bowen, look at what you could have won...

That one's from Amelie and Toby, and this one's from me and Lisa...

They're supposed to be representative. The kids are cute and well-fed, and the parents are as poor as church mice.

I wrote yesterday's blog post on a park bench (not literally) in Palmeira Square, just down the road from Hove Crown Court, during a break in a heavy day's trialling. I felt like Samuel Pepys during the Great Fire of London. But with biros and a packed lunch.

The case which began on Wednesday is ongoing, and will enter its fourth day on Monday, but as we broke for lunch yesterday, the judge told us that before reconvening that afternoon, he had some other business to attend to, and invited us all to sit in on it. At the time, it sounded more like the kind of proposition that would land him on the other side of the courtroom, but we accepted, unsure of what to expect.

So having vented my anger about Ethical Parking Management into a notebook, I returned to court to find out what it was that the judge thought might be of interest to us.

It turned out to be a murder trial. Or at least a preliminary hearing for one. We were expecting some kind of dull legal meeting, but we were led into a highly charged courtroom complete with two defendants, three Queen's Counsel, three barristers, some solicitors, detectives, and a packed public gallery complete with burly policeman in body armour to keep the two sides apart. Intimidating doesn't even come close to it.

The hearing lasted less than twenty minutes, although must have cost thousands in lawyers' fees, and I've never experienced anything like it. Despite sitting in the jury box, we were there in an entirely unofficial capacity, with the same status as those in the public gallery, but quite what they thought we were doing there, I have no idea. One of my fellow jurors said afterwards that she felt like holding up a sign confirming that we're not the jury, just in case we started getting death threats.

Fortunately, when my jury service ends next week, I can't be forced to do it again for another two years, so I know I won't be trying that case. I've always thought I'd like to decide a murder trial, but having experienced one for a few minutes, I've completely changed my mind.

Going back to yesterday's other criminal act, I've located the minutes of the council meeting in 2010 when Brighton & Hove City Council decided to renew their contract with Ethical Parking Management. It reveals that the council pay EPM nothing for their service - they just allow them to keep all the fines. So it's in EPM's best interest to clamp as many people as possible, because it's their only way of getting paid. If no one contravenes the parking regulations, they don't make a penny.

It's interesting too, because it presents Ethical as a highly professional company, with impeccable standards, whose operatives are all "trained in social and communication skills". Which is odd, as the lady on the phone was rude, and the clamper didn't say a word to me, other than "Sign here".

I took Amelie over to see her Nanny this afternoon, and with spooky timing, Lisa's Mum handed me a letter she received this morning from the council. It says this:

"From 1st October 2012 the clamping of vehicles on private land became illegal following a change in the law introduced by the Protection of Freedoms Act 2012. As a result of this, Brighton & Hove City Council (BHCC) can no longer use clamping as a means of parking enforcement in off-street Housing car parks, as these are considered private land."

So September was the last month of clamping, and they got me. Four weeks later, and I'd have received a Penalty Charge Notice instead, with the ability to withhold payment while I lodged an appeal.

Unfortunately the letter goes on...

"Ethical Parking Management will continue to provide parking enforcement by the issue of PCNs in accordance with the terms of the existing contract that they currently hold with BHCC."

So the word on the street was wrong. Clamping might be going, but EPM are here to stay. At least until their contract comes up for renewal next year. That might be a council meeting worth attending...

As it happens, the defendants at Hove Crown Court aren't the biggest criminals I've heard from this week. I had a letter yesterday from Ethical Parking Management. And here it is...

According to EPM's own rules, if you submit an appeal within 28 days, and supply a stamped addressed envelope, "you will receive correspondence within 14 days (allowing for post)". That letter took 25 days to arrive. So either Ethical failed to abide by their own rules, or Royal Mail took a week and a half to deliver a first class letter.

I'd like to think the delay was due the EPM Appeals Committee's lengthy and exhaustive analysis of the evidence, but after more than three weeks of waiting, the letter they've sent me is clearly just the standard response they send to everyone, regardless of the circumstances of the clamping or the validity of your appeal.

They don't name the location of the clamping, don't know if I supplied any evidence, and don't state which parking regulation I'm supposed to have broken. The bit about "extenuating circumstances" is clearly just the platitude they hand out to everyone. After all, you wouldn't be appealing if you didn't think there were extenuating circumstances.

I was legally parked in a visitor's space and displaying a valid visitor's permit, but the reason for immobilisation given by the barely literate clamper was as follows:

Lisa's Mum has spoken to the manager of the sheltered housing complex who has confirmed that if I was parked in the correct space and displaying a valid permit (neither of which are disputed by Ethical), then my departure to get shopping for my mother-in-law is irrelevant, and I shouldn't have been clamped.

I was back at the sheltered housing today, as I am two or three times a week, so I took a photo of Ethical Parking Management's regulations for the site, which confirm what the manager says...

"Vehicles must clearly display a current valid permit in the windscreen and be parked correctly in bay/space only". Those are the only terms and conditions stated, and I complied with them in full.

Unfortunately, having ignored the facts completely, and made a "full and final" decision with no basis in truth, EPM are "unable to issue further correspondence regarding this matter either directly with you or any third party". Meaning they're unlikely to respond to the manager who's about to phone them on our behalf, or indeed Brighton & Hove City Council. Making their provision of the complaints department address entirely pointless.

The word on the street is that the council have already decided not to renew the contract with Ethical Parking Management, and will shortly be taking over control of the car park at the sheltered housing themselves. Which perhaps explains why EPM feel they can clamp the innocent without fear of reproach, and be as unscrupulous as they please. I will be writing to the council, but my hopes of ever getting my money back from a company who break their own rules, disregard the facts, and have an ironic lack of ethics, are rapidly approaching zero.

Lisa was due back at the doctor today to have her contraceptive implant fitted. So I was looking forward to this weekend. Jeremy Forrest wasn't sure he'd make it back in time, but fortunately Lisa's sister had agreed to look after Amelie this morning, so we were all set for surgery. Unfortunately the surgery wasn't. They phoned yesterday to cancel the appointment, saying that the only doctor trained to fit implants is having to go into a care home today. Which is odd, as she doesn't look that old.

So Lisa's still dangerously fertile, which is ironic as we received an e-mail yesterday from DuoFertility, inviting us to a party in London in November to celebrate the birth of their 500th baby. Toby is proud to be one of that number, so they've asked if we'll send some photos for them to display. I told him, and he looked shocked. So it's hard to tell if he heard me.

On the subject of a hearing loss (this is seamless), organised crime was the loser yesterday as justice prevailed and I found my first defendant guilty. And it wasn't Jimmy Savile. We were informed by the jury bailiff that now the trial is over, we can discuss the details of the case in public, but that what went on in the jury room must go with us to our graves.

So I can't tell you how much tea and coffee we drank, but I am at liberty (unlike the defendant) to reveal that it was a case of handling stolen goods. Namely the steering wheel of an Audi A5. The case started on Monday, was scheduled to last a day, and duly finished on Wednesday. Which is what happens when the defendant goes on the run. He turned up on Monday, saw the evidence against him, and promptly did a runner. There's currently a warrant out for his arrest.

So a lot of Tuesday was spent hanging around in the proverbial dark while the police went knocking on doors and the judge considered whether to carry on without him. We eventually found him guilty late yesterday morning, at which point we learnt that not only is he on the run, but he already has a criminal record, and is currently on bail for another crime. So I'm sensing we made the right decision.

There was some debate between the judge and the barristers about why the man was granted bail for a second crime when he was already out on bail for the first, but hindsight's a wonderful thing, and no one could ask him as he wasn't there.

In his absence, he was sentenced to a total of twenty-seven months in prison, and is likely to be deported back to his native Eastern Europe. Assuming they can find him.

People I've spoken to who have experience of jury service told me to expect days of doing nothing, and possibly even a week with no cases. That's not been my experience so far. The first trial finished at lunchtime yesterday, but just as I was building myself up for an an early finish and a relaxing few hours with my feet up, I was promptly selected for another jury, and sworn in for a new trial, shattering my hopes of an afternoon off, and putting me instantly back to work. There's no justice.

Well, I think Amelie did have a good 4th birthday yesterday...

Admittedly, things got off to a shaky start when I unwittingly trod on a tube of Bepanthen whilst trying to get her presents out of the wardrobe in the dark, and then tracked nappy cream all the way into the living room without realising. I subsequently missed quite a bit of the birthday fun due to being on my hands and knees with a bucket. And I don't mean throwing up. Although it did make me sick.

Fortunately things picked up from there. I was due in court first thing, so we only let Amelie open half her presents in the morning, leaving the rest for when I was let out for good behaviour. But she seemed pleased with the Sea Monkeys...

... and that new doll on the green mat is scarily life-like.

I felt slightly guilty when she looked at the picture on the Sea Monkeys box...

... and asked me if that's what they'll look like, but having explained to her the concept of poetic licence, she accepted the difference between advertising and reality, and declared "I can't wait to watch them swim!". So they'd better hatch after all this.

Of equal success was the collection of Zoobles, which were greeted with much pleasure and excitement. My brother bought her a box of twenty, which looked remarkably like a set of snooker balls, and we added an overpriced play-set complete with babies so small that we'd lost them within a few hours.

As it transpired, however, that play-set wasn't so much overpriced as priceless. I mentioned ten days ago that my understanding of Zoobles is roughly akin to my understanding of quantum physics, and sure enough, having unwrapped and examined the Zoobles, not one of us could work out how they opened. Not even Amelie, who claimed to be a world expert on the creatures.

Fortunately, this is where the internet proved its worth. Having entered the question into Google, I discovered that "Zoobles are collectible colorful spheres that 'pop' open into fun and cute characters when placed on their magnetized 'Happitat'" – a statement which filled me with instant horror when I realised we hadn't got one. I was also mildly concerned that the price of a Happitat would be so great that it would work out cheaper to buy a snooker table and use the Zoobles as balls.

But as it transpired, the overpriced play-set I'd been persuaded to buy in Toys R Us contains one solitary Happitat amongst all the sad plastic tat, which is enough to open her twenty Zoobles. I've never felt so relieved. And having seen them in action, I'm actually quite impressed. They might just be colourful characters to Amelie, but they're remarkable feats of engineering to me. It's no wonder they're so expensive.

Happy Birthday Amelie!!!

Your brother can't believe his eyes, and your Daddy's too tired to write about it, but we hope you've had a good day. xxx

Today was my first day of jury service, an important civic duty which is expected to last for the next two weeks, and is, on today's evidence at least, a lot like 'Waiting for Godot', but with slightly more hanging around. Fortunately, things picked up significantly this afternoon, but due to my overwhelming fear of following Matthew Banks and Joanne Fraill down the road of juror stupidity to the nearest jail, that's about all I'm prepared to say about it. At least until I sign a book deal at the end of the trial.

In the meantime, the old folks down at the Brighton Retirement Castle have got a new entertainments coordinator in...


She's got little regard for health & safety, but she does come with her own hospital. And here it is...

It's actually a Puppy Hospital, which opens out to reveal a bustling maternity wing, complete with newborn dogs in nappies. So it's quite realistic. It's just one of the many presents that Amelie received yesterday on the first of her two official birthdays. The second one's tomorrow.

When she turned two in 2010, Amelie looked like this at her birthday tea, but there's a gulf of difference between a toddling two-year-old and a fully formed fourster. Yesterday she looked like this...

You can tell she's a lot older because she's reaching for a pair of glasses.

Anyhoo, we successfully managed to convince her that we'd made that cake ourselves, but sadly we were less successful when it came to written instructions. I bought her a new toy box to store all her puppies and kittens, and on the side it bears the legend: 'Keep Calm and Tidy Up'. Having seen it for the first time yesterday, she asked her Grandma what it said, and when told, she instantly declared, "I'm not going to do that. They're just joking".

Twenty-four hours later, I can tell you she's a girl of her word.