For the past quarter of a century, the biggest single-handed act of Argentine brilliance ever witnessed by the English was, of course, Maradona in the 1986 World Cup. But that all changed this weekend with the arrival of an e-mail from South America, informing me that the English-Spanish translation student I heard from last month has successfully passed her exam by accurately translating some of my work into her native tongue.

I've always been open to interpretation, but sadly very few people get me, so this is something of a first. It means that Spanish speakers the world over are now in a position to read, enjoy and above all misinterpret my Micro Fiction like the rest of the English-speaking world. Which can only be a good thing. What's more, this particular student has kindly provided me with the fruits of her labours (which counts as one of my five a day), so here, published for the very first time online, is 'Brian, the Itch & the Wardrobe' in Spanish...

Brian, la Intriga y el Ropero

En sus ocho años él nunca intentó abrir la puerta del ropero. Demasiado miedo. Estaba prohibido. Se encontró de nuevo frente la intimidante puerta de roble, mirándola. Pero con coraje esta vez. Imprudencia quizá.

Lentamente estiró un brazo. ¡Sin llave! La puerta hizo un crujido al abrirse.

Un mundo nuevo. No había oscuridad, sino luz. Un sol brillante. Entró de un paso. El aire dulce, los pájaros cantando, la calidez y el color lo envolvieron completamente. Era el mágico mundo que había soñado.

Disfrutó del paraíso por dos minutos, hasta que regresaron y lo volvieron a encerrar en el ropero.

I think the pun in the title might have been lost in translation, but the story's still full of intriga, and I'm loving the upside-down exclamation mark. It's definitely a job well done, and I feel privileged to have been worked on by a cunning linguist. Now I just need Mr Tumble to translate it into Makaton, and my bucket list will be complete.

Anyhoo, at the risk of writing a fourth consecutive blog post about Saturday, I should just mention that I had my work's Christmas do at the weekend. Sometimes it's more of a Christmas don't, but this year I had a thoroughly good time. Amelie told me that as it's a Christmas party, I should go dressed as a Christmas pudding, but having considered her suggestion, I opted to wear my leather coat instead. A decision which backfired a bit when I picked up Stefan and he told me that he has a similar coat himself, but rarely wears it for fear that he'll look like a member of the Gestapo. It was at that point that I wished I'd gone as a pudding.

Fortunately, however, the party featured enough distracting puddings of an entirely different nature, and the biggest wardrobe malfunction was when our office volunteer was presented with a mug featuring a picture of herself at last year's Christmas party. Whereupon we all realised she was wearing the same outfit.

But that awkwardness aside, the evening went without a hitch. Right up until the end, when I lost my balance in the hallway, stumbled into the wall, and knocked over a bottle of wine, which poured down behind a radiator and onto three people's umbrellas. I wouldn't mind, but I was the only one there not drinking.

It's every girl's dream to meet Russell Brand...

I'm joking, of course. That's clearly not Russell Brand. It's Santa's Grotto. No, seriously. I think they're going for a subtle religious subtext by celebrating Christmas with a bloke who looks like Robert Powell in Jesus of Nazareth. Albeit with a red spotted hanky and a cutlass.

Anyhoo, just to prove that idiots don't know when to quit, and a fool and his money are soon parted, we followed up Saturday morning's treat-fest with a festive trip to meet Father Christmas. Obviously there's only one Santa, but as I explained to Amelie, he's capable of appearing in various locations across Sussex on any given day, as part of his extensive market research to find out what kids want for Christmas.

The most logical place for us to meet him would be at the Churchill Square shopping centre in Brighton, but sadly in the run-up to Christmas, it's about as crowded as this train...

... only the occupants are less cheerful, and you're unlikely to get anywhere.

Fortunately, Santa's a keen horticulturist, as is proven by his regular personal appearances in local garden centres, where he's presumably shopping for Christmas trees and black welly boots, so we decided to look further afield for a more peaceful location. The local garden centre had opted for an upmarket all-ticket 'Breakfast With Santa' option, which was not only expensive but sold-out, while the branch near Lewes was charging so much to meet the red-suited sugar-daddy that you might as well buy a ticket to Lapland and knock on his door yourself.

So we opted for the South Downs Nurseries near Hassocks. I'd read glowing reviews of their Santa on the 'Burgess Hill Uncovered' Facebook page (consider yourself plugged, Mr C) and they were only charging £3 per child, with all the money raised going to the Burgess Hill District Lions Club, which supports local good causes.

At that price, there was obviously a risk that they might be putting the grot back into grotto with a shabby, low budget affair, and let's face it, three quid is more than a family trip to the cinema (even if you stay for the whole film), but I like to do my bit for charity - it's why I buy lottery tickets - and the idea of a drive into the countryside appealed more than a walk into a shopping centre, so we decided it was worth the risk.

And we weren't disappointed...

Well, actually we were disappointed. But only by the queue. That photo was finally achieved after AN HOUR spent in line. I know it's for charity, but frankly people should have been sponsoring me to stay there. Climbing Kilimanjaro would have been a breeze in comparison. At least you get some kind of view. I was stood next to a lawnmower display for thirty minutes.

But just when I thought I couldn't take any more, we reached the front of the queue, had a lovely chat with an elf, and with much excitement were shown through the curtain and into...

... the pirate display. No, I don't know why either. It was quite nice though, and featured a wooden ship, plastic cannon, various buccaneers, and a sign to the Lost Boys' Den. Or the customer service desk, as it's also known.

From there we were eventually called into Santa's inner sanctum, which was decorated with framed photos of reindeer, and granted an audience with the big man himself. He asked Amelie about school, so she told him she's at nursery, which prompted him to ask her age. Upon being told, he looked at me and Lisa for some kind of denial, and having confirmed that she really is only four, he then asked us what we're feeding her. It's a conversation we're used to.

Within a minute, she'd got her hands on a present, I'd taken five photos, and we were being ushered out through the exit. It was a brief experience, but a good one. And Amelie seemed to think it was worth it. She had that present open within thirty seconds (it was a Winnie the Pooh wall chart and book), and before we knew it, we were back at the main entrance, checking out the garden centre's Christmas display...

I think that's what the pre-school meant by a Nursery Winter Wonderland. Although they'd never let that Baby Jesus in.

Right, where to begin..? Well, two men from the council turned up on Friday afternoon and removed the fruity language from the noticeboard downstairs, so it's a good job I photographed it for posterity. They didn't fix the lift while they were here, but I did see them going up and down the stairs to check that no one had sworn on other floors.

Of course, the good thing about your lift being out of order is that it allows you to bond with grumpy delivery drivers who refuse to carry your stuff up the stairs. I'd ordered our shopping online this week, not, ironically, because of the broken lift, but because Tesco had sent us an £8 voucher, and because it's almost Christmas, and I prefer not to stand there trying to choose my vegetables in an aisle that resembles a tube train at rush hour.

The chap arrived on Friday evening, and promptly phoned me to say (in a slightly intimidating voice) that I needed to tell him which block we're in. I was tempted to point out that I'd provided detailed directions with my order, but he already sounded like he wanted to knife me, so instead I went out on the balcony and waved at him in a slightly camp manner.

Five minutes later, he phoned me again from the bottom of the stairs. Having discovered the broken lift, he could have popped up two flights and asked politely if I'd give him a hand, but instead he decided to phone me and insist I go downstairs in a tone of voice that suggested he'd been a prison officer in his previous job. Luckily for him, I'm easily intimidated, so I did indeed help him. Which is a euphemism for doing it all myself.

To be fair to the man though, I didn't quite do everything. He carried the last couple of bags up the stairs, and promptly dropped Lisa's jar of Loyd Grossman pasta sauce, smashing it all over the communal hallway, before placing another bag in the puddle. So having wished him a Merry Christmas, I put the shopping away in the kitchen while Lisa cleaned the floor by the broken lift. It was a good start to the weekend.

But things were to get even better. Amelie received her end of year report card on Thursday (which I may reproduce here at some point, just to embarrass her in later life), and it appears she's some kind of model student, so to reward the girl for her outstanding success in hiding her true personality from the nursery, we decided to take her to the cinema yesterday morning.

As we discovered three weeks ago, Cineworld at the marina charges just £1 a ticket for children's films on a Saturday morning. What we didn't know until this week, however, is that if you book online, you get 10% off. It meant that I was able to take my entire family to the pictures for a total of £2.70 (plus a complimentary baby).

The film we chose was 'Arthur Christmas', a festive family film from the producer of The League of Gentlemen, the writer of Alan Partridge and Borat, and the studio that made Wallace & Gromit, which stars the likes of Hugh Laurie and Bill Nighy, was nominated for a BAFTA and a Golden Globe, and gets an outstanding critic rating of 91% on Rotten Tomatoes.

Unfortunately Amelie didn't want to see it. We got up extra early to get ready, which meant we were able to spend a good couple of hours listening to her whining that she's been to the cinema before, doesn't want to go again, and doesn't like Christmas films anyway. With hindsight, we probably should have changed our plans, but at the time we were convinced she'd enjoy it when she got there, decided we knew best, and told her she's bloody well having a treat whether she likes it or not.

I did attempt to whet her appetite by showing her the trailer online...


... but having watched it, transfixed in silence, she then told me she didn't like the look of it.

So we drove her down to the marina in tears (mostly hers, but we were close to joining in), and picked up the tickets we'd paid for. To our relief, she agreed to go in, and for a while seemed to be enjoying the film (which was very well made and quite amusing), but having reached the halfway point, she suddenly insisted on leaving. So I have no idea how it ends. Frankly you don't argue with a loud-mouthed child in a cinema who announces that she wants to go home. Repeatedly, during a quiet part of the film.

We rewarded Amelie's politeness, humility and unfailing gratitude with a trip to McDonalds. Then we braved a pre-Christmas Asda with two children for a jar of Loyd Grossman pasta sauce. Which resulted in more tears when we wouldn't buy our daughter a toy. We returned home feeling tired, stressed and unappreciated. And that was before we met Father Christmas...

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "With children like these...



... weekends must be an absolute pleasure".

Well it's only lunchtime on Saturday, and I've already done the cinema, McDonalds and Asda. We've got Father Christmas this afternoon, and I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. But other than that, it's lovely.

If this were Twitter, I'd put #LivingTheDream.

It's four weeks now since our lift went kaput and surprisingly (or inevitably, depending on your view of the council) it still isn't fixed. Engineers have visited three times to my knowledge, but things are no more up and down than they were a month ago.

Fortunately, however, we've now received an update on the situation, courtesy of the council's 'Neighbourhoods Team'. A letter was posted through every letterbox yesterday afternoon providing more information, and a prediction on when it will be fixed. I could obviously just scan the copy we received, but it's far more entertaining if I use the one they stuck to the noticeboard downstairs...

I should point out that we don't live at number 19, and that's not my handwriting. I do have some sympathy for the views expressed though. I also think the council is fanning the flames a bit by stating that it's "taken a lot of time so far just managing to work out the real problem". They might as well just say "we're incompetent", and have done with it.

So it looks like I'll be carrying Toby's buggy up and down the stairs for another month. It's not stopping the mother-in-law from visiting though. She moved into sheltered housing two-and-a-half years ago because she couldn't cope with the hill, but she's currently scampering up those stairs three times a week. Usually with her hands full of shopping.

By coincidence (or maybe there's a connection?), I've been out of order for the same amount of time as the lift. Yesterday marked the four-week point of my cold, and it still hasn't left me. I'm a lot better than I was, but I'm still coughing, sniffing, and sounding far more manly than I should.

I'm hoping I'll be fixed before the lift, but as I slowly improve, Amelie's started going downhill this week. She's been off-colour for a couple of days, and was complaining of earache yesterday morning. She still insisted on going to nursery, but told us afterwards that she'd had to tell her best friend to play gently with her, because she wasn't feeling too well. She then promptly fell asleep on the sofa...

Lisa was going to take her to the doctor today, but typically she'd perked right up by this morning, and seems fine now. We've kept her in all day just to make sure, but she's been back to her noisy, boisterous self. So she's no longer the one with the earache.

With just over a week to go until Amelie's long-awaited stage debut at the nursery Christmas Concert, preparations were suddenly thrown into turmoil yesterday when we were accused of being too religious. Which is a bit like calling the Pope too secular, and prompted me to take the Lord's name in vain.

Having received the nursery's instructions a fortnight ago, and considered there vague theme of 'Winter Wonderland', we checked out the full range of Easter Bunny costumes, before eventually settling on this angel outfit from Marks & Spencer, which not only makes Amelie look pretty, but successfully masks her demonic tendencies with a halo. Lisa picked it up last week, and Amelie loves it.

Unfortunately, having been to nursery on Tuesday, Amelie suddenly announced to us on Wednesday morning that one of the teachers had told her that she couldn't go as an angel because it doesn't fit in with the theme. Apparently it has to be a winter creature not a Bible character.

Naturally, as an agnostic church non-attender, I was outraged, and felt tempted to send her in on a donkey, dressed as the Virgin Mary, and holding a couple of crucifixes. But we decided to investigate first. In a way, the news made perfect sense, as the Baby Jesus has been conspicuous by his absence from Amelie's Christmas songs, and the nursery staff seem to have gone out of their way to choose festive tunes with no mention of God, stars, wise men or shepherds. Frankly they've succeeded where Herod failed. But we couldn't quite believe that her angel costume had been banned. Amelie's capable of offending people in numerous different ways, but wearing wings isn't generally one of them.

So Lisa went in and spoke to them yesterday. They're denying that angels are outlawed, and trying to pin the comments on one of the children, but Amelie was insistent it was a teacher who'd said it, so we may never know the whole truth. They did, however, say that the other children are dressing as winter animals. So I presume she'll be the only angel in a room full of penguins.

The important thing is that we've kept Amelie's Christian values intact, and stood up for her God-given right to lord it over a bunch of polar bears by flapping about with a halo. It's an important part of her upbringing. And to prove the effect, Lisa asked her this morning "Do you know what Christmas Day is?"

She replied "So much fun?"

That's religious devotion for you.

I was in Asda on Saturday night during the X Factor final, which was a bit like shopping after the apocalypse, and made me feel like the last human alive. Apart from the girl on the checkout. With whom I was reluctant to rebuild the human race. So ignoring the only other person in the shop, I chose instead to pick up a pack of Asda 'Chicken Breast Fillets with a Delicious Blend of Bengali Spices', which was reduced to a pittance due to being dangerously close to expiry.

Fortunately I like living dangerously, and I'm always hopeful of kick-starting some serious weight loss with a nice bout of food poisoning, so I left it until Monday to eat them. Interestingly, however, when I got them out of the fridge last night, and gave them the once over for signs of mould, I noticed this IMPORTANT announcement on the packet...

To be honest, I'm reluctant to try anything that involves me exposing my breasts to the air to get rid of the stench. And I don't care how normal it is, any food which feels it has to warn me about its smell to ensure that I don't chuck it straight in the bin, is not likely to get me salivating.

But when I'm hungry I'll eat anything. And they actually tasted ok. I can't comment on the smell, as my nose is still blocked up.

The good news, however, is that home cooking will soon be a thing of the past. Yesterday's All-Staff Info-Mail at work contained the fantastic revelation that in February or March of next year, a branch of Subway will be opening on the hospital site. It'll be located next to Amelie's poster, which is only a three minute walk from our flat. So firstly I'll be seeing a lot more of my daughter, and secondly I can pick up dinner on my way home. It's just a shame I'll be too fat to walk.

It's a well established fact that Amelie and Toby come from a long line of highly successful songwriters. Despite some dodgy earlier efforts, I myself achieved lyrical perfection with 'The Piglet Song', a hauntingly evocative muse on porcine anatomy that was met with both international success and critical acclaim, while Lisa has successfully reinterpreted an old skool classic by providing a fresh new twist on 'London's Burning', incorporating some fierce beatboxing and unplanned animal noises.

So it will come as no surprise to anyone to hear that Amelie has already completed her first musical composition. They say that Mozart wrote 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' when he was five, but firstly that's not true, and secondly Amelie's only four. And she started working on this when she was three. So she's streets ahead on every level.

She first came to me with this musical work-in-progress about three months ago, and has performed it for us on a few occasions since, honing it each time with slightly different lyrics and a tune which is hard to pin down. In recent weeks however, she's settled on a set of words that she's happy with, and a melody which, whilst not immediately catchy in the traditional sense, is unchanging, and what Paul Gambaccini might call a grower.

The impressive thing is that whilst at first listen it might sound like a rambling, tuneless old mish-mash, the performance is consistent, and after you've heard it six times a day, it's hard to get out of your head, and is a definite earworm. And Amelie wrote it all by herself. At least she says she did. And no one else is owning up to it. In fact it's proving such a hit that she's now taking it on tour.

So here, for the first time in front of a global audience, is Amelie's debut performance of 'Twinkling Stars'...


I'll be honest, I did have my reservations about the line 'Twinkling stars in the night, twinkling all day', but Lisa claims that's explained by the 'never stopping' bit. She also says the lyrics are better than 'The Piglet Song', which is slightly outrageous. And besides, I was focusing more on the tune.

As a frustrated boy scout whose parents could never afford the membership fees, I'd prepared thoroughly for Thursday's trip to Gloucester by booking Friday morning off work, just in case I got stuck in the Slough of despond due to signal failure. It meant that in addition to enjoying a half hour lie-in until Toby started crying, I was able to finish 'The Hunger Games' in the bath before returning to work.

And I was slightly disappointed. Not just with work, but with the ending of the book. It's hard to criticise a story which held my interest throughout all 454 pages and made me want to keep reading (partly because I was stuck on a train with nothing else to do), but ultimately it never quite delivered on its promise. The first half built up so much anticipation that I couldn't wait to get to the second half. But when I did, there just wasn't enough there to keep me satisfied. As brutal slaughters go, it lacked a certain something.

I think part of my problem was that whilst Suzanne Collins claims she'd never heard of 'Battle Royale' when she wrote 'The Hunger Games', I saw the film six years ago. And I have the blog post to prove it. So I couldn't shake that constant sense of plagiarism. And it spoilt the book somewhat.

But the good news is that I bought the entire trilogy for a fiver and I have an aversion to wasting money, so I'll be ploughing on with the second book in due course. Assuming I can find another train to get stuck on.

In the meantime, yesterday was spent ticking off items on my list of weekend jobs. Amelie was at my parents' all day, which not only gave me the chance to write a thousand words about breakfast spreads for another website, but also meant we could throw out all her toys. For a council estate kid with no money, Amelie owns a remarkable amount of stuff. Quite a bit of it's from charity shops, but she's also conned a lot of people into spending money on her over the years, with the result that you can no longer see the floor in her bedroom.

We've bought her a doll's house for Christmas, plus numerous bits and bobs, and despite the fact that Toby's getting nothing more than an orange and a lump of coal, we need to make space before the 25th, otherwise Santa won't have room to drop anything off.

So Lisa and I spent yesterday afternoon in Amelie's bedroom with a roll of black sacks and a ruthless streak a mile wide. She's back home now, and so far, she hasn't noticed. Probably because she returned with a load of new toys from my parents. I think that's how we got into this mess.

As it transpired, yesterday's trip to Gloucester could hardly have been more difficult if I'd stepped off the train and straight into a puddle right up to my middle. I'm beginning to understand how Dr Foster felt. I'm never going there again either.

To be honest, any day which begins with my alarm going off at 4:45am is always going to struggle to be a good one, but I was quite optimistic when I left home in the dark shortly after 6am to catch a bus to the station. In fact, my journey to London went very smoothly. Right up until the point when the ticket inspector checked my ticket, saw that it said 'Brighton to Gloucester', and said "Oooh, you've got quite a journey ahead of you!". That's what they call tempting fate. I was doomed from that moment onwards.

Having watched the sun rise over East Croydon from the window of a moving train, I got to Victoria before 8am, and took the tube to Paddington. Which is where my problems started. Frankly, darkest Peru had better transport links than Paddington yesterday morning. According to the announcements, there had been some kind of power failure, resulting in delays, cancellations and breakdowns. Mostly mental. As the Evening Standard put it last night, "there were delays of up to an hour and a half for First Great Western, Heathrow Connect and Heathrow Express services to and from Paddington. This was due to line-side equipment failure between Hayes & Harlington and Southall".

The tannoy informed me that the only trains which were definitely running were up on the electronic board. Out of fourteen available platforms, there were two in the next hour. Neither of which were mine. The announcer cheerfully told us that we could go to Waterloo instead, but I'd had enough of a battle to get to Paddington, so I decided to fight the war where I was.

As luck would have it, I soon noticed that one of the two trains, which was already running half an hour late, was due to stop at Swindon. And I knew I could change there for Gloucester. So I hopped on it and hoped for the best.

My meeting was being held in the eye screening department of Gloucester Royal Hospital at 11am. It's a three minute walk from the station. There was a train which left Swindon at 9:54 and was due to arrive in Gloucester at 10:52, getting me there with five minutes to spare.

Unfortunately my train got to Swindon at 9:58. And it was an hour until the next one. After a brief conversation with a bloke in a high visibility jacket, I was advised to get a train to Bristol instead. Apparently it's a much nicer place anyway. Which is how I ended up on the platform of Bristol Parkway station at 10:54am, talking on my mobile to someone who was in the room I should have been in.

My journey from there to Gloucester was on a small two-carriage train, the likes of which I'd expect to see at a children's theme park. And it only got me there fifteen minutes earlier than if I'd stayed in Swindon for an hour. But still, it made the journey more exciting.

I spent the next four hours in a room with some of these people, discussing weighty issues, and feeling slightly out of it on cold remedies. I'm still not sure I was coherent. Or that I even spoke English.

Fortunately, by the time I got back to Gloucester station at four-thirty, there was no mention of delays. My train left on time, and sped through the countryside at high speed. Until we reached Slough, at which point it ground to a halt. The driver announced that he'd "just been told" there was a signal failure near Southall. I could have told him that nine hours earlier. We crawled for the next half hour, and got to Paddington forty minutes late.

But the good thing about leaving home at 6am, getting back at 9:30pm, and spending ten hours on a train, is that it gives you time to do other things. Namely curse Network Rail and vow never to visit Gloucester again. But in addition to that, I took with me a copy of 'The Hunger Games' which I'd bought on the cheap, just to see what all the fuss is about. It's 454 pages long, and when my train finally pulled into Brighton last night, I was on page 395, and there were only three people left alive. It's a shame I wasn't delayed another hour; I could have finished the darn thing.

Here's a photo I didn't expect to be taking today...

I said on Tuesday that I was expecting an eight-hour round trip for a five-hour meeting. What I got was an eleven-hour round trip for a four-hour meeting. Which is what happens when you're diverted via Bristol and arrive an hour late. Those are my best laid plans in the bin.

Marie asked me on Saturday if I've been taking as many photos of Toby as I did of Amelie when she was a baby. Sadly I can't answer that question for legal reasons and a justified fear of incriminating myself, but in lieu of a lengthy blog post, here's a photo to redress the balance...

Lisa was just off out for a busy night's burgling. I think Toby's wearing her swag bag.

On a different subject, I was shaking some ass at the 'Safe Haven for Donkeys in the Holy Land' shop in Burgess Hill yesterday (they had salt & pepper pots), when I suddenly realised that it's a year to the very week since David Barby popped in to flog a dead horse and hunt for a bargain. And eight months later he was dead.

I'm not sure how the two events are connected, and if I can prove a causal link, but I might hold off from making a birthday list.

Past experience has taught me that if I don't blog for two days running, everyone assumes I'm lying dead under the wheels of a retinal camera with a pinhole occluder plunged through my heart and a sight chart smashed over my head. It's mostly wishful thinking. So in an effort to avoid my mother worrying, and everyone else organising parties, I feel I should write something today.

Unfortunately we're now on day twenty of Phil Gardner & the Deathly Hallows, and I don't really feel up to it. My chronic (and possibly terminal) cold has improved marginally since I offloaded some of it onto Marie on Saturday, but by the time I've battled my way through the working day, fought my way through Amelie's bedtime routine, and then been woken up three times a night by Toby, I don't have the strength left for blogging.

I've got thirty-two patients to see tomorrow, followed by an eight-hour round trip to Gloucester on Thursday for a five-hour work-related meeting, so things are unlikely to improve before the weekend. But trust me, I'm not dead.

Yet.

There's a certain look that people tend to get when they're forced to spend time with my daughter...

It's an expression I often see in the mirror. But yesterday I saw it on the face of our good friend Marie, who came down from Croydon for the day to spend some quality time with our children...

... while Lisa and I went to bed. At least, that was our hope. As it transpired, only one of us got to sleep, and it wasn't me.

Marie's visit started well when I picked her up from the station, and almost managed to bundle the wrong woman into the back of my car. I blame the weather. If it wasn't so cold, people wouldn't insist on covering their faces with scarves, and I might have had a fighting chance of realising that the lady walking towards me wasn't my friend before I attempted to give her a hug. Although if you do want to make friends, that's a good ice-breaker.

Fortunately, I managed to avoid an assault charge and successfully identified Marie, who was holding a bag of Christmas presents she'd wrapped on the train, plus a chocolate fudge cake from Waitrose, which I offered to carry for her. On my hips, for the rest of my life.

We returned to our highly sought-after postcode, where I guided Marie past the organic dog poo, and reduced our carbon footprint by leading her up the stairs past the broken lift and the dodgy hall light, before welcoming her into the drawing room. Where she produced this...

I sometimes struggle to interpret modern art, but I think that one speaks for itself.

Anyhoo, if there's one thing history has taught us, it's that when Marie comes to visit, it's only a matter of time before we get James on the phone, asking me to mention him on my blog. He's not so much an old flame as a bright spark who smokes, but despite dissolving the jam partnership a number of years ago, J&M still speak to each other regularly. Mostly on the phone at my flat.

So it came as no surprise when Marie's mobile rang after half an hour, and Lisa and I found ourselves shouting "HELLO!" across the living room to someone we haven't seen for six years. James got married in the summer (congrats, buddy) so I expect our cake's in the post, but on top of that, he's just had a short story published in a best-selling (that's more of a prediction than a fact) anthology. Entitled 'London Lies: Urban Tales from Liars' League, it's already attracting two-star reviews on Amazon, and at just £8.99 (how can they afford to pay tax?) is the perfect Christmas gift for that hard-to-buy-for relative, or person you don't like. Although if you don't have the money, you can enjoy James' story for free. It's about hippos. Personally I'm getting his brother's book instead. It sounds a lot more absorbing.

Anyhoo, after a home-cooked lunch of pasta and garlic bread, we warmed our hands on the glowing embers of the Atkins Diet, and sent Lisa into the bedroom to catch up on some sleep while the rest of us went out on the town. Here's Toby in his gangsta rapper's hat, and Amelie dressed as Dappy from N-Dubz...

Personally I was a bit more Louis Walsh...

Uncool, old, and with the vacant grin of a fool. More embarrassing still was that the moment I got Toby dressed, Marie noticed he was wearing the same coat that Amelie had at his age. She even remembered the occasion Am had worn it. But hey, we're not going to let gender stereotyping stand in the way of a few hand-me-downs. We're on a tight budget. And he can pay for his own counselling when he's older.

As for Amelie, she had the awkward experience of meeting a dalmatian dog whilst wearing her spotty tights, and looking like Cruella de Vil's daughter. But despite that, the four of us spent an enjoyable hour strolling along the promenade above Brighton beach, to the sound of Amelie asking if we could go to Lidl, until she was eventually pinned to the ground by a metal pole which fell from heaven in an act of divine intervention...

She still made us go to Lidl though.

We eventually made it back to the flat after sundown, at which point I dragged Lisa out of bed and forced everyone to recreate this two-year-old photo. Amelie's twice that age and three times as heavy, but when you're the right side of thirty-five and you employ a personal trainer, no amount of weight is too much...

And it helps that by the end of the average day, you feel more inclined to drop Am on her head.

Yesterday was Toby's third birthday. Third of a year, that is. So to celebrate the milestone, we've employed a personal trainer to encourage him to start crawling three months ahead of schedule...


She's on the verge of reducing him to tears, but sometimes that's the only way to make progress.