The big news of the day is that Lisa's Catholic devotions and Christ-like self-sacrifice over the past couple of years have finally paid off, and as of this afternoon, Amelie's been offered a place at our first choice primary school for September. It's enough to restore my faith in religion. Although I'm not promising to attend church.

I'm currently so full of celebratory pizza, there's every chance I could throw up over my laptop, but despite being giddy with educational success and on cloud nine in seventh heaven, I'm damned if I'm going to go another day without mentioning Matchbox Twenty. So here they are...


They've not changed a lot since we saw them five years ago. Although we were on the other side of the stage back then. Sadly, Jeff Russo of Tonic was replaced this time around by Matt Beck's beer soaked figure on the backing instruments. Matt played with the band when I first saw them in 2003 (I'd link to the blog post, but oddly, I didn't write about it. I know, I can't believe it either. Although I did mention the event here. Which also explains my lack of blogging at the time), but if memory serves me right, his wife was busy having a baby in 2008 (I know the feeling) so he failed to make the trip.

Anyhoo, Matchbox Twenty were excellent on Tuesday night. Although as my favourite band of the last ten years, I would say that. Kyle Cook has a much better hairstyle these days...


... and I successfully managed to cut Paul Doucette out of most of the photos on account of him being a mentalist who looks like he's having an epileptic fit during every chorus, and would probably be locked up if he wasn't a rock star. So here are the other three instead...


And here's a nice shot of the audience...


It makes me appreciate the zoom on my camera. I'd like to have been as close to the stage as the bloke who shot this video...


... but that would have involved buying standing-only tickets, and Lisa and I are far too old for that kind of nonsense. If we can't take the weight off our aching feet and put a tartan blanket over our knees, then frankly we ain't going.

Anyhoo, the song above is 'Push', and if you were unlucky enough to know me between 2003, when I first came across Matchbox Twenty, and 2010, when I was diagnosed with osteoarthritis in my fingers, you'll have heard me play that on the guitar. It was number one in my personal repertoire for about seven years, alongside 'Hang', which they surprised me by playing as an encore, and which almost brought me to tears in a kind of self-pitying why-can't-I-still-play-the-guitar kind of a way. Not that it's sad for everyone.

I'll post that performance purely for wallowing purposes...


... and because I was singing along at the top of my voice, so I like to think you can hear me in the background.

Ultimately though, despite my own musical status as a degeneration ex, Tuesday evening at the Hammersmith Apollo was an excellent night out, and what's more, Lisa managed to get a photo of me standing outside after only three attempts...


If I look tense, it's because I'd just realised I was standing on a ticket tout's patch, and I thought I was about to get knifed.

It's me in front of the world famous Big Ben!


You'll have to take my word for that, obviously. Lisa's always struggled with composition. I was hoping for a picture of myself with the clock tower, London Eye and Palace of Westminster. You know, something like this...


What I got was a photo of myself with some traffic lights. She had another three attempts, but to be honest they were no better. She managed to cut me out of one of them. Frankly if this was twenty years ago, we'd have wasted a whole roll of film. As it was, the only thing exposed was Lisa's shortcomings as a photographer.

Anyhoo, if you're wondering why we spent Tuesday afternoon wandering around Westminster instead of congregating in a mosh pit, it's because we had a coffee date with Big Sis. And she moves in more powerful circles than we do. We'd arranged to meet her in the area at 3pm, but due to our desperation to get away from the kids, we were actually in London by 1:45pm. So with an hour to kill, we walked down Victoria Street to Westminster Abbey, and I took some photos of Lisa pretending to be Pippa Middleton. Although her back was turned, so she doesn't know.

There was some kind of Sikh rally taking place in Parliament Square, which seemed like an odd choice of venue to me. Personally I'd have held it in Hyde Park and called it 'Hyde & Sikh'. But that's just me. They've held a few protests in London recently, aimed at the Indian government's treatment of Sikhs, so I like to think of it as a form of turban renewal.

Anyhoo, we successfully rendezvoused with Big Sis, and grabbed ourselves some coffee and muffins, before heading to St John's Gardens, where I suggested that we pose for a civilised and sensible group photo. They assured me they were smiling behind me, so I set the self-timer and tried to look normal...


Next time I'm standing at the back.

Sis could only spare us an hour or so out of her busy work schedule, but she put that time to good use by educating us about the five love languages, a concept which neither Lisa nor I were aware of. So it's a miracle we're still together. Having discussed all five at great length, I discovered that Lisa is either multilingual or needy, while I just felt relieved that none of them were poetry.

From there, Lisa and I walked back along the embankment to Westminster, which is where we bumped into the Thatchers, after which I took some photos of the tabloid press to see how they like it, and we caught a tube train to Hammersmith. Once there, we made our way to the Villagio restaurant, where we met our old friend 'C'...


The last time we saw C, Lisa was wearing the same dress but in pink (which is what happens when you don't use Colour Catcher), and C presented us with a hand-made quilt for Toby. At the time she was working on one for Amelie too, but it wasn't quite finished, so we gave her another six months. And she duly completed it on Monday...


I'm not sure how much you'd expect to pay for a patchwork quilt which took its creator almost a year to make and incorporates fabrics from both Europe and America, but I'd guess at slightly more than nothing. Which is what we got it for. Basically, C gave us an original work of art, and in return, we let her pay for her own meal.

But despite that obvious inequality, we had a lovely couple of hours eating Italian food and catching up on the last six months of our respective lives. I thought the food was nothing special, but the company was excellent, and well worth the price of admission.

So with our second meeting of the day proving to be a roaring success, I offered to take a photo of Lisa's happy, smiling face...


Revenge is sweet.

You know what it's like. You pop up to London for a midweek rock concert, and you end up papping Sir Mark and Carol Thatcher...


They're looking towards the right wing mirror of the car. It's what their mother would have wanted.

Of course, I don't just limit myself to watching kind hearts and baronets. I also like to mingle with the liberal elite by chasing Vince Cable past Westminster Abbey on a Tuesday afternoon...


Cable's taking the lead and looking wiry as he flexes his muscles and plugs away towards parliament. There was a rule in London yesterday that everyone has to dress the same as the person next to them. Which is why I kept my distance from Lisa.

Within five minutes of that encounter, I'd bumped into Francis Maude at a pelican crossing, and brushed past David Willetts in a car park. Quite honestly, if I'd had my hands on some anthrax instead of a Creme Egg McFlurry, I could have wiped out most of the British establishment.

But yesterday wasn't just about big name celebrities. We also went to see Matchbox Twenty. And very good they were too. Unfortunately, Lisa and I are now at an age where a night out in London is enough to ruin us for a fortnight. And not just financially. Having been up since 6am yesterday with a vomiting baby, we were out until 1am last night, and then up again with the kids first thing this morning. As a result, we both feel like extras from the movie Zombie Apocalypse, only slower and more tired.

On the plus side, Toby's springtime vomiting virus fizzled out within twelve hours, and the boy seems fine now. In fact he's perkier than we are. Which isn't hard to accomplish. I think the full account of yesterday's adventures will have to wait until I can see a computer monitor without the aid of matchsticks...

I'm not after your pity (any more than usual), but it's officially a lifetime since Lisa and I last went out together on our own. The life in question is, of course, Toby's, but the fact remains that in the eight-and-a-half months that he's been roaming this planet, I've rarely been alone with my wife. Most childcare practitioners would baulk at the thought of having Amelie for a day, so when you add a baby into the mix, it's enough to put off Mary Poppins, and as a result, we've been confined to the flat as a couple.

But all that's about to change. Thanks to the combined forces of Nanny McPhee and Mrs Doubtfire (I'm not saying which is which), Lisa and I are being released back into the wild today, and given twelve hours of freedom to do whatever we like. Which in this case is 'get as far away as possible'.

I've taken two days off work, and in about an hour's time we'll be joined by the double-headed babysitting goddess of goodness that is my Mum and Lisa's Mum. Having taken temporary leave of their senses, they've agreed to pool their resources of childcare skills and experience, and take on our little angels for the rest of the day. So we'll need to get out of here quickly before they change their minds.

Having proven last Thursday how easy it is to get up to London, I'm escorting Lisa to the idyllic paradise of Hammersmith, where we'll be enjoying a day of fine whines, gourmet food and good music. We're actually going to see Matchbox Twenty at the Hammersmith Apollo. It's something I like to do once every five years, although the last two times have been at Wembley Arena, so the band are clearly on their way down in this country. Which is odd, as their latest album went straight to number one in America.

I feel a bit bad for not taking Amelie, as she came with us last time, and I know she enjoyed it by the way she gave Lisa raging heartburn, but to be honest, we can't wait to get away on our own. We might only be out for twelve hours, but we're packing in as much as we can. We're meeting Big Sis for a coffee this afternoon to get the lowdown on her latest holiday, after which we have a table booked at the Villagio restaurant in Hammersmith with our old friend 'C'. We've been looking forward to it for months.

Which is why it's a shame that Toby started projectile vomiting at 6am this morning. I'd planned to start our special day with a nice lie-in and a bubble bath. Instead, I was rocking the Marigolds & Pyjamas look at six-thirty as I wiped vomit off the carpet and furniture, changed all the bedding, and put two loads of washing on. You might think Toby looks sad...


... but that's nothing compared to how I felt first thing this morning. At 7am, our plans for a perfect day out lay in tatters, and the only place we looked likely to be going was the doctor's surgery.

But fortunately things have improved since then. Toby's managed to keep down a rusk, and despite being on red alert with a bucket and a j-cloth, I haven't had to clear up any more accidents. I'm touching every vomit-stained bit of wood as I say this, but I think we might still be going...

Needless to say, I haven't been the only one taking advantage of Toby's only-child status this weekend. While I've been busy making hay and coffee bars, Lisa's been attempting to make enough money to keep the wolf from the door and the bailiff out of work, by listing some more clothes on eBay. Amelie's now wearing outfits designed for girls aged 6-7, so at the age of four-and-a-half, we have a range of five-year-old's clothes she’s grown out of.

One of the highlights of her Spring 2012 wardrobe was this LOVELY (that'll be in Lisa's eBay description) Next daisy coat...


That's the photo Lisa's using to sell it. And here's the one I'm using…


Admittedly mine was taken a year ago, whereas Lisa's was yesterday afternoon, but I think mine's a lot cuter. Lisa's concerned about using it though, because she feels that Amelie looks less like a three-year-old and more like a two-foot-six midget, and she doesn't want people thinking the coat is for adults.

There is another option though. If you check out this blog post, you'll see that I have photos of Amelie wearing that coat with Patsy Palmer, Caroline Lucas and Vanessa Redgrave. So we can forget about whether it's childrenswear or dwarf attire, and market it as celebrity memorabilia.

It's the Brighton Marathon today, so I'm as shocked as you are that I'm sitting here writing a blog post instead of pounding the streets in lycra. I did consider taking part this year, but having weighed up the pros and cons, I decided I couldn't be bothered to walk to the post box with my entry form.

So I'm staying in instead. And doing something far more tiring. To be honest, I've come to the conclusion that the phrase 'make hay while the sun shines' was coined by someone whose four-year-old daughter was out of town for a couple of days. Since Amelie left on Friday afternoon, I've been pondering all the things which are difficult to do when she's here. Like having a conversation without being interrupted. And I've prioritised them into a list of jobs to get done.

So I've just redecorated the living room. In a day. With some three-year-old paint. Since the Great Flood of 2013, we've had various water stains on the walls, but in addition to that, we suffer from the kind of perennial damp problem that would be more suited to the Amazon rainforest. It's more than a year since Amelie last redecorated, and to be honest she only did one corner, so having spent twelve months battling mould damage, pen marks, blu-tac stains and the effects of Ariel Automatic on our painted wallpaper, I decided the room needed a complete makeover.

Or failing that, a quick once-over with a roller. Having been around all four walls with some slightly lumpy paint, I've now eradicated the evidence of January's flood...


... so I hope the insurance company don't want to come round for a visit. Unfortunately, having started the job yesterday morning, the weather turned nasty, and before I knew it, we had torrential rain being blown on gale-force winds through the vent in the wall, and wet paint dripping down to the skirting board. So it wasn't what you'd call ideal. But it was easily fixed. I just moved the sofa in front of it, and pretended nothing had happened.

As it transpired, however, that wasn't my greatest achievement. The crowning glory of my weekend DIY was actually the creation of a brand new coffee bar in the kitchen. Although when I say 'coffee bar', I mean 'shelf'.

Despite having two children and a loving husband, the centre of Lisa's universe is currently her Tassimo coffee machine. Over the past few years, she's successfully replaced alcohol with caffeine, and now gets more excited by a latte than a pinot grigio, so I feel it's important for me to support her in this habit. Unfortunately, since getting her hands on a Tassimo last November, the machine has been situated in the living room, where it spouts out boiling water from a height of about twelve inches off the floor. Which isn't ideal when your baby's on the verge of becoming mobile.

So having slightly rearranged the kitchen furniture to make a new home for the ironing board, I eventually came up with this...


I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "I didn't know you could buy shelves that are only 40cm wide". And that's because you can't. Not at B&Q anyway. Having browsed their entire range yesterday morning, I was forced to buy one that was two feet across, and then saw a bit off. I then painted it, fitted it, hoovered up all the sawdust, and ended up with the perfect new home for Lisa's coffee machine and her range of French syrups. It's basically a mini-bar for tee-totallers. And as a bonus, I've positioned it below the spice rack, so after a few weeks of steam treatment, we should have some home-made curry paste.

I came home from work today to find that Amelie had jumped ship and headed over to St Leonards to spend some quality time with my parents. She was telling us yesterday that the last time she was there, Grandma gave her a ham sandwich surrounded by sweets, so I'm not surprised she wanted to go back.

But in place of my daughter, I found a handwritten note she'd left behind for me on the table. It wasn't handwritten by her, obviously, but she'd personally dictated it to Lisa, who conveniently has the handwriting of a small child. So it couldn't have been more authentic. Amelie was responsible for the artwork, the signature and the sentiment. Which included five and a half kisses and a love heart. So here it is...


I think the butterfly in the heart represents the atrial flutter familiar to anyone who's tried to drag her up the hill from nursery without suffering a nervous breakdown. But it's a touching message nonetheless. And I miss her already.

I was walking down this street at 10:45am this morning...



Clearly it was just me. Everyone else was fifty yards to the right, trying to get in through the back door.

That might look like a delightful Regency style street in the heart of Kemp Town, but sadly Brighton doesn't have a telecoms tower in the trees. Which is why you can't get an O2 signal at the hospital. The street above is actually Cornwall Terrace in London. Or rather, the buildings on the right are. The road is called 'Outer Circle', but when you've paid a few million for a three-storey town house opposite Regents Park, you need a classier sounding address. And besides, you're probably more inner circle than outer.

So the row of houses is named separately. Which is why no one can find Cornwall Terrace on a map, and your friends end up in the mews around the back, trying to get a leg up over the wall.

Officially I was there for this...


... but it's only a few doors down from the most expensive terraced house in the world, so it also gave me a chance to check out where I'll be living when my EuroMillions numbers come up. Assuming they come up three or four times in consecutive weeks.

For me, attending the last council meeting in December was a lot like being Michael Palin without a camera crew, so I was tempted to pack enough supplies for an eighty day trip. But fortunately things went a lot more smoothly this time. I was walking past the Sherlock Holmes Museum in Baker Street less than two hours after leaving home. It was what you might call elementary.

The Royal College of Ophthalmologists is housed in a building which is compact and bijou enough to only be worth about twenty million or so, but they provided us with a good sized room, complete with some antique ophthalmic curiosities in a glass case. There were thirteen of us there, so it was a lot like The Last Supper, but with Bakewell tarts instead of bread, and no one to turn the water into wine.

Lunch consisted of a range of "Freshly Cut Sandwiches", an interesting description which suggested they could have been sitting there for a week, only to be chopped up that morning. Either way, they tasted nice, although I think someone had made a bit of a cock-up with the quiche. I'm no Delia, but I'm not sure a savoury flan should be made with sweet pastry.

It was a very productive day though, and I had a nice conversation over the third floor bannisters with someone on the second floor stairs who likes my writing. She was definitely looking up to me. Although it seemed to be hurting her neck. Ultimately though, the best thing about the day was that I made it out of there on time, hopped straight on a fast train, and made it back to Brighton in time to pick up Amelie from nursery. And I'm telling you now, I might be able to breeze into London and back with stress-free ease, but that walk up the hill with a moaning four-year-old felt like a nightmare of epic proportions.

It's not easy being Amelie's brother...


Although on the plus side, you'll never have to dress yourself. It's like having a personal stylist. Whether you want one or not. And oddly, he seems to like it. In fact, Toby's now so convinced that Amelie's trying to entertain him at all times, that he's started to laugh at her when she's just doing everyday tasks. The other day she dropped something down the side of his high-chair, and he started roaring with laughter at the sight of her picking it up. He's every comedian's dream audience. Although when you're four-and-a-half, it can get a bit wearing. She sometimes has to shout at him "Toby! I'm not doing anything funny!"

Anyhoo, on the subject of things which aren't funny, the visits from Lisa's old school friend have now stopped. But only because she's been sectioned. She actually turned up twice over the Easter weekend, before making one third and final visit last Tuesday. Each time her resolve wore thin more quickly, she stayed for less time, and at no point did we let her in. Although a couple of times she managed to gain access to the block, and a neighbour phoned the police.

Last week, however, we heard that she'd ended up in A&E, which was worrying as we had no idea what had happened. But it seems she's physically unharmed. We've since learnt that she's in a psychiatric ward at Worthing Hospital, waiting to be transferred back to Mill View under a Section 3 order, which is a level above the most common, and means she can be detained for up to six months. It's undoubtedly for the best, but is sad nonetheless.

So here's a portrait of Toby to cheer us all up...


That's how he looks when Lisa styles him. It's nice, but he lacks a certain something. I'm not sure if it's a tiara or lipstick.

I don't know if it's the influence of television, or just an innate tendency towards rudeness, but Amelie's started bidding people farewell with the words "See you later, suckers!". I wouldn't mind, but she said it to me and Toby as she left for church this morning, which seemed slightly inappropriate. Although I suppose if we're the only two members of the family not going to heaven, it could be quite fitting.

Either way, I've told her she needs to get a grip...


It's quite impressive that she can get little Tobalobe to lay down his sweet head (with its squeaky clean hair) just by singing the words in a song. I can sense a future for that girl as a prison visitor, calming people on death row by serenading them through the bars. Although it could lead to nose injuries if they're anything like Toby.

Anyhoo, on the subject of naps (this is seamless), my tip for the Grand National may have come a valiant second, but if you're thinking I didn't pick the winner, you need to think again. I actually picked it on Friday. In the office sweepstake. Yes, Auroras Encore was one of the three horses I picked out of my colleague's woolly hat when I should have been working. I may have referred to it as a donkey, but even donkeys can run if you give them a kick up the ass, and sure enough, mine romped home, netting me the pot of £27.

Tragically, and to my eternal regret, we agreed that the winner would buy cakes for the whole department, so I was forced to visit Asda last night to see just how little I could get away with spending on baked goods. They had a Smart Price cheesecake reduced for quick sale to just 57p, which was mightily tempting, but in the end I decided I should spend at least twice that.

In addition to that win, I also collected on Cappa Bleu. I was utterly convinced that he'd complete the race and be there or thereabouts, but as the world's most cautious gambler, I decided to hedge my bets a little...


I not only backed him to win, but to place in the first four, the first six and the first ten. It's what you call covering all the bases. Admittedly I'd have won more if I'd put just a tenner on each-way, but using this method meant that if he'd fallen at the last fence, he'd have had time to get back up, dust himself down, sign a few autographs, and still finish in time to make me some money.

So it was a successful afternoon. I even found the time to give my daughter the little push she needs...


It's like a scene from 'The Birds' at the end. I stopped filming before they all settled on the climbing frame.

Well, I've gone through the runners like Mo Farah at the Olympics, and studied the form with a hard head, a magnifying glass and a sharp pin, and having weighed everything up, I've come to the conclusion that this is the easiest Grand National in years. And also the most difficult. There are about twenty-five horses who couldn't win if you strapped them to the back of a motorbike and built ramps over every fence, so you can rule out more than half the field straightaway. Unfortunately I can't choose between the others.

One thing I will say, however, is that Seabass, the hotly-tipped favourite, won't win. Ten million people might have backed it, but they're all wrong.

So that's that cleared up. More interesting are the horses which abide by my most closely guarded racing secret - you know, the one I revealed on this blog eight and a half years ago. Namely that every horse who has a wind operation goes on to win their next race. That brings in Across The Bay and Chicago Grey, both of whom had breathing operations in the winter, and both of whom have obliged by winning since. The question is whether that form will continue. My heart is screaming at me to back Across The Bay at around 50-1, but my head says Chicago Grey.

As does one of my patients. We had a tip at work from a patient who claims to have paid for three holidays in the past year from the proceeds of his betting, and he's told us to back Chicago Grey. Which I have done. But I'm not sure it'll win. I actually prefer one of the other top five. So here are my predictions...

1st. Cappa Bleu at 12-1. He finished fourth last year, has slightly less weight to carry, has had a better prep, and should be ridden more effectively. I can't see how he can possibly lose. No, really.

2nd. Join Together at 25-1. Loves long distances, and is proven over the big fences, so is virtually guaranteed to finish, and at a pretty good price. If Lisa had any money, I'd steal it and put it all on this one each-way.

3rd. Chicago Grey at 12-1. Impossible to leave out, and actually he may well win, but stubbornness prevents me from naming him as the winner. He'll be in the first three though.

4th. Colbert Station at 14-1. His odds have been drifting out this morning, which is worrying, but at one point last night, I had this one down as the winner. He's got very little experience, but I think that simply means that we don't know how good he is. He'll probably either win or come nowhere, and my money's on the former.

5th. Soll at 40-1. I have to put one outsider in, and there's no other choice. Soll has no weight to carry, should stay the distance, can jump well, and is on offer at big odds. I've backed him to place.

So there you go. I can't quite believe that I've left out On His Own, who has an outstanding chance of being in the first five, and I like Rare Bob and Balthazar King too, but you have to draw the line somewhere. And I've drawn it through Seabass. He'll be like a fish out of water, and should be a net loss for the punter. You heard it here first.

Lisa asked me to take a photo of her last night...


I've no idea why. Although there does seem to be something different about her. I think it's her smile. I rarely see that after a day at home with the children.

Anyhoo, Lisa claims that she made the picture above using the Taaz Virtual Makeover site, but personally I think she always looks that gorgeous. Although I am overdue at the optician. Either way, it's only a matter of time before I'm uploading a photo of myself and checking how I'd look with hair.

But right now, I have work to do. I need to study the form for tomorrow's Grand National and pick out the winner. After last year's success, I have a reputation to maintain, and judging by the three donkeys I've drawn in the office sweepstake, I can't rely on luck alone. I'm confident I'll have identified the winner by morning though. Possibly tomorrow morning. But more likely Sunday.

The nice thing about British Summer Time is that if you're brave enough to walk through a blizzard in your lunch break, and shake snow off your frostbitten fingers whilst trying to speak with a frozen face, you'll often find that the local charity shops are selling their winter clothing at knockdown prices. I bought a nice thick cardigan at lunchtime today, which was both Next and next to nothing. And I didn't even need a bag. I told them I'd wear it home. Along with any balaclavas they might have.

As luck would have it, I was also able to buy everything I need for this year's summer holiday... with the exception of thermal underwear and snow shoes. One of the problems with taking my family away for more than one night is that they each pack enough stuff to fill a skip (which is ideally where I'd like to put it), and I struggle to get it all in the car. When we went to Devizes last month, Big Sis was forced to borrow a cot and a buggy from a friend, as we couldn't fit either in the boot. Although it worked out quite well, as both were better quality than we're used to.

Amelie starts school in September, which means that this summer is the last chance we'll ever get to go on holiday without first robbing a bank. So despite money being pretty tight at the moment, we've managed to scrape together enough funds for a low budget week in Devon at the end of June. We're hiring a cot from the five star hotel cheap holiday park we're staying at, but they won't supply us with a buggy, and I can't afford the roof box we'd need to get our one down there in the car.

So the choice is either to use the baby carrier for a week, thereby causing myself permanent spinal injury and limiting our movements to the distance I can stagger unaided on a single dose of morphine, or to buy ourselves a much smaller, lighter and more compact buggy for the holiday. I've been on the lookout for one for the past couple of weeks, but today I was in Hassocks, which is home to the only charity shop I know which specialises in stuff for children.

They had five buggies lined up outside today (plus the same high chair we've just bought brand new - I could have wept), one of which was just what we needed. It was slightly snow-damaged, but other than that seemed fine, so I picked it up for a few quid, and used it to wheel my cardigan back to the health centre. Now I just need to find a second hand bikini for Lisa, and we're ready to go.

One of my main goals for 2013 is to get Amelie to the top of the leaderboard on The Burgess Hill Uncovered Red Rope Pyramid Climb Challenge. Unfortunately, with a quarter of the year gone, her training's not going well...


She's got some basic speed, but let's face it, anyone who shouts "Help!" when they're two rungs from the ground is going to struggle to reach the top of anything, never mind a leaderboard. Although I'm still hopeful she can beat the ascension of Jesus.

In the meantime, I'm diverting my investment of time away from her climbing skills and towards her training as a pole dancer...


I think there's a lot more money to be made. And I'm attempting to expand the routine by getting a toddler to run in on cue to the words "Oh baby, baby, baby". I'm not sure if the act's more suited to Spearmint Rhino or Britain's Got Talent, but either way, it's got legs. Although they keep running towards the ice cream.


Anyhoo, I've spent a lot of today in the back of a van next to a pot-hole on a lonely country road in mid-Sussex, looking at a broken fundus camera. But it hasn't all been fun. I've also discovered that if you're going to spend a bank holiday weekend removing all the sofa covers and washing them carefully to remove every stain, it's probably best not to do it at Easter when the house is full of chocolate. They were clean for about three hours before the hand prints appeared.

Mind you, it could be worse. I could be gaining a local reputation as a rampant womaniser. No, really. Whilst out with Marie on Friday afternoon, Amelie told me that she'd seen her old friend from playgroup as we walked along the seafront. I hadn't seen the girl myself, and Amelie regularly claims sightings of anyone from the Loch Ness Monster to Bigfoot, so I took her words with a pinch of salt. But having returned to the beach with my daughter yesterday afternoon, we bumped into the little girl's mother.

Who looked at me slightly awkwardly. And then asked me how Lisa is. Before mentioning, in a suspicious and stuttering way, that she'd seen me walking along the seafront on Friday.

So it's official: Marie and I are having an affair. It'll be all over Facebook by morning.

It's April Fool's Day! And I particularly liked the joke on the front page of the BBC News website this morning...


That man cracks me up. Much like Amelie with an Easter egg. Suffice it to say that we worked our way through enough chocolate yesterday to make Willy Wonka feel sick, and today is shaping up to be much the same. I was also forced to repeat the Easter Egg Hunt on about six occasions, each time with a diminishing number of eggs. By the end of the day, I was hiding foil wrappers.

Unfortunately, eggs (and the code to developing diabetes) weren't the only things we cracked yesterday. Toby also had his skull staved in with a toy monkey. To be honest, I think he might be safer if I let Chloe raise him...


She's already taught him to stand on all-fours on the sofa. And she's demonstrating the golden rule that when Daddy removes some of the cushion covers to give them a wash, you should instantly head for the unprotected surfaces and prepare to throw up. Not that he needs much encouragement.

Anyhoo, yesterday was Easter Sunday, so while Lisa was at church celebrating the rise of the undead, I was at home, resurrecting my childcare skills. I look after Toby (in the loosest possible sense) every Sunday, but the arrival of British Summer Time meant that Lisa was running even later than usual, and as the time approached for her to leave, Amelie still wasn't dressed. So rather than drag her daughter to church in her Sunday best to pray for forgiveness, Lisa decided to let Amelie stay at home in her sackcloth and ashes.

To be honest, I didn't mind. Amelie's like a court jester as far as Toby's concerned, so it meant that my workload as Entertainments Officer was greatly reduced. Unfortunately my duties as School Nurse increased. Toby had just risen (Christ-like) from his morning nap, when Amelie decided to make him laugh by violently shaking a teething chimp in front of his face. It's the kind of dangerous, and potentially life-threatening, activity she carries out on a daily basis, and which we frequently warn her against. Unfortunately it never fails to make him laugh, which is something Amelie keeps using in her own defence. If I had a pound for every time I've heard the words "But look! He likes it!", I'd be able to afford a nanny.

So there I was, telling off Amelie to the sound of Toby's roaring laughter, when one of the monkey's death-defying dives went a little too close to Toby's head, and he got hit in the face with a plastic ring. The bad news is that his left eyelid swelled up like an uncooked cocktail sausage, and he had a bindi on his forehead. But the interesting thing is that Amelie was more upset than he was. Toby only screamed for five minutes, but Amelie was wailing for a good quarter of an hour.

Fortunately the swelling went down very quickly, and he was no longer a marked man by lunchtime, so I don't think there are any lasting effects. Let's face it, he was wrestling Chloe on the sofa by mid-afternoon. But it proved that emotional pain is more agonising than any physical discomfort. While Toby bounced back in no time (much like the monkey before him), Amelie took at least an hour to get over the guilt. I don't think she needs that Catholic church at all.