The good thing about tattooing, body art and probably extreme piercing too, is that it brings people together. If it wasn't for the annual Brighton Tattoo Convention, I'd never see some of my friends. Not that I'm a big mutilator myself. Personally, the closest I've ever come to a tattoo was a trip to Edinburgh in my teens. But I'm not averse to hanging out with the overtly decorated, so yesterday we went out for breakfast with our old friends Crash & Donna...


I don't know what it is about that photo, but Lisa, Amelie and I look like three small children out with their parents. Crash is clearly twice the man I am. And he has more hair on his top lip than I've got on my head. We planned things well though: both Lisa and I chose our tops to match our friends' hair.

Anyhoo, since I moved to Brighton, we only ever see Crash & Donna in late January when they fly south for the winter Tattoo Convention at Brighton Racecourse. For some reason we missed last year, so it was actually 2009 when we last saw them. Amelie was only four months old at the time, with the kind of laid-back attitude that meant she was quite happy to be cuddled by someone with pink hair and a massive phoenix on her arm, but we thought we ought to prepare her this time around, so I showed her the photos from our last meeting, and told her who the people were. As a result, she spent Sunday morning calling them Chris & Donald. I was going to correct her, but it was funnier not to.

We'd arranged to meet at the Ha Ha Bar at 10am, but we arrived to find the place temporarily closed for business. Donna asked a member of staff when they open, and the woman replied "February the 4th", so we decided not to wait. Plan B was to head around the corner to Bella Italia, who also wouldn't let us in (we've been there before), but having tried a few places nearby, we eventually found an establishment willing to serve us at such an ungodly hour (10am on a Sunday, when most people are at church), and ended up at the Post & Telegraph, which sounds like a couple of broadsheets, but is actually a Wetherspoons in North Street.

Crash & Donna had picked up a trio of stalkers at the convention, so there were actually eight of us at breakfast. Lisa, Amelie and I were the only ones without body art, but Lisa's as pretty as a picture, and Amelie had felt-tip on her face, so we blended in quite well. And it was nice to catch up. Crash told us about his plans to become the next Andy Millman by branching out into the world of film and TV extras, while Amelie passed the time by naming all the insects he has tattooed on his arm. Both Lisa and I were quite impressed by the standard of art on display, but having heard how much they paid for it, we'll be sticking to washable transfers from the pound shop.

Anyway, a good time (and a lot of breakfast) was had by all, and Amelie definitely warmed to her colourful new friends. As we waved goodbye at the door of the Post & Telegraph, and made our way back towards the bus stop, Amelie turned to me, smiled and said "I like Chris and Donald". You can't get higher praise than that.

It's so important in life to have a family member you can look up to, who can set a good example, act as a role-model, a guide, a teacher, an educator and, above all, a wise mentor who can offer sound and sage advice throughout life's journey, and allow you to fulfil your potential and become an intelligent, responsible and fully rounded human being...


Unfortunately Amelie's got Big Sis. And a cousin who knows the word 'poo'. I'm tempted to stop paying into her university fund now.

Sis was in Sussex this weekend, making enquiries about doing a bit of charity work for Aborigines who can't fly, so she popped around for a couple of hours yesterday to catch up on our news and teach our daughter the sign language of the stupid. It was basically Mr Tumble meets Cheryl Cole for half an hour on the sofa.

When asked where she got that routine, Sis replied "I learnt it when I was sixteen", which gives you a bit of an insight into her teenage years. And makes you wonder how she passed her GCSEs. But still, at least she's not experimenting on guinea pigs.

Anyhoo, Big Sis is now safely back in the care of our parents, with limited access to small children. But our hectic social life continues apace. It might be Sunday morning when the sensible are in bed, and the less sensible at church, but in a decision of unprecedented enthusiasm (mostly for food), we're about to go out for breakfast.

And not just because we've run out of milk.

I'm beginning to have slight concerns about our decision to let Amelie start dating her cousin in April. She spent the afternoon with him yesterday, and he taught her the word 'poo-poo'. Within half an hour of getting home, her delightful and folksy renditions of 'Lord of the Dance' had gone well and truly punk...


I think we know who'll be first in the mosh pit at the Chris & Pui Roadshow.

One of the things I love about Lisa is her unfailing resilience, never-say-die attitude and determination to battle on through any adversity life throws at her. It doesn't matter how many disasters she has in the kitchen, she just won't give up cooking.

Take last night for example. Within minutes of me getting home from work, Lisa decided to head into the kitchen to make some hot chocolate. Having considered her Options and reviewed her Highlights, however, she inexplicably decided to reject the instant variety and make her own from scratch. Within minutes she was attacking a bar of chocolate with a cheese grater, flinging Lindt filings all over the floor, and getting nowhere very fast.

So she turned to plan B: the food processor. Five furious minutes, two different attachments and one smell of burning from the electric motor, and she eventually managed to get the chocolate chopped. At which point she added it to a saucepan of milk and started heating.

I'd witnessed the final stage of grating after being attracted to the kitchen by the smell of industrial burning, and walking straight through a layer of chocolate debris on the floor, but I wasn't aware the heating had begun until a few minutes later when I heard a shriek from Lisa at the stove, and returned to see boiling chocolate milk all over the hob.

At the time I felt sorry for her, losing half her drink over the top of the oven, but as it turned out it didn't matter, because when she finally tasted her super-duper home-made hot chocolate creation...

... she didn't like it and had to throw the rest away.

Now, for most people, that would be enough to send them straight back to convenience foods and takeaways. But not Lisa. Ten minutes later, she announced she was going to make shortbread. Which, as a decision, just about takes the biscuit.

For Amelie and me, that was our cue to leave. And not just because the kitchen was covered in burnt milk, grated chocolate and mountains of washing up. We very kindly offered to pop to Lidl for the ingredients, and I'm glad we did too, because it turned out to be a learning experience for us both. Amelie learnt how to hold a shopping list and put things carefully into the trolley, and I learnt that she's clearly been spending too much time making cakes with her Grandma.

On our way to Lidl, I idly asked Amelie what she thought Mummy would need to make biscuits. She thought for a moment, and replied "Butter!". Which took me by surprise because I was expecting her to say "Um...". So I asked her what else, and she said "Eggs". She then looked thoughtful for a moment before adding "Flour". By the time we got to Lidl, she was telling me that we need to buy a spoon to mix the eggs, and to be careful with the oven. Clearly there's only one person in this family who knows how to cook, and it's not me or Lisa.

I discovered yesterday that the man who holds the scientifically documented record for the longest period of time a human being has intentionally gone without sleep, not using stimulants of any kind, is called...

... Randy Gardner.

Which is interesting, because if I was randy, I don't think I'd want to sleep either.

Unfortunately I'm more inclined to feel tired all the time, so with that in mind, I went to the doctor's this morning for the result of a blood test I had last week. On 16th July last year, my GP asked me to go back in three months time to check if my blood cells are all white. I think she was working on the principle that if I lived that long, they probably are. So as I wrote here at the time, "if someone could remind me in October, I'd be grateful".

Obviously no one did. But on the bright side, the good thing about being three months late for an NHS appointment is that by the time you arrive, the doctor's just about ready to see you. And the news was worth waiting for. Apparently my white blood cell count is now approaching normal levels, and Lisa can stop thinking I've got leukaemia.

In addition, my doctor carried out an annual 'medicine review' of my ongoing prescription for Wee-Wee Time. It basically consisted of two questions: 'Does it seem to be working?' and 'Do you want some more?'. I answered yes to both, which appeared to be the right answer, as she instantly gave me another three months supply. I think the 'Just Say No' campaign had a point.

She then took my blood pressure and carried out a thorough examination of my heartbeat from both front and back (I don't think she knew where it was) before declaring that I'm the picture of health and unlikely to die in the near future. Although I don't think that's legally binding. To be honest, with the arthritis, prostatitis, aching feet and dodgy knees, if this is healthy, I'd hate to be ill.

Sometimes, just sometimes, a cover version is even better than the original...


Not always though.

Just look at that little monkey on the floor...


The cheeky grin; the cute outfit; the way the eyes follow you around the room - it could only be Andrew's sister.

Yes, just six weeks after we threw crisps at them from the balcony of the Brighton Dome, Lisa and I decided to let Stefan and Andrew carry on the food fight by popping around to their flat yesterday afternoon and allowing them to serve us cake. As the photo above demonstrates, however, there were a couple of extra dishes on the menu this time around. They had Andrew's sister and niece visiting. We were like the Secret Seven, but the only mystery was how we all managed to fit into that kitchen.

We've met Andrew's sister once before, back in May 2009, and we hit it off so well that within months of meeting, she'd decided to emigrate from Canada to the UK, just to be closer to us. And further from Canada. She arrived just before Christmas, and as of Saturday, she's living two hundred yards from our flat. She initially struggled to find somewhere suitable, but fortunately a property became vacant in the new year. Possibly after someone fell out of the window.

Obviously it's a concern when highly qualified foreigners come over here and take our jobs, but in the case of Andrew's sister, we don't need to worry. Having inspected all her Canadian teaching qualifications, the UK authorities have decided that they carry about as much weight as a GCSE in Media Studies, so she'll be lucky to get a job as a dinner lady. Which is handy as it leaves her free to do a lot of babysitting. The government might not realise how good she is with kids, but fortunately we do...

Amelie rarely smiles that much without a mouth full of food. I'm tempted to forget the Catholic school and hire Andrew's sister as her personal tutor. Let's face it, she's officially unqualified, so she must be pretty cheap.

But all that aside, the main reason we visit Stefan and Andrew is for the cake and the gifts. And as usual, they did not disappoint. Frankly with their talent for cake-making and present-buying, it's a miracle they're not obese and impoverished. Although they do buy a lot of stuff in Poundland. This time we came away with an outfit for Amelie, some NHS freebies, a bag full of cat treats and a book called 'Waddle!'. Which was appropriate after we'd eaten all their cake.

'Waddle!' is actually the latest in a series of 'Scanimation' books for children, and is as close to magic as you're ever likely to get outside of a Hogwarts classroom. I've read the book from cover to cover, I've watched this video...


... and I still don't understand how it works. Amelie's the same. She must have read it twenty times already, and she still can't explain it to me.

Anyhoo, as always, a good time was had by all. All three of the Gardners, that is. I can't speak for our hosts. We basically spent three hours eating their food, drinking their tea and playing with their Lenin matryoshkas, minature cows, fluffy chicks, magnetic dogs and talking dolls, before making off with half their belongings. I can't think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

As it turned out, Thursday's purchase of tickets for a night out in Burgess Hill was just the beginning of a three day spending binge. Yesterday I bought a new computer and a pair of shoes (which cost me the shirt off my back), but sandwiched in between, on what I now like to call 'Frivolous Friday', I finally booked our honeymoon.

After the last wedding we attended, the happy couple jetted off to Africa for a once-in-a-lifetime two-week safari, which is the kind of holiday I had in mind. Unfortunately, Lisa's not big on snakes, spiders, insects, heat or pygmies. So I've booked us three nights in Eastbourne. There's less chance of being mauled by a gorilla while you sleep. Although she will have to share a room with me.

We're actually staying at this place for three nights...


Although we're going in early March, so it's unlikely to look like that. We'll be lucky to see the place through the drizzle.

The babysitters can only take delivery of Amelie after 6pm, so we were limited as to how far we can stay from St Leonards. It was either this or the Hastings Travelodge, and I was worried the UHT milk would have gone off by now. So I opted for the York House Hotel, a seafront establishment in Eastbourne, which I chose partly because it has good reviews, partly because of the prime location, partly because I could get three nights for the price of two, but mainly because they have free wi-fi, and Lisa can't go three days without playing Farmville.

It should be the short break of a lifetime. And the perfect way to relax for a few days before I'm declared bankrupt in April.

Our computer suffered a fatal breakdown last night, so we've had to make our own entertainment today...


But with busking like that, we'll soon have the money for a new one.

I've spent today in Burgess Hill, home of the pencil fence...



I think that's where we get the phrase 'penned in'.

They've also got a Roman road, but having stood at the corner of the park for five minutes at lunchtime today, studying the tourist information sign, I realised it's been tarmacked over.

It was worth visiting the place though, because I saw this poster in the town centre...

Lock up your toddlers, it's the Chris and Pui Roadshow 2011! The West End and Broadway must be busy this year, because they're playing the Martlets Hall in Burgess Hill. It's like the Palladium, only closer to a branch of Lidl.

For anyone not familiar with Chris and Pui, they're the only two characters from 'Show Me Show Me' that you can't get knitted on eBay. They're also "CBeebies' favourite double act", which is crushing news for Nuzzle and Scratch, the health & safety alpacas. If you watch Amelie's Christmas video, you'll see her open Miss Mouse, and promptly ask for Momo. She'd also like Stuffy, Tom and Teddington. But what she's not expecting to get her hands on are the two presenters. At least, not legally.

But all that changed at lunchtime today, when I found out that Chris and Pui are performing live in Burgess Hill on the 9th of April. I booked our seats tonight. It was cheaper to get a family ticket, so as well as taking Amelie, we're adopting Lisa's nephew for the day. You know, the mad one. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, I didn't get a message from my dead cat. I think Oscar was too busy sitting on God's sofa with his flab hanging out to bother getting in touch.

To be honest, my mention of him on Monday was a carefully laid trap for Psychic Sally. I wanted to see if she Googles for people attending her shows, in the hope of picking up info and wowing them on the night. But having watched her for two hours at the Theatre Royal last night, I'm pleased to report that Sally Morgan clearly doesn't cheat. If she had done, she might have been a bit more accurate.

We were basically treated to an evening of cold-reading, and not very good cold-reading at that, as a succession of desperate and tearful people struggled to make tenuous connections with anything Sally said. I found it all quite depressing. The whole act essentially hinges on people's desperation to have some kind of contact with a dead loved one, and as long as that desperation exists, Sally can pretty much say anything she likes. It's basically a guessing game with no wrong answers.

For example, Sally was chatting with the long-dead father of an audience member's ex-husband (it was tenuous from the word go), and having established that she definitely had the right person by the fact that they had the same (common) Christian name, Sally said this:

"I'm getting the name Corinne. Yes, Corinne. Or possibly Florin. F-L-O-R-I-N. Florin?"

To which the lady replied:

"My mother-in-law was called Joyce".

I think that says all you need to know about how desperate people are to get a message. Mind you, sometimes they're not desperate enough. At one point Sally said this:

"Who's Keith? Keith? Kevin? Kee... a name beginning with K? Or an address?"

That pretty much covered half the population of the country, but still managed to draw a blank. I don't think it was her lucky night. Mind you, she wasn't fussy with her hits. At one stage she said she had a spirit called "Daniel, or possibly Danielle", whereupon someone put up their hand and said they'd lost a Darren. Sally thought that was close enough. Personally I'd expect a bit more from someone who's claiming to be psychic. At least when we saw Colin Fry in 2005, he had the decency to liven things up by bursting into tears as he thanked his hairdresser. Sally Morgan didn't even reach that level of entertainment. Although she did manage to channel a cat. Just not my cat.

Obviously I don't want to give the impression that most of the audience were loons, but a lady stood up in the second half and said she'd been dreaming that her dead tabby had come back as a black & white cat. Sally responded by asking if such a monochrome beast had ever lived in her house. The woman said no, but there'd been one nearby. Sally asked "In spirit?". The woman replied "No, in my garden". After which Sally told her that her cat loves her, and promptly moved on.

That pretty much summed up the evening: Sally never had a decent message for anyone. She spent the whole show telling people "you've had an incredible message there", but most of the time, the dead people on stage could barely string a coherent sentence together, and never had anything constructive to say. Sally would just toss out a few names until one of them stuck, then she'd tell you they love you and move swiftly on.

All of which seemed to be enough for the blubbering bereaved. Personally I thought it was slightly immoral to be making money from the false hopes of the tearful. But what do I know. The Brighton Theatre Royal holds almost a thousand people, and was sold out last night, with tickets costing £23.50 each. That's more than twenty grand for a show with no production costs. And most of the audience went home happy. Frankly I need to get into the guessing game myself.

Usually we just get people falling from the fourth floor around here, but not always...


That's the latest Bush satellite dish. And it's a miracle I'm here to show it to you. I've been stuck in a lift since ten to six.

Usually I'm welcomed home by an array of dodgy council estate types accusing me of everything from drilling at night to smoking on the stairs, but not today. Today I just found myself trapped between floors for twenty minutes in a small, metal, coffin-shaped box with no mobile signal. If the emergency telephone hadn't worked, I'd still be there now.

But hey, it's not every day you get to have a conversation at shouting volume with three burly firemen who are trying to prise open a lift door and drag you through a hole near the floor. I wonder if Sally Morgan saw that one coming.

Amelie's currently on a fact-finding mission to St Leonards, where she's attempting to find out just how much food she can persuade her grandparents to give her in forty-eight hours. As a result, Lisa and I have a couple of evenings to ourselves. Which means tonight is officially date night in the Gardner household.

Unfortunately Lisa always was a bit reluctant to go on any dates with me, and nothing's changed since we got married, so I've failed to persuade her that this is how we should be spending the evening...


But it's not just that she doesn't like bondage, she's also refusing to go and see Gulliver's Travels in 3D at the cinema. She's worried she won't be able to concentrate and follow the plot. Which suggests she's never seen a Jack Black movie before. Personally I think she's just prejudiced against midgets.

Anyhoo, she did say I could go on my own, but having thought through the situation and considered my options, I've decided to stay in and make her feel guilty instead.

Tomorrow, however, she won't be getting a choice. We're off to the Brighton Theatre Royal to see Psychic Sally Morgan, Britain's biggest clairvoyant. Although she's not as big since she had a gastric band fitted. I'm hoping to get a message from my dear friend Oscar, who was sadly and unexpectedly taken from us a few years ago at the tender age of nine.

He died in 2004, just two months before I met Lisa (which shows the lengths to which some people will go to avoid her), but I've spoken about him many times, and to this day, I know how much Chloe misses him. I do too, actually. It's also a shame that Amelie never got to meet him, as he shared her appetite for sausages, fish fingers, and basically anything edible. If anyone could have eaten that girl under the table, it was Oscar.

Admittedly I'm a skeptic when it comes to psychics and mediums (especially those who used to be extra large), but if Sally manages to pick up some of Oscar's words from beyond the grave, or a vision of his ginger hair, I'll be willing to reconsider.

I think I'll have to find a new title for my autobiography...


That one's been taken. It was actually given to us last week by Lisa's sister, who found it in a charity shop and felt it would make the perfect gift for someone whose wife has no sense of direction and keeps getting lost. It's a lot like 'Where's Wally?', but in this case the wally's Lisa.

It's produced an interesting effect in Amelie. After two years of hearing Lisa's Mum call her 'Lis' (to sound like 'lease'), reading the 'Look For Lisa' book has prompted her to put two and two together, and realise what her Mummy's name is. As a result, she's been calling her Lis since Friday. It's like living with a tiny estate agent. Everywhere she goes, it's Lis-this and Lis-that. Lisa went out for the afternoon yesterday, and Amelie started walking around the flat saying "I'm looking for Lis!". It's like watching the stage version of the book.

And on the subject of leasing, anyone who's seen our block of flats in an Argus crime scene report will know that not only are people dying to come here, but we have a bit of a damp problem too. And it finally reached a head on Saturday. I was under the bed at lunchtime, replacing one of my juggling clubs which Amelie had removed, and was using as a baseball bat in the living room, when I noticed that as parents, we're not so much breaking the mould, as allowing it to grow down the back of our headboard.

The wall behind our bed, which we'd so diligently and painstakingly watched my Dad decorate back in July, was well on its way to becoming a mushroom farm. I was tempted to bring in a pig to search for truffles. But instead, I waved Lisa off to Shoreham for the afternoon, and spent a couple of hours on my hands and knees with a bottle of mould cleaner. I ended up bleaching my socks and getting a sore throat, but by three-thirty the wall was green again. And not with mildew.

So having driven Amelie into West Sussex to pick up her Mum, the three of us went to B&Q and spent eighty quid on this dehumidifier. Which was quite an achievement. Having looked on the website, I couldn't find the one I wanted instore, so I asked a member of staff, who kindly attempted to look it up on the computer. She'd got as far as pressing two buttons when she turned to me and said "How do you spell dehumidifier? D...I..?"

Frankly it was a miracle we got it at all.

One of my patients yesterday was a 40-year-old woman, about six months younger than Lisa, who came into the consulting room with a little girl about the same age as Amelie. It was just like being at home. Only less tiring.

When I gave the lady some eye drops, the little girl expressed concern that I might be causing her pain, so I calmly reassured the child by bending down, smiling, and saying "Don't worry, your Mummy will be fine."

At which point the girl looked confused, and the woman said "It's Nanny. My daughter's twenty-three."

It makes you wonder what Lisa and I have been playing at all these years. We really should be posing for Amelie's graduation photos by now, not trying to get her potty trained. It's no wonder I'm knackered all the time. I should be putting my feet up with the grandchildren while Am does our shopping.

But still, we might be mature parents with arthritis, aching feet and low energy levels (and that's just me), but we're successfully bringing up Amelie in the modern age. Not only does she know the word 'e-mail', but as of this week, she's started using the word 'blog'. Only last night, she walked up to the computer, pointed at the screen, and shouted "Mummy's blog!"

She was looking at Facebook. And she was basically right.