It's a poignant symbol of multicultural Britain...


Yes, Amelie's getting to know Mrs Gupta from the corner shop.

Or possibly Big Sis has come to visit. It's hard to say which. But either way, it's like a promo shot from the 'Ebony & Ivory' video. I don't know whether to start marketing my own fake tanning products, or put my sister forward for a MOBO Award.

As the old saying goes, 'If Mohammed won't come to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mohammed', so when Lisa and I told her that we wouldn't be coming to stay this weekend, there was only one thing Big Sis could do: adopt the skin tone of a muslim, and came straight to us. Not only am I a man-mountain, but I'm now officially over the hill.

So to our slight surprise, Sis phoned us up late on my birthday to say that she'd be driving from Wiltshire to Sussex on Saturday to spend 24 hours in our company, before working on location in Kent the next day. Possibly as a fruit picker. She arrived yesterday afternoon, and is officially the colour of a Malteser, having spent seven days with Ira Losco in the Med.

Amelie's made the most of her auntie's visit, by repeatedly saying "Can I go and watch her?", and then proceeding to stare at Big Sis like she's some kind of circus freak. But to be honest, we all do that. The main advantage of her visit, however, is that she's come bearing gifts. I got a birthday card and a £30 voucher for The Well at Bulkington (it's what I like to call a 'Get to The Well Soon' card), while Lisa got a sympathy card of a different kind, plus a gift from a service station. Sis said she saw it and thought of Lisa.

It's a Mr Bump book.

On the surface, it might appear that no good has come out of Lisa's hideous accident. I mean, sure, she's been through a lot of pain, long-term disfigurement, physical and mental trauma, and ruined four thousand pounds worth of dental treatment that she spent years saving up for. But that's only part of the story. On the plus side, I picked up a pretty good recipe in the dentist's waiting room last Friday.

It was in the BBC's Good Food Magazine, and it was for Chicken & Ham Sandwich Pies. I made them on Thursday afternoon...


According to the recipe, "These bread-based pies are really portable", thereby instantly setting them apart from all the world's other pies, which are pretty much housebound and immovable. So having got them out of the oven, I tested their portability by taking them to St Leonards for my birthday picnic...


That's Amelie and me out in the wilds of Sussex with a home-made pie and a jam sandwich. I'm now officially pushing forty, so the rug really should be on my head.

Obviously, when I say 'the wilds of Sussex', I'm referring to my parents' garden. We discussed various possible locations for my birthday lunch, before deciding on the patch of grass ten yards from the back door. It meant we could drink tea without taking a flask, and Amelie could pop home for the toilet.

Here she is demonstrating the BSL sign for 'More Cake Please'...


... after which she picked up my camera and took a photo of her Daddy...


... or possibly my Mum's greenhouse. It's hard to say which she was aiming for.

Having picnicked until the sun went down (about 3pm BST), we then had a break from the eating to rest, relax and start reading the pizza delivery menu. I was keen to experience the Domino's effect, but we also had to cater for those members of the family too awkward or toothless to eat pizza, by agreeing to get fish & chips as well. So while I placed the pizza order online, my Mum took Amelie on a fishing trip to the local chippy.

Or she would have done if Amelie hadn't scraped her hand getting into the car, and been forced to return home for some Savlon. As she said to us at the time, "I've had an accident like Mummy". A fact I disputed by pointing out that I wasn't on my hands and knees, cleaning up blood and broken glass from the carpet, whilst on the phone to an emergency dentist.

A combination of Amelie's injury time delay and a lightning fast delivery from Domino's, meant that fifteen minutes later, I was sitting here with my birthday tea, while the rest of the family went hungry. Or as hungry as you can go when you've been eating pies all afternoon. Naturally I could have started without them, but I felt there was more mileage in making them feel guilty by waiting for the fish & chips to arrive, and then reheating my pizza in the microwave. Whilst reminding them that I really should have been at The Well at Bulkington.

It wasn't long before I was tucking into some sympathy desserts, and my Mum was bringing out the birthday cake...


Judging by the cake my Dad got for his 70th birthday, I think there's only one bakery in St Leonards. And they haven't moved on much in three years. The candles were supposed to be in two rows - one of three and one of eight, to indicate my age of 38. Unfortunately Amelie insisted on adding a fourth to the top line. That girl's putting years on me.

It's my 38th birthday!

Lisa's present has been postponed until she can leave the house without a bag over her head, but Amelie's given me this card...


... as well as the grey hair, wrinkles and bags under my eyes. It's no wonder I was comfort-eating chocolate within half an hour of getting up.

Amongst the pain, anguish and trauma of the past couple of weeks, there's one victim who's barely had a mention. Our glass-fronted sideboard may never be the same again. Once Lisa got her teeth into him, smashed his face and broke his glasses, he never looked likely to recover.

But as a true victim of violence, that sideboard's been getting its own back ever since. Every time Lisa walks past it down the hallway, she's reminded of the trip she took on the eleventh, and it's a trip down memory lane that she'd rather not take. Our glass-fronted sideboard has come to stand for everything that's gone wrong in Lisa's life over the past three weeks, and it's doing her no good at all to keep seeing it. She was brought down once when she failed to walk past it, but now just walking past it is enough to bring her down.

So Amelie and I decided to make a humanitarian visit to some second-hand furniture shops this morning to look for a replacement. I've got two days off work for my birthday, and we're due at my parents' this evening, but this morning we headed over to Hove to browse for an untainted sideboard at the Martlet's Furniture Warehouse. On the way, we popped into work so that Amelie could test the strength of our new flooring by jumping up and down in the office, while I did a deal with the devil (which is no way to describe my boss) to ensure that I can make it to my appointment next Thursday. I've been granted two days sick leave in return for doing an extra clinic on Tuesday. So by Thursday, I'll need a couple of days off.

The deal was struck over a chocolate biscuit (for Amelie, not me) and we were soon on our way to Hove for some furniture shopping. The usually reliable Martlet's proved disappointing for what we were looking for. I wanted something cheap, well-built and about four foot wide, but with the exception of the moment I caught sight of myself in a mirror, I failed to spot anything which fitted that description.

Fortunately, the Emmaus Second-hand Superstore in Portslade proved more productive. We decided to look at dressers and free-standing wall units, in an effort to banish the memory of the old sideboard, so Amelie got out her tape measure and assessed a few possibilities...


That's the kind of furniture I pine for. Solid wood, well made, and only sixty-five quid. But sadly it was three inches too deep. Lisa would be cracking her elbow on the corner every time she comes out of the bathroom.

This one was the same price and the perfect size...


... but if you're allergic to MDF, this one's a killer. I've never seen anything so cheaply made. Well not since I got my clothes out of the wardrobe this morning. It looks nice in the photo, but it was tatty, flimsy, and more likely to fall into Lisa than vice versa.

The third option was this...


It was the right size, and the cheapest of the three at only £45. Amelie and I spent ages agonising over whether to buy it. Although she hid her agony well by running up and down the shop, shouting "LET'S MEASURE THIS ONE!" in a loud voice. In the end, I decided against it. To quote Roy Walker, it was good, but it wasn't right. For a start, it isn't soft and made of rubber, so in Lisa's world, it's a death-trap. I think I'll keep on looking...

Amelie woke up crying at 7am this morning, so I went into her bedroom, calmed her down, and asked her what was wrong. She told me she was scared because a big monster with big claws and big teeth had seen her asleep in her bed and tried to cuddle her in the night.

So I think Lisa's been sleep-walking again. And the good news is that in a couple of weeks' time, I could finally be in a fit state to join her. I received an appointment today to be stabbed by a sonographer next Thursday at the hospital in Brighton. Unfortunately I'm due to be at a health centre in East Grinstead. I think I've got some rearranging to do...

If there's one thing I've always said about my sister, it's that she makes you appreciate the precious nature of divorce. She only visited Malta a week ago, and they've already changed the law to legalise marriage break-ups. It's as though they took one look at Big Sis, and realised that you can't expect men to stick around forever.

Of course, the alternative explanation is that every man she met there now wants to divorce his wife. Which probably makes more sense. I have it on good authority that 'There's Something About Mary' was based on my sister's life.

On the subject of Big Sis, it's my birthday on Friday, so we were planning to drive down to Wiltshire tomorrow evening to celebrate in style by spending the weekend in Devizes. It's the clubbing and party capital of the UK. That's the Rotary Club and Conservative Party, obviously. Sis had promised to push the boat out and treat us to some milk from the late-night garage.

Unfortunately, following the events of the past fortnight, we've sadly taken the decision to postpone the trip. One of our main motivations for going was to eat out every night at The Well at Bulkington, but with Lisa still reluctant to open her mouth in public, there seems little point in a gastronomic tour of Wiltshire. She could suck some soup through a straw, but the strawberry shortcake's likely to prove difficult. Not least because she'd have to order it from behind a napkin.

So we've changed our plans, and will be heading back to St Leonards instead. We can't eat out there either, but my Mum knows the number of a good pizza delivery firm.

I was strapping Amelie into her car seat yesterday afternoon to bring her back home from St Leonards, when, completely out of the blue, she turned to me and said in a perfectly calm, clear voice:

"Don't ever hurt me again, Daddy."

That's one to stop you in your tracks. It was like a scene from the exorcist, but with less vomit. Frankly, if a passer-by had overheard it, I'd now be in a police cell, being questioned by social services. As it is, I think my Mum and Lisa have their suspicions. So I'd just like to state for the record that with the exception of the time I elbowed her in the head, and the day I dislocated her arm in Lidl, I've never laid a finger on that girl. Although obviously I've been tempted.

Besides, I'd be a fool to start battering my daughter now. She's just beginning to show the kind of talent that could make me a fortune. Just look at this fancy footwork...


She's like a young George Best. Only more articulate.

That's her running rings around a talented opposition line-up which included a septuagenarian with varicose veins, and a woman with no teeth.

Here she is perfecting the famous Chris Waddle step-over...


And here she is attempting a cheeky back-heel...


To be honest, there comes a point when you start to wonder if that's a genuine display of silky soccer skills, or just an inability to kick the ball. But either way, she should be good enough for England.

Somewhere between Norway and Amy Winehouse, you do start to think that things could be a lot worse in the Gardner household. We might have a gap in Lisa's teeth, my wallet and our family tree, but at least we're not dead. Although I'm probably tempting fate there.

We drove over to my parents' again on Friday evening for another weekend of supported living. It's like sheltered housing for the tearful, but with meals all-inclusive, and baby-sitting thrown in. Amelie managed to eat an entire punnet of blueberries during the journey, which equates to about six of her five-a-day, and meant that by the time we got to St Leonards, she was so full of superfood, she looked like Violet Beauregarde. She'd also had a little accident in her car seat. Which I suppose is an appropriate place to have one.

Lisa spent most of yesterday in bed, while I made it one stage further by vegging out on the sofa, but in the evening I successfully persuaded my wife to come to Tescos. Lisa's only been out four times in the past fortnight, and they were all trips to the dentist, so it was a step forward for her to mingle with the great British public. Especially the type you get in the Hastings branch of Tesco.

Her facial bruises have completely vanished now, so if she knows what's good for her, she'll keep her mouth shut, and no one will ever know the state of her broken teeth and heart. Unfortunately, it's not easy living your life without talking. Especially if you're Lisa. It meant that we walked around Tescos like some kind of ventriloquist act - me making conversation, her replying without moving her lips. If she had more than a sentence to say, she'd put her hand over her mouth like she was telling me a secret. I'm sure the other shoppers thought we were gossiping about them. Which wasn't always the case.

Lisa saved her best move for last though. We were at the checkout, and the woman was trying to scan the small pack of chocolate truffles that we'd bought for purely medicinal purposes. When they wouldn't go through, she asked me how much they were. Naturally, as someone with no interest in chocolate, I didn't know, so we both turned to Lisa, who was loading the conveyor belt at the other end of the checkout, and said "How much were these?".

She'd just retrieved from the trolley a twin-pack of t-shirts for Amelie, so she reacted instinctively with the reflexes of a jungle cat, held the hanger to her forehead, covered her face with with fabric, and said "A pound!" through the armpit of the veil. I don't think the woman suspected a thing.

In my efforts to find a silver lining yesterday, I overlooked the obvious cloud. When Lisa was pregnant, she was entitled to free NHS dental care. Now that she isn't, she's not. A week ago, Lisa's dentist asked us to pin our hopes on a free NHS denture. This time she just asked for my PIN.

But despite handing over £550 of my hard-earned cash, it was Lisa who walked out of the practice in tears. The denture was supposed to be a short-term measure while we looked into the possibility of more permanent implants, but having examined her yesterday, the dentist said it would be at least a year before she could even tell us if implants would be possible. Apparently Lisa's facial bone and remaining front tooth need time to heal after the accident, and doing major work now would not only be unsuccessful, but could cause more damage. Her other front tooth, although visibly fine, was knocked in the fall, and it could be a year before we know if it's recovered.

So the 'short-term denture' will actually have to last for "a year or two". The dentist broke the news, and the news broke Lisa's heart. On the plus side, however, the dentist was pleased with how well Lisa's gums have healed in the past week, and was far more confident that a denture would fit comfortably. An NHS appliance for a non-pregnant Lisa would have cost us £204. The smaller, softer and more comfortable private version was £550. For something she might end up wearing for two years, it seemed like a no-brainer. We go back in two weeks for a fitting.

Having deposited a tearful Lisa back to her Mum's, I then returned to work for an hour at the end of the afternoon. It seemed like a slightly pointless exercise, as by the time I'd logged on to a computer, settled myself down, and started work, it was almost time to go home. But with ten minutes of the working week left, I clicked onto a random patient from Wednesday, examined their photos, and found a person who'd gone from background changes last year to sight-threatening proliferative retinopathy this year. Ten minutes later, I'd set up an urgent referral to the eye hospital. I might not be able to fix Lisa's teeth in a fortnight, but I can save a stranger's sight in ten minutes.

Big Sis got back from Malta on Wednesday, and at 10:43pm last night I received this text message from her:

"I am currently eating birthday cake made by the woman who made the recent royal wedding cake and went to the royal wedding!"

Speaking as someone who only goes to Greggs on a special occasion, I'm quite envious of Sis's new life as a globe-trotting, celeb-spotting party girl. She's like Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, but with cake instead of crack. I might set her up as my fudge mule and start a supply line of doggy bags across Europe.

Back here in the real world, however, we're making a return visit to Lisa's dentist this afternoon. When we went a week ago, they were slightly hamstrung by Lisa's pregnancy, and were unable to take x-rays or give her the strong dose of antibiotics they would have preferred. This time at least there'll be no restrictions to the treatment she can receive. As silver linings go, it's more stainless steel than precious metal, but I suppose it's something.

They say it never rains, but it pours. Especially in Britain in July. But I must admit, this is shaping up to be our unluckiest month for quite some time.

The one thing which has kept me and Lisa going through the past nine days of blood, bruising, torment and toothache - the one shining light on the horizon, which has convinced us that things aren't so bad, and that there's plenty for Lisa's battered and broken face to smile about - is the fact that we found out a fortnight ago that she's pregnant.

Unfortunately, as of 5 o'clock this morning, that's no longer the case. I don't know how many mirrors she's broken to deserve that, but it doesn't seem fair.

I received a text message from Big Sis at seven-thirty this morning. It said this:

"I was having birthday cake and tea with Ira Losco in her kitchen at midnight last night!"

I read it out to Lisa, who spoke on behalf of an entire nation by replying:

"Who?"

That's an entire nation apart from me. Naturally I have my finger on the Euro-pop pulse (and I have access to Google), so I happen to know that Ira Losco is a Maltese cross between Kylie Minogue and Adele, who came second in the Eurovision Song Contest. And besides, Sis told me about her two weeks ago.

To be honest, I can't remember the exact connection between my sister and the lovely Miss Losco. I think Sis is claiming to be a friend of Ira's sister. Although from the text message, it sounds more like the relationship between Michael Fagan and the Queen. Either way, Sis is currently in Europe, hob-nobbing with a bubbly Malteser and eating her cake. Which I expect is the lighter way to enjoy chocolate.

Fans of Miss Losco claim she's 'the bomb', which is appropriate for someone named IRA, but in addition to being huge in the Med, Wikipedia states that in 2008 she was "awarded a national medal for making Malta proud in the Inetrnational music scene". Although I'd be less proud of that spelling of 'international'. It's basically what The Cheeky Girls have done for Transylvania, but on a more global scale, and without involving Lembit Opik. All of which makes it a miracle we've never heard of her.

I'm not saying Lisa worries about things unnecessarily, but she turned to me in bed last night and asked if I thought Amelie had been traumatised by the events of the past week. My response was to look incredulous (not that she could see me in the dark) and ask if she'd watched yesterday's video. Frankly the girl's as happy as Larry. We're talking Larry Hagman when they told him they were bringing back Dallas. If she's not, then we have a child acting superstar on our hands. In which case, she can make millions, and spend it all on therapy.

As for Little Miss Sunshine's mother, Lisa finished her course of antibiotics this morning, and as far as we can tell, the infection's cleared up nicely. Her gums are becoming less sore, and her bruises are gradually fading. Her face looks less swollen too, although that could just be the weight loss from living on soup for a week. The mental scars will take a little longer, but I think they've begun the slow healing process too.

After a relaxing weekend at my parents', Lisa and I returned home last night, and I went back to work today. We've left Amelie at the dance studio in St Leonards for some extra training on her arm movements, so Lisa's managing to get some rest in front of Loose Women. The TV show, not her relatives.

Perhaps the best sign of recovery is that Lisa actually answered the front door this morning. It was only the electricity meter-reading man, and she admits that she spoke to him as though her jaws had been wired shut by a sadistic ventriloquist, but for someone who, only a few days ago, was convinced that we'd need to have the doorbell disconnected until she could lay her hands on a burka, it's a major step forward. It's also the first time in a week that she's spoken to a tradesman without blood pouring out of her mouth, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is progress.

At least one person is managing to smile through all of this...


She's testing the 'lucky' part of 'happy-go-lucky' by doing a dance on a wet stool. One slip and she'll look just like her mother.

If there's one thing I've always said, it's that you know your teeth are bad when your dentist starts crying. Yes, in another Gardner family first, Lisa reduced her dentist to tears yesterday.

We returned to her usual dental practice yesterday lunchtime, and this time saw her 'own' dentist - a lady that Lisa's only actually seen once before. She'd been fully briefed by Mr O'Keefe, and was prepared for the full horror of Lisa's mouth, but what she didn't know was the back story. She was aware that Lisa had previously worn a brace, but assumed it was done as a teenager on the NHS. When we told her that it was only fitted in 2009 at a cost of thousands, and she then saw the current damage, she was so heartbroken, she actually shed a tear.

Lisa was already crying at this point, and the dental nurse looked a bit misty-eyed. Frankly I was the only one holding it together, which is not like me at all. The upshot of it all was that, sadly, Lisa's two damaged teeth have had to be removed as well. One definitely wasn't salavageable, while the other had a slim chance of survival, but would have required months of orthodontic work with no guarantee of success. Under the circumstances, extraction was the best option. And as it transpired, it was the right decision. When the dentist came to remove it, she pulled out the tooth with her thumb and forefinger. Apparently that shouldn't be possible with a tooth that size, so she was right to take it out.

So Lisa's now three teeth down, with a slight chance that a fourth front tooth will have to come out in the future. She's had stitches to her gum, is still on antibiotics, and has to go back in a week to have an impression taken for a denture. We've been advised to go with an NHS appliance in the short term because, unfortunately, due to the state of Lisa's mouth, no denture will fit perfectly, and a privately made one would be a waste of our money. Once the falsies are fitted and Lisa's mouth has healed up, we can look for a better long-term solution.

It's not easy finding positives at the moment, but I have to say that her facial bruises are looking a lot better this morning. She looks less like a car crash victim, and more like she's been careless with her Ribena. A couple more days, and she'll be able to leave the house without people thinking I've beaten her up. It's something for me to look forward to, anyway.