The zombie apocalypse is upon us!!!


And one of them's got her hands on my son. It's no wonder he looks so worried. With the sudden breakdown of society and a global assault on civilisation by a violent plague of the living dead, he's clearly concerned that his father's never going to have time to write a proper blog post.

I'm not sure if Peppa Pig World is best summed up by this photo...


... or this video...


But either way, you have to be mad to spend a whole day there in the pouring rain.

It's us partying hard with the world's largest mirrorball!


Obviously we'd cleared the dance floor by that point. Which tends to happen when Lisa starts doing her Gangnam Style.

Anyhoo, the trouble with being 24 hour party people is that it doesn't leave much time for blogging. We spent most of yesterday soaking up the cultural history of Bristol with this bloke, and today we'll be splashing in the muddy puddles of Peppa Pig World. This evening we have a dinner date with Big Sis and her significant other, and tomorrow we head home via a secret rendezvous near Andover, where I hope to film someone wrestling a shark when they should be putting their feet up.

So I might not have time to write about it, but trust me, we're having fun.

With the recession biting and our belts tightening (in more ways than one), I've always thought that the closest Amelie's likely to get to soaking up the Med sunshine is when the doctor puts her on anti-depressants, but against all the odds, I'm proud to say that I've now taken her to Turkey...



And it looks good enough to eat. She's just pointing out where the stuffing goes.

As it happens, Amelie and I weren't the only ones talking turkey yesterday afternoon. Big Sis returned from London with the aim of spending an hour or two in her dining room, chairing a transatlantic conference call with two dozen Americans. And despite loving my children like her own, she was somewhat reluctant to do it against a backdrop of screaming and arguing. So having discussed the possibility of taping Amelie's mouth shut, I eventually agreed to take her out for a few hours.

After researching 'fun things to do in Wiltshire' on the internet (that didn't take long), we ended up at The Hope Nature Centre near Trowbridge. It's a charity which provides employment for young adults with learning difficulties, and they have a range of small animals, plus a tearoom with cakes, so it seemed like the perfect place to visit. We left here at lunchtime, and were soon at one with nature. Although it was closer to two by the time we'd missed the sign and done a u-turn in Southwick.

Here's an animal with the potential to bite and kick...


And the pig's no walkover either. Unfortunately, my pork photography got the chop shortly afterwards when a ham-fisted member of staff shouted across the park to accuse us of something far rasher. Apparently we'd walked in without paying.

Now, I accept no responsibility for this whatsoever. I'd failed to find any mention of entry fees on their website, and when we arrived, all I saw was a small shed with big signs advertising ice cream and cold drinks. I'd deliberately looked for somewhere to pay, and found nothing, so I assumed I'd just make a donation on the way out.

Naturally I was wrong. It transpired that just around the corner from the massive sign saying ice cream, there's a laminated sheet of A4 which reads "Adults £2, Children £1". Or it would do if it hadn't completely faded in the sunlight. Frankly it tests your mind-reading skills more than your literacy.

But having paid our dues, and shrugged off the disapproving glances from people who thought I was too tight to give three quid to charity, I went the extra mile and bought some animal food, after which we embarked on a bit of a feeding frenzy...



That's Amelie cutting her teeth on a rabbit before tackling the world's biggest bully goat...


If things continue like that, they'll end up with six bags of bones and a goat that looks like a hippo.

Fortunately, however, that goat doesn't get all the attention. We were lucky enough to get chatting to a friendly young goatherd who let us get up close and personal with a horny young female called Storm, and offered to demonstrate the meticulous training which has resulted in her acquiring the ability to jump up on command in return for a mint...


It's enough to get your goat. I wouldn't mind, but thirty seconds later, she spotted the bag of food in my hand, jumped straight up at me, and left mud all down my coat.

Anyhoo, after a swift game of My Little Pony...


... we soon abandoned Hope Nature Centre, and headed into Trowbridge (or, as Amelie called it, Drawbridge) to look around the charity shops. Parking in Trowbridge town centre costs 50p for two hours, which is enough to make anyone from Brighton faint with incredulous shock, and what's more, it was a sound investment. Not only did I buy Amelie a cuddly cat for two quid, but I found a Gieves & Hawkes shirt in my size for only £3.99. It's £125 on their website. So I'll either wear it or sell it on eBay.

If there's one thing people often say about us Gardners, it's that we're never happier than when we're keeping fit and exercising...


Obviously that's just the people who have never met us. Those who know us a little better will be aware that we generally like to use our cross trainer as a clothes horse for drying laundry. Or we did until we got rid of it.

Anyhoo, a family holiday wouldn't be a family holiday without Lisa throwing up, and sure enough, my wife awoke yesterday morning feeling as rough as a woman with two kids who hasn't had much sleep. After one mouthful of muesli, she requested a bucket for breakfast, and before long was turning the bedroom into a vomitorium.

At the time, she was feeling hot, cold and shivery, so we thought it was some kind of virus, but the good news is that her symptoms passed within a few hours, so I think maybe she was just sick of being woken up at night by a troublesome baby. It meant, however, that I spent yesterday morning alone with two kids and a white sofa, while Lisa was confined to her bed. So by lunchtime I needed a massage.

And fortunately, it turned out to be very good. The lady arrived with a portable massage table which she set up in the dining room for a feast of kneading and pummelling. She told me she'd been doing it for fifteen years, and it showed. She was actually very good, and the result was a lot better than my last experience. Lisa managed to take her turn too. Although she told me she almost threw up through the hole in the table.

The best thing about my massage, however, was the personal service the lady gave me as an added extra. Yes, just when I thought my rub-down was complete, she was kind enough to give me the benefit of her local knowledge by telling me about a park I should take Amelie to. She even gave me directions. And two hours later, we were there...


When I say 'we', I mean me and Amelie. And no one else. Lisa stayed at home as a precaution against vomiting, and the park was entirely deserted. We had the whole place to ourselves. Which is surprising, because it's actually fantastic.

It's called Hillworth Park, and is tucked away behind some houses in the heart of Devizes, where (clearly) nobody notices it. Or maybe they're just not mad enough to go there when the temperature's below zero. According to the park's website, it was completely revamped last year, and frankly it shows. The whole place has been kitted out with state-of-the-art play facilities and outdoor exercise equipment. They even have a brand new tennis court which is entirely free to use. It was unlocked and open, with just a simple sign politely requesting that each person only plays for an hour if there are others waiting. I've never seen anything like it. In Brighton, that sign would have been torn down and burnt.

As for the outdoor gym equipment, we were able to train...



... slide...



... and pump iron...



... without so much as a hint of vandalism. The entire place was immaculate, and everything was in perfect working order. Possibly because no one's ever used it.

They also have a small aviary, although when I told Lisa they had birds, she replied "Doesn't every park?". Ultimately though, we had the time of our lives...


Although these things always end in tears. I think I'll contact the National Accident Helpline...

I don't usually do requests, but...


In the words of Lisa, "Oh deer..."

Anyhoo, I've woken up this morning to reports of heavy snowfall, travel chaos, stranded motorists and school closures. But not around here. While Brighton has ground to a halt under a blanket of snow, we've barely seen a flake in Devizes. I'm looking out of the window at green grass, blue skies and sunshine. Even snow is too exciting for Wiltshire.

It has been very cold though. Which is annoying as Lisa went with fashion over practicality, and only packed a light jacket for Amelie. She's currently modelling her Spring collection in sub-zero temperatures. But that didn't stop us getting out and about yesterday. A friend of Big Sis has lent us a buggy, which means we're not limited by how far I can walk in the baby harness without developing permanent curvature of the spine.

So we hit Devizes yesterday. Shortly after Amelie had hit the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Staying at Big Sis's house is a lot like reading 'The Thirty-Nine Steps' whilst listening to 'Stairway to Heaven' performed by Steps. We were taking bets on who would be the first to impersonate Mr Tumble, and my money was on Lisa, but at 10am yesterday it was Amelie who hit the deck with a loud thud. She only fell down three steps, which is about 1% of the total, but she managed to chin the wood flooring and burst into tears.

Fortunately, if there's one thing that can cheer up a four-year-old, it's an afternoon in Devizes. Mainly because it makes you appreciate how much worse things could be. We spent a couple of hours sheltering from the bitterly cold wind in a branch of Pizza Express, where Amelie did her best to look sophisticated with a hot Bambinoccino...


Naturally she oozed class, refinement and maturity beyond her years. Right up until the moment she put the chocolate-sprinkled drink back on the table...


If I'd been this age in the seventies, that's the look I would have gone for. Possibly minus the headband.

Anyhoo, we finished our afternoon by popping into Sainsbury's for one or two essentials, and coming out with a full weekly shop, after which we spent the evening trying to eat as much of it as we could. I think I've put on three stone in the past week, which is a problem as I'm about to get my kit off in front of another woman.

For reasons I haven't yet fully established, Big Sis has booked a visiting masseur to come round and give me and Lisa a rub down. Sis doesn't know her personally, but claims she's the daughter of a friend of hers. I'm a little bit apprehensive though. Bearing in mind how uncomfortable I felt the last time I was pummelled by a beautician, I'm a bit concerned that Sis may have found her in the personal ads at the back of the Wiltshire Gazette, and it won't be that kind of massage...

A big white horse on a cold, bleak hillside. It can mean only one thing...


The Cheltenham Festival starts tomorrow. Oh, and we're at Big Sis's house in Devizes.

Back in the good old days, when I was footloose, fancy free, and untroubled by paid employment, the Cheltenham Festival was one of the television highlights of my year. Unfortunately, since being forced off the sofa and out into the workplace to support my needy family, I've missed it every time. So I decided this would be the year that things changed. I deliberately booked the last of my annual leave for this week, so that I could relax in front of the TV with a feast of horse racing action.

At which point I remembered I have children. And Amelie barely allows me to watch the weather forecast, never mind four days of non-stop sport. I haven't even had time to read through the runners and riders, let alone study the form. So I've fallen at the first fence, and the Cheltenham race meeting has been abandoned. Which is a shame because I could have put our insurance money on a horse.

Fortunately, however, my week off hasn't gone to waste. Big Sis offered us the chance to spend a few days in Devizes (you wouldn't want any longer), so having driven 150 miles back home from Norfolk on Saturday afternoon, we drove another 135 to Wiltshire yesterday. I feel it's important for the children's development that they're able to encounter a wide variety of environments and feel stimulated by a range of new experiences, so a trip like this is invaluable. It means Amelie can watch Netflix on a totally different sofa...


We actually left for Devizes about three hours later than intended, but the drive only took two and a half hours, so I'm now thinking we could come here for a day trip. Amelie was a lot better behaved this time (if you don't count the twelve times she wound down the window), and the highlight of the journey was the game of 'I Spy' she had with Lisa.

Now, you'll have to take my word for this, and to be honest, if I read it on someone else's blog, I probably wouldn't believe it, but I swear on Lisa's life this is true. When Lisa said this:

"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with H."

Amelie responded with this:

"Is it Ancient Egyptian?"

I'm not sure if that owes more to a grounding in historical Egyptology or the fact that she pronounces 'ancient' as 'aitchant', but either way it's impressive. And it makes a change from her constantly putting her hands either side of Toby's head and shouting "Baby Antlers!"

But in reality, the answer was house.

I'm not saying the people of Norwich are weird, but there's a place in the Castle Mall shopping centre where they paint apes to look like Elvis...


It's not so much Guerilla Warfare as Gorilla Warhol. There's an explanation here, but I've a feeling the article was written by the Gasway marketing department.

Anyhoo, on the subject of cheeky monkeys, it's Mother's Day today, and with the arrival of Toby, it's the first time Lisa's been able to expect two presents from her adoring offspring. Needless to say, she was disappointed. The more children we have, the less time I have to organise gifts for them, and having been away for the past couple of days, Lisa was lucky to get a box of chocolates and a card.

She did, however, receive a bespoke piece of artwork...


Amelie has a habit of making me look less like a big Daddy and more like Giant Haystacks, so I insisted on drawing my own body in an effort to keep things in proportion. Unfortunately she then drew Lisa to look like Twiggy, which slightly defeated my purpose. The Christmas puddings on the right are actually diamond rings, and she asked me to help her draw babies in both mine and Lisa's hands. Presumably to remind us how much worse things could be. The inspirational cherry on top of the creative cake is, however, the dark splodge on the grass beneath my feet. Amelie told me that was dog poo.

To be honest, I preferred our picture of superheroes...


The top one was supposed to be Lisa, but she ended up looking more like Michael Foot crossed with Einstein. So we were spot-on both ideologically and intellectually. My main reason for loving it, however, is because it demonstrates Amelie's ingenuity. And neverending list of excuses. Having watched me draw the dog on Supermummy's legs, she requested that I draw another one on Captain Clown below, but asked that this time I leave her to draw the tail.

She duly did so, after which she sat back, considered her artwork carefully, and said "Actually, that one's a beaver".

I don't want to count my chickens...


... but I think there's every chance we can persuade Z to look after Amelie full time. And judging by the way Amelie burst into tears and started sobbing that she wanted to stay longer as we forcibly dragged her towards the car, I don't think she'll need much convincing either.

Anyhoo, I've got good news and bad news. The bad news is that we didn't have a lovely time in Suffolk. But the good news is that we had a very nice time in Norfolk. Which is what happens when you don't realise what county your friend lives in. As it turns out, Z and the Sage reside in Norfolk, but close enough to the border that if the socialists of Suffolk ever erect a wall to keep out the Diss respectful, their house will be the equivalent of Checkpoint Charlie.

Since Thursday afternoon, Lisa, Amelie, Toby and I have been staying here...


... whilst hoping they wouldn't notice that I'd driven my car into their hedge. The Zedary is actually a gorgeous Tudor house which dates back more than four hundred years to a time that even Lisa can't remember. It's all oak beams, low doorways and hidden staircases, built by people without access to spirit levels. And it's been furnished by the Antiques Roadshow. It's the kind of place where Amelie could do five grand's worth of damage with just one performance of Gangnam Style.

But despite our potential to wreck both their house and their lives, we were welcomed warmly into their home, and provided with some top quality cooking. To be honest, Z's home-cooked food was one of our main motivations for going, and we weren't disappointed. Having dined on steak that first evening, we woke up on Friday to a breakfast of bacon, sausages, tomatoes, and the freshest eggs known to man...


Amelie personally retrieved those from the hen house. Which is currently a large greenhouse, occupied by about three dozen bantams. In addition to those, Z and the Sage are fostering a friend's dog at the moment, and they also have a cat...


Just look at those fearsome teeth. I can't believe the dentist said I've got receding gums.

Anyhoo, I'm not saying our friends are competitive, but whilst Stefan & Andrew have a lot of leopard-print cushions, Z's got a stuffed leopard. So that's one-nil to her. I was also treated to a demonstration of their coin-operated antique music box, which is the size of a grandfather clock, and plays The Blue Danube from a metal disc that looks like a holy cymbal. That was shortly after hearing a one-hundred-year-old record on the gramophone, and seeing the Sage's first ever pay packet, which had been framed by his mother in the 1950s.

To be honest, you could spend an entire fortnight getting lost in all the interesting curiosities and their accompanying stories that are contained within the house, but if you're Lisa, you can just get lost within the house. Even after two nights there, she still needed me to guide her towards the bedroom, and this morning she walked into the porch thinking it was the kitchen. As for the back stairs, she never worked out where they went, and assumed that Amelie's ability to walk out of one door and back through another was primarily down to witchcraft.

Anyhoo, people who say the East Anglian landscape is flat and featureless, don't know what they're talking about...


It's actually surprisingly lumpy. Amelie and I accompanied Z on her morning dog-wrangling adventure yesterday, and it was like walking on a field made from one of Lisa's sauces. The details of that little outing are far better related on Z's blog, but to prove she's not making it up, here's a photo of Ben doing a bit of Swan Upping...


By some miracle, we managed to get our party back home with only minor water damage to the dog and a mild case of cholera for Z, but that wasn't the only miracle we encountered...


There's a cow beyond that bridge who appears to be walking on water. I know the cream always rises to the top, but surely that's a bridge too far.

Anyhoo, with dogs walked and eggs collected, I gathered up my family and headed to the big smoke of Norwich for the afternoon. We'd failed to fit Toby's buggy into the car for this trip, so it meant me strapping him up in the simulated pregnancy suit...


That photo comes courtesy of the Mothercare security camera. Which was being operated by Amelie on this occasion.

We spent an enjoyable afternoon strolling around Norwich city centre while I developed a bad back and severe shoulder injuries, after which we returned to the Zedary for another gourmet feast, this time of salmon kedgeree and a baked lemon dessert. I was tempted to ask for both recipes, but it might just be easier to go back on a monthly basis.

If they'll have us, that is. Amelie and I managed to set off the burglar alarm this morning whilst searching for one of Toby's spoons, so having got our hosts out of bed earlier than expected, and risked a visit from the police, we decided to make a swift getaway. After we'd had third helpings of breakfast. Amelie had been remarkably well-behaved in Z's company, which was company she clearly enjoyed far more than our own. She made a point of abandoning us at every opportunity, so that she could go and chat to Z. But once back in the car with her parents, it was naturally a different story.

We drove back down to Brighton this afternoon, with our daughter playing up in the back seat. And out of the back seat. At 70mph. Lisa told her quite firmly that if she doesn't sit still and keep her seatbelt on, she'll end up being killed. And added that "Once you're dead, there's no coming back".

Unfortunately Amelie's got an answer for everything. She looked Lisa in the eye and replied, "But Jesus will bring me back to life".

Though not if he's got any sense.

As it transpires, Churchill's generosity is even greater than I realised, and matched only by their levels of incompetence. We received a letter in yesterday's post, explaining the cheque we received the day before, and according to that statement, the settlement was for a hundred pounds more than they'd sent us. But they'd knocked off the £100 excess before paying us out.

Unfortunately for them, I paid that money up front (as they told me I had to) and what's more, I have the blog post to prove it. So I gave them a call yesterday afternoon, and having put me on hold while she checked their payment records, Mrs Churchill came back full of apologies, and confirmed that yes, I'd already paid it. So they're sending us another cheque. It's a good job I checked the letter; Lisa almost threw it in the bin.

To be honest, I need all the money I can get. I took the entire family to the dentist yesterday. Toby's already got one razor-sharp tooth, so he's on the verge of costing me a fortune. Luckily, we all got a clean bill of health (and a low bill of money), although he's concerned about my receding gums, and asked if the condition runs in my family. I told him my mother's Esther Rantzen, so he shrugged and said that's life.

Anyhoo, as committed stalkers might remember (because I clearly don't), in May of last year, when Lisa was seven months pregnant with Toby, and we had a handful of kittens in the house, I took two days annual leave so that we could go to a party in Suffolk. Unfortunately, despite arranging it months in advance, we ended up double-booked. Unbeknownst to us, we already had a date with disaster. The event coincided with Amelie throwing up, and then Lisa throwing up, and by the time I'd scrubbed vomit out of the carpet, I wasn't in the mood to party.

As a result, we never got the chance to meet the lovely Z or her blogging house-guests. But the good news is that these events can always be rescheduled. And it only takes ten months. Z and the Sage have been kind enough to invite us to stay for a night or two (although we've packed enough stuff for a fortnight), so we're leaving shortly for the wilds of East Anglia. If we're never heard from again, you can send the police here. And tell them to dust the Aga for fingerprints.

Well, it's taken two months and a lot of phone calls, but I think we've finally won the war with Churchill. There have been times this year when I've thought Hitler would have been more benevolent, but after waging the battle of Britain with our insurance company over some flood damaged keepsakes, we appear to have cleaned up. Although you can still see the water stains on the ceiling.

The important thing is that we've done something funny for money, and Churchill have paid up. Of course, in this case it's more funny peculiar than funny ha-ha, but the weeks we spent running up our phone bill, digging out receipts, taking lots of photos and compiling many lists have resulted in a settlement which makes it all seem worth it. I think. Obviously we have to knock off the hundred pounds excess we've already paid, plus the cost of the phone calls, and the numerous hours of labour (which I charge at the same rate as a plumber), but I think we're still ahead. As long as we don't have to pay for a counsellor to get over it all.

Churchill had already sent us a new vacuum cleaner (which sucks) to replace the one in the cupboard which bore the brunt of the downpour, plus a new food processor, so that we don't have to take the risk of our old one blowing up due to water-damaged electrics and sending razor-sharp chopping blades spinning across the kitchen. They'd also promised to reimburse me for the cost of replacing my ruined videos with DVDs. That cheque took weeks to arrive, but finally fell through our letterbox last week.

It wasn't enough to set the world alight (or even cover our heating bill), and we were still waiting to hear about the rest of our claim, but out of the blue, we received another cheque in yesterday's post, for an amount which is more than I'd hoped for. Even in total, the payout doesn't make it into four figures, so I don't think I'll be retiring just yet, but it's enough to make me glad we went through all that hassle. Which is not something I thought I'd say a few weeks ago.

On receiving an unexpected windfall, most people would buy a designer outfit and take the kids to Disneyworld. Unfortunately we're operating on a tighter budget here. Lisa's heading into town this morning to buy Amelie a new pair of shoes, and I'm booking us tickets for Peppa Pig World. It's a lot like Florida, only nearer Southampton. Let the good times roll!

All good things must come to an end, and sure enough, Amelie returned home yesterday morning. She had a swimming lesson in the afternoon, which began far from swimmingly when they accidentally put her in the wrong group and tried to get her to jump into the pool without armbands, but fortunately we've raised her to be argumentative and disrespectful of authority, so she refused and burst into tears. Which is probably preferable to sinking like a stone in the deep end.

She was fine about five minutes later, but I didn't want to take any chances, so when she arrived back home, I forced her to undergo an intensive course of art therapy in an effort to help her over the trauma. It basically involved us sitting at the table for an hour, drawing whatever sprang to her mind, which in this case was a scene from the mythical kingdom of 'Horse Land'. I drew it to resemble Newmarket.

Having impersonated Squiglet just long enough to intimidate Toby, I told Amelie to draw something on her own while I went to do the washing up. Ten minutes later, and with my arms deep in Fairy Liquid, she presented me with this...


Now, I'm not saying we've got a child genius on our hands (although I will if you ask me), but she's drawn all the colours of the rainbow in the right order. And I know Lisa didn't help her, because she was locked in the bedroom at the time, eating Monster Munch in an attempt to avoid doing the ironing. Admittedly, the violet's been replaced with a violent shading of pencil (or possibly the pansy at the bottom), but other than that, Amelie's got them all spot on. And she's captured her own suitably smug grin.

The important thing is that she's displaying the right combination of artistic flair and intellectual ability to get her onto an Art History course at St Andrews alongside William & Kate's future son. She might have to take a few gap years first, but give it thirty years, and I should be the King's father-in-law.

Surprisingly for someone who likes to bring up pretty much everything he eats, Toby looked a little apprehensive as we left for The Swallow's Return yesterday lunchtime...


To be honest, I think he was less concerned by the vomit-themed restaurant we'd chosen, and more worried about the fact that we'd dressed him in the same outfit he wore last time we went out. Unfortunately, due to his ever burgeoning appetite and the fact that he has the ample thighs and bingo wings of a morbidly obese American, it's actually the only ensemble that fits him. We had to make an emergency dash to High & Mighty on the way home.

At the time, I thought that picture of Lisa was the most gorgeous photo I'd take all day, but as it transpired, I was wrong...


That's Tilly, the cat formerly known as Bad Eye, who looked like this before we farmed her out to a better neighbourhood...

They grow up so fast. It seems like only yesterday I was scrubbing her poo out of the carpet and trying to stop Amelie from smothering her with love. In a literal, and fatal, sense.

She's now matured into the kind of cat that can jump up onto high kitchen units to steal your food, and cause hundreds of pounds worth of damage to your home. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but she fell from grace pretty quickly. She's cost them a fortune in repair bills and turned their home life upside down. Truly she's her mother's daughter.

H wouldn't be without her though...



As she posed for that photo, I commented that Tilly's clearly quite happy to be held. To which H responded "No, I've just got her by the neck".

Anyhoo, catching up with Tilly was only half the reason for visiting H and her husband in Worthing yesterday. The other half was to eat a meal without Amelie insisting on sharing my pudding. So having enjoyed our feline meet and greet, we headed off down the road to The Swallow's Return, which looked less like a vomitorium, and more like a garden centre...


Not only is it housed in an old farm building, but it's situated in a field, and has the clientele of a Saga holiday. The only thing keeping the average age below ninety was the presence of Toby. I also felt slightly misled, as I'd been told it was a pub, when it's far more like a restaurant. I was expecting the 'two meals for £7.95' deal of The Jacob's Post in Burgess Hill. What I got was a wild boar burger for £10.95.

When he booked the table, H's husband had requested a highchair (for Toby, not himself), but the one they presented us with was so highly varnished that it might as well as have been coated in Teflon. Despite strapping him in securely, Toby was sliding about so much he couldn't stay vertical for more than ten seconds (he's so like his mother), and we soon gave up and stuck him under the table in his car seat. He started crying after twenty minutes, but we'd forgotten he was there, and assumed it was someone else's child.

To be honest, he wasn't the only one crying within the first half hour. They took so long to take our order, I could have wept. Admittedly, they had a bit of a pensioner rush on, but it was thirty minutes before we even got our drinks, and longer before we were allowed to order food. By the time it arrived, we were on the verge of an evening meal, and I understood why they'd chosen the name Swallow rather than Swift Return.

Admittedly, my Wild Boar & Chorizo Burger was very nice, but the portion could have been bigger, and the waitress removed our rack of sauces halfway through and gave it to another table, just as I was about to dip in. The meal was redeemed by the expensive desserts, which were very nice, and featured so much cream that I came close to fulfilling the name of the restaurant, but overall I felt disappointed. Although on the plus side, the painfully slow service meant that the forty quid I spent worked out at a reasonable hourly rate.

It also gave H plenty of time to bond with Toby...



He was about to slap her in the face for tickling him too much, but other than that, they're good friends.

Amelie's in St Leonards today, being forcibly babysat to allow me and Lisa a bit of adult social time. Unfortunately word has reached us that she's currently speeding back along the coast with her feet off the pedals...


She's likely to be delayed by every ice cream kiosk between Hastings and Brighton, but even so, it means we have, at best, three hours to head away from her in the other direction, and meet our favourite Worthing-based couple for lunch. Not this couple. But this one. We want to know how our third granddaughter's getting on. Although H's husband is going to be there too.

We've got a table booked for 1 o'clock at The Swallow's Return. Or The Gag Reflex, as I like to call it. It's the only pub I know which is named after the act of vomiting. But I'm sure the food's very nice. Assuming you can keep it down...

I spent today doing a set of mandatory NHS training courses designed to help me avoid hospital infections, fire deaths, fatal accidents and lawsuits, the highlight of which was the trainer who appeared to be wearing the Pope's red shoes. I presume Benedict must have put them on eBay.

But that aside, I'd just like to log the fact that I've branched out into tree photography...


Careful observers might twig that there's something missing there. It's where we get the word 'truncated'.

I actually took that photo on Sunday, but sub-zero temperatures froze my brain and I forgot about it for five days. The playground where Amelie and I chilled out with some cold food is next door to the primary school we hope she won't be starting at in September. They're divided by a chain link fence which is topped with barbed wire to deter any child who might feel tempted by the sight of fun. And attached to the fence is that tree. Or the remains thereof.

I don't know how long the fence has been there, but it's clearly long enough for a sapling to have grown up next to it, and actually begin to swallow it up. Which, to an untrained botanist like myself, seems quite remarkable. I might be called Gardner, but I didn't know trees could do that.

The tree has now been felled, but three of the branches were fused so successfully with the fence, that they've had to leave them suspended in place...


That's a bit of evidence from special branch, and this is the captain's log...


Now that I know trees possess the ability to absorb metal, my mind's spinning with the possibilities. I only need to plant an acorn next to a girder, and I'll have steel-reinforced timber for the world's strongest log cabins. Dragon's Den, here I come.