This will hurt me...

Here are my two very favourite sons enjoying the afternoon sunshine in our living room. Renowned sale vieux homme - and one-time collaborator with George Gershwin, Irving Berlin and the Vichy regime - Maurice Chevalier used to sing Thank Heaven for Little Girls . What I want to know is, who do we have to thank for little boys?

Here he is, showing off the sort of linguistic skills that puts even David Beckham to shame!

Here is a special Good Friday good sunrise over the Derwent looking east. So it is Good Friday again. I love Good Friday. You have to wonder what old Jesus was thinking when he got up that morning. Did he think that he was going to have a good Friday? Was he disappointed? I would be. I have been explaining the concept of Easter to Henry. "There was this guy, and some chickens, and some rabbits. There was some argument about something. I think that it was over chocolate. And eggs. This guy's father wasn't happy. It had something to do with fish as well. Chocolate fish eggs maybe. Anyway, the rabbit eventually must have won and this chicken got nailed to this guy. His father wanted to prove a point. Because he sinned. Or something. The father sounded like a bit of an arse actually. Nailed them to a cross I think. Something like that. So we eat chocolate eggs delivered by rabbits in bonnets and there's nothing good on TV." I don't understand it either.

Here you can see Henry's very best friend just last night. Yes, it is the moon . So Theme Thursday is upon us again and the theme actually has nothing whatsoever to do with anything lunar, space, sky or suchlike. The theme - as I am sure that you have guessed already - is EGG . Egg?!?! Yes EGG . You see, when I look up at a nice moon like that, in a clear dark sky, I think of the precious little EGG that cute little babies are before that filthy little tadpole appears and turns into a baby. I have this whole notion of the egg sitting there in the womb uterus cervix pancreas – wherever it is that eggs sit in a lady's tum – and it sits there and glows like the moon in a dark sky. It’s a very romantic notion of a lady's reproductive system I think, and doesn’t involve blood or amniotic fluid. Maybe any stray stars can be platelets of something... Anyway, at some point I imagine my two young fellows were once lovely little moons eggs lurking within their mum, waiting all ...

It's that damned robot again. This time he's delivering letters!

This is the concrete bunker that leads through to the carpark in Salamanca Square, which is built into an old quarry. I think that it looks suitably World War Two. On occasion I drift into moments of Zen-like prescience, peace and composure. Of course, these moments represent diversions from the reality of the daily grind of waking up, rustling up Weet-Bix for Henry, shower, dress, bus, work, lunch, work, bus, rustling up Henry dinner, washing children, sleep, rinse, repeat. What I want to know is whether Zen is fulfilment or exertion? Permanent or transitory? Arrival or journey? Would we want it to be permanent?

Here is the little bloke threatening to crawl. Jennifer has a very narrow definition of crawling, and reckons that he can't. I am a more positive and creative chap, and am firmly of the opinion that Ezra has more than met the criteria of a crawl. Of a fashion. Note: I have had word from the chief steward, and Ezra has weighed in this morning at a solid 10.12 kilograms. That's a fair chunk of beefcake!