I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air, they fly so high, nearly reach the sky, then like my dreams they fade and die.

And what would a two year old’s party be without bubbles? No this is not a philosophical question (although I’d love to see Arthur Schopenhauer’s response), but an accompanying witticism to the above photo. Here you can see the little Aussie battler – decked out in what is at the moment my favourite shirt of his – checking out the bubbles from the extraordinarily large bubble machine that his mother hired for the occasion.

Actually, I reckon that Schopenhauer and his cat would probably echo the thoughts of [the collective] Jaan Kenbrovin, referenced in the lyrics that I’ve borrowed for the title for this one. By crikey it is bleak for a jaunty little waltz and terrace anthem.

Lest I dissolve into a requiem for our collective hopes and dreams, which eventually must culminate in a standpoint that rests on the advocacy of a position that assumes that the negation of an individual’s ultimate desires is an expression of his/her true freedom (and ain’t that a can of worms!), I will just say that the bubbles went down a treat, the cake got eaten, the presents were gratefully received and Henry and Ezra both slept for three hours after the party, affording their loving parents a well earned rest.

HURRAH!