This will hurt me...

I am thinking of entering Ezra in the 100-metre smile at the upcoming Commonwealth Games. Do you think that he has a chance?

Humility prevents me from saying that I have the most handsome children going around, so I won't say it. Obviously, I can't stop anyone else from saying it, however... I was thinking about having a caption competition, but don't have a prize. Is anyone interested in some old cassette tapes?

I think Henry looks here like a young, beardless Castro with a pencil instead of his cigar. How about a young and angry Norman Mailer? Perhaps a caption competition is in order. Can you tell me what he's saying?

I stumbled across this image on whilst strolling on the Information Superhighway the other day and can’t decide whether it delights or repulses me. The notion of an aged Colonel Sanders personally hand feeding broads with bouffants is an interesting one, and I wish that I had more information regarding the circumstances behind this photograph. Now, if you happen to recognise the foxy lady nibbling on the good Colonel’s juicy leg, or you know something about this whole state of affairs , I’d very much appreciate your contribution. Moreover, I’d like launch a welcome all comers caption competition in the absence of an accurate analysis of the events above. Your prize? Well, what prize could be greater than the enhanced self esteem that comes with trouncing the opposition in a meaningless game? [I dunno, a holiday, car or something...] If anyone can think of a prize that doesn't involve me, you know, having to post stuff in the mail or something, I'm open to suggestions. May...

Henry and I were doing our usual Saturday morning playgroup thing, and after a spot in the sandpit and a little splashing in some buckets full of water, I challenged him to a little duel. Essentially, we had a Liszt off . If you're not familiar with the term, it involves a little competitive tournament whereby willing contestants demand their opponents deliver their own interpretation of the work of the great Franz Liszt. Obviously, Henry and I are great fans for Herr Liszt, and often throw witty little Lisztisms (as we like to call them) back and forth when we're shooting the breeze. Yet it is the Liszt off that really counts. With the sort of temerity that renders most of my chess games brief, I threw Transcendental Etude No.5 ("Feux follets") at the recently turned two year old, figuring that his short wing span and much smaller fingers would render any comeback over before it began. How wrong I was. Bravely, he announced that it was his intention (the audacity )...

No bile and venting today, despite another night's interrupted sleep, it has been a pretty good day thus far. Henry and I mastered a number of new bits of playground equipment, and Ezra slept. Note the little snick on Ezra's eyebrow there, courtesy of a stinging right jab from his brother. He still hasn't mastered the art of keeping the gloves up at all times. He'll learn. So yesterday was the day that Ezra and Henry finally matched up. That is, Ez arrived nineteen days earlier than his due date, and Hen was twelve days overdue. Although I am skeptical about the lack of scientific rigidity that informs due dates, it struck Jen and I as an appropriate time to reconsider the differentials in size between the imperial toddler and his little brother. And wouldn't you know it, the big weigh in confirmed that Ezra is exactly the same weight as Henry at birth. It seems that the non-stop eating has done him good, gaining one-and-a-half kilos since birth. Time will tell whet...