We couldn’t get into Tiny Flirt’s bedroom tonight. We wanted to check he was sleeping well but the door was jammed. All we could see in the couple of inches it would open was a pair of tiny feet on the floor, hard against the door and stopping us from opening it further. The snoring should have reassured us, but we had to interfere.

It took a couple of minutes but I eventually squeezed into his room and picked him up off the floor. As a reward for tucking him snugly into his bed he howled at me, punched me on the nose and demanded some fruit juice.

Ahhh, bless.

Meanwhile, Little Nutter doesn’t want to sleep any more. Life is far too interesting, so what’s the point? He eventually dozed off in his bedroom doorway, propped up against a toybox so he can easily observe all comings and goings.

Little Madam has started a money-making racket that the mafia would be proud of: tidying and cleaning rooms. It is, as usual, my fault. I offered her 50p a room.

Tonight, the family room is cordoned off with toy traffic cones and she is industriously dealing with the mess of the day. I have already been severely reprimanded for leaving a pair of shoes, a coffee cup and a book lying about – and she has been complaining about the excessive weight of her purse.

And finally, Darling Wifey and I have declared war. We only have one DVD player in our sitting room, and it cannot play Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Simpsons at the same time. Much as I appreciate Buffy’s delightful one-liners, she is not fit to tie the shoelaces of my idol, the Great Philosopher himself: Homer Simpson.