While Kaylene was away at camp and it was possible to use the television for a couple of hours, the other two girls and I watched Transformers: Revenge of The Fallen the other night. Yes, yes, I know: conventional wisdom is that responsible parents don't expose their kids to Michael Bay movies, but I told them it was bad and I figure they're old enough now to start discovering that I tell them these things for a reason.

It doesn't fare well on a second viewing (but still better, I suspect, than Terminator: Salvation would, though I've no inclination whatsoever to put that to the test).

I decided it can be distilled down to maybe three good scenes, all of which consist of Optimus kicking serious Decepticon arse. Shia LaBeouf's scream-like-a-little-girl turn also deserves an honourable mention, because whatever other criticisms can be levelled at that scene - and they're many and justified - he does it so well he makes that one element in the entire scene funny.

Gen's thoughts, watching intermittently from the computer: "Oh my god, is that fight scene still going?" (The dreadful and ill-conceived military set-piece that ate the last quarter of the movie).

Catherine's thoughts: "Please don't ever let me watch that again. There was nothing interesting in it at all."

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... in which my sister will be running 7km in a gorilla suit for the benefit of real gorillas who can't afford the airfare to London to participate. Or something like that.

If you've always secretly longed to run the streets of London dressed as a gorilla in an event with the Bill Oddie stamp of approval, here's your chance to live the dream, albeit vicariously.

Watching Goblet of Fire at my parents' on Saturday night. Harry is waiting to be contacted by his godfather in a scene that makes me wonder how much Gary Oldman managed to get paid for.

Harry hears a noise in the fireplace: "Sirius?"

Mum & I (simultaneously): "I am Sirius, and don't call me Shirley."

Jokingly told the middle child when leaving for work last week that she was in charge until Nana arrived to watch them. It wasn't a heavy responsibility - the teenager was still sound asleep and likely to remain so until well after Mum got there, I was taking the youngest to holiday care, and the worst the birds were likely to do was yell at her.

Middle child was amused.  She was even more amused this week in a similar situation, because when the teenager woke up (before Mum arrived) she asked permission to watch TV.  Fortunately she didn't abuse her power, and allowed the teenager to assume her place as resident couch potato.

Written over my dinner: coffee and Lindt dark chocolate with ginger. I mention this solely to provide sadistic context to what follows.

One of the little secrets parents never talk about openly (much) is that having kids is like having your own set of lab rats with the advantage that they can (sometimes) give you coherent feedback when you experiment on them, and the ethical clearance standards are much lower.

The girls and I have had a long-standing agreement when it comes to things like vegetables: I won't try to make them eat anything that I find personally repellent, and they eat what I give them without a fight. So thus far in their lives they've escaped the two great horrors of my childhood dinners - mint peas, and Brussels sprouts.

But there's been a rising tide of discontent against cauliflower and broccoli lately, and while I've subdued the broccoli complaints by buying a nice shiny steamer and slowly mastering the art of steaming broccoli correctly, the cauliflower grumbles continued unabated. "If you think that's bad," I warned them, "you should try Brussels sprouts."

They were skeptical, and so the challenge was issued: tonight, the girls faced off against the Little Green Balls of Death (and I had to learn hurriedly how to cook them).

I'm oddly disappointed. The middle and youngest children eyed them suspiciously, decided the safest thing to do was to eat them first, and then declared them tolerable but not great.  I sampled one, and was forced to agree. This suggests that either my taste buds have atrophied, or - and this seems vaguely heretical - perhaps I cooked them better than the ones I was fed.

The youngest even went so far as to declare them preferable to that bogeyman of the vegetable world, the cauliflower, so that battle continues. Maybe I'll need to resort to the mint peas after all.

But fortunately all was not lost, because the teenager is a practising, fully-paid-up Drama Queen.

She was the last to sample her single sprout. On the first (and only) bite, she dropped her fork with a clatter, flung her head back from the plate (face contorted in disgust, tossing her hair dramatically) and let out a mighty cry of "EEWWWWWWW!"

We laughed. It's probably scarred her for life and ten years from now she'll be weeping on the therapist's couch as she relives the memory and shame. But we laughed.

And then she cried, because we mocked her pain.

And I'd feel bad about laughing, except, well ... it was just too damn funny not to.

Traumatic night for the teenager. First, there was the $50 worth of calls to mobiles on the phone bill and the discovery that not only is the "my friend kept telling me to call her on her mobile" defense not recognised, but that in the telling-you-what-to-do-stakes, "parent" still trumps "friend". Is now banned from both home phone and mobile until further notice.

Teenager night went further downhill when she tried to tell me there was a note from the school stating it was closed due to swine flu. Very distraught to learn that "in the event of" does not mean "a week off school".

Mouse has mastered the art of building monster nest in which to hide for the winter. Of course, mouse is also monstrously fat and needs a supersized nest.

Lovebirds continue to express disdain for any fresh food other than Granny Smith apples, and have also decided they won't eat any dry food except seed logs and millet spray.  At the same time, they're madly shredding the sandsheets as soon as I put them in the cage, to the extent that I'm considering buying bulk rolls of sandpaper from the hardware store. Have also rediscovered their inner ground parrot and begun constructing this year's winter home on the bottom of the cage.

Budgies appear to be normal, however have begun demanding the rigorous enforcement of their bed time.

Middle child gets marks for correct use of the term hypocrite. Somewhat unfortunate that the subject of her accusation was the teenager, who didn't know what a hypocrite and was unhappy to be enlightened.

Youngest is being disconcertingly agreeable for the most part. She's plotting something. Probably how to dispose of me when I become too much trouble.

Youngest turned 10 today. I'm wondering quite where the last decade went.

I no longer have a back yard, so much as a Squelch.  If this rain persists, I may need to begin planning for a Murloc cull.

On the other hand, having just done the washing, I can state that my children appear to be about as domesticated as Murlocs, so possibly it's too late.

Youngest child now ensconced happily in front of Alice Cooper live DVD. That, and the middle child's fondness for The Who, almost make up for the oldest's execrable taste in music.

It's the evening for the girls to learn valuable, if basic, lessons in working with computers:

• don't use your USB drive as the sole source of your work;
• save your document when you create it and as you work on it, rather than wait until you think you've completed everything.

Children in a bad mood don't react well when you lose patience and do an impression of what they sound like, it seems...

One of the pecuniavores is angry because she spent all her fortnight's pocket money in one hit last week, wants more now, and has discovered (again) that the First Bank of Dad does not offer credit more than a week in advance.

And now I also get to remind her that bedtime is 9pm tonight.

This will be neither pretty, nor dignified.

Sugar and spice and everything nice my arse. Little girls are every bit as feral and vile as their little boy counterparts.

I swear I'm going to stock up on soda water, so the next time one of my American-speaking children asks me for "a soda" I can give them one and teach them value of learning the Queen's English.

Introduced the girls to the existence of the Goddamn Batman this morning. Hilarity ensues.

Hopefully this doesn't mean that their school will shorly be full of children growling "Are your retarded? I'm the goddamn Batman!"

"Are you sure you have nothing in here that needs washed?"

"I'm sure."

"What about those school socks?"

Oldest child professes ignorance of socks' existence, and starts guiltily on seeing them lying in plain sight. She picks them up, sniff tests them and then staggers back reeling.

This is why I cannot leave it to the girls to actually put stuff in the washing basket.

"[A boy in my class] called me an Emo."

"You can't be an Emo.  You laugh too much and you're too noisy."

"I was hitting my wrist with the edge of a ruler and it left all of these red lines that looked like cuts."

"Oh... okay."

Somewhere along the line Monday night turned into TV night for the girls and I.  It started a couple of months back with Mythbusters, which the girls rapidly acquired a taste for even if they don't always follow quite what's going on all the time.  Adam and Jamie are a big hit with them.  Then SBS stopped showing it, and replaced it with Top Gear.  There was a week or two of uncertainty, but now this has also become regular family viewing.  Again, I'm not sure the girls are actually following everything that's going on, but (as with Mythbusters) they enjoy the interaction between the presenters and have a strong appreciation of the show's general silliness.

Which is why tonight saw the four of us killing ourselves laughing at the team's efforts to build their own amphibious vehicles.

They're going to grow up strange, I know.

Amazing what a difference a week can make - this time last week I was feeling disproportionately morose after a weekend where the sum of the parts proved to be greater than the sum of the whole.  Saturday afternoon with belegdel  and cynthaea, Sunday afternoon seeing Pirates of The Caribbean: At World's End with the girls and Mum, and WoW scattered throughout much of the rest of the weekend: I really shouldn't have been feeling as dismal as I was on Monday, even if it was a Monday.

But a lot can happen in a week - and even more can be made sense of - and now last Monday seems worlds away (and not just because it seemed to be full of meetings).  Of course it helps immensely that the weekend just gone felt more like I was on holiday than just on the standard two days break between working weeks.

Friday night, after buying Iain's birthday present (some year I'll find him something that doesn't make me cringe; this year wasn't it, but it was a step up from last year's talking Ann Coulter doll) I went against my anti-social instincts and took up a late invitation to an evening of non-RPG gaming and got to show off my hidden talent for silly sketches in a game of Cranium, and was roundly abused for consistently wiping out myself and the same player in Scattergories.  After those successes I'm not sure I'll be invited back anytime soon, but it was an entertaining night.

Saturday was largely spent at Mum & Dad's for Iain's birthday, catching up with family.  The girls were happy enough to alternate between talking to people, taking turns on Nana's computer and arguing over who got which seat in front of the TV which, unlike ours, still has cable and therefore lots of annoying cartoons.  I made a late dash out to catch Shrek The Third (where the law of diminishing returns is kicking in with a vengeance), and returned in time to sit down and watch Doctor Who, the first of the David Tennant episodes I've actually seen because the box set for the 2006 series appears to be sold out everywhere, dammit.  I was worried that after Eccleston's Doctor I wouldn't like Tennant's as much (as I was about Davison after Baker after Pertwee), but it looks like the Doctor continues to be in safe hands for now.  Finally, managed to coax Catherine into talking about some things she was worried about, and convincing her to keep talking to me about any further worries.  I'm tempted to proclaim myself "Wonder Parent", but it helps enormously that I have bright kids with a strong ability to reason even when they're still at the mercy of all their childhood impulses.  Talk to them the right way, and they'll (eventually) respond with what you need.

Sunday was more sedate.  Marina came home earlier than expected, but spent most of the day in front of her computer.  So did I, for that matter, but also fitted in washing, chatting with the girls and getting their new WoW characters run up (along with some other WoW housekeeping), and giving assistance where necessary with their baking efforts.  Rounded out the day by being organised enough to do washing-up in the evening (something I really don't enjoy - partly because the bench is at just the wrong height - but I always feel so much better for having a clear bench afterwards), getting clothes put away (depriving the cat we don't have of her nest, but preventing all my clothes from being covered in cat hair again) and organising stuff for this morning.

It feels like there was far more than two days in there, which probably isn't a bad way for weekends to be, as it increases the buffer between working weeks.