My daughter Sarah, her husband, Michael and my two grand-children are coming to visit and have lunch. Well, actually my daughter and her husband will have lunch. The grand-children are coming to trash the house, play mashes with their food and see what valuable items they can destroy. Breea is four and going to kindergarten. Connor is nearly two and he’s going everywhere; the pantry, the bathroom, the en-suite, behind the lounge suite, he gets his dirty hands all over my precious piano, he leaves a trail of food on the floor wherever he goes and, oh yes, he craps a lot. I’ve never seen anyone crap so much. My study, where I keep the computer, where I do all my writing, Internet banking and browsing,  once my daughter Sarah’s bedroom, is now referred to as the poo room. My wife Joanne, who looks after Connor on Wednesday’s while Breea is at kindergarten and Sarah attends to her School of Dance, always changes his frequently-filled nappy in my study….the poo room. Despite this gross intrusion into my secret world, incredibly, Connor and I are bonding. When I arrive home on Wednesday afternoons after a day driving my taxi, Joanne is exhausted from caring for them.  After a brief rest for me, Connor and I go up to the shops so Joanne can have a break and I buy him a muffin. He likes muffins. Who doesn’t? But by the time we return home, you guessed it…he’s crapped again. It’s bad enough that we now have six rooms of our house dedicated to storing kid stuff, like boxes of toys, cuddly little teddies, match-box cars, plastic boats, a midget tent full of plastic balls that get strewn about the house every Wednesday. But my one place of solace, my thinking room, the one room in the house where I have re-educated myself, nay, re-invented myself, has  now been converted into a storage facility for plastic train lines, battery operated plastic barbecues, and now operates as a part-time poo room for a two-year-old on his periodical visits.