Balmoral

Not a great start to the day. Contrary to popular belief, the miracle cure for my sinusitis isn't having two pink birthday candles stuck into my eyes at 5.50am, but nobody told Ella that, and bless her for trying.

And then she did a wee on her potty and I kicked it and knocked it all over my thongs and all this before 6am; Batman snoozing merrily in some airport hangar on the other side of town.

But things picked up when I saw the colour of the sky and Qantas the cockatoo came squarking for his brekkie and let me hand feed him loads of almonds (in fact, all the almonds in the trail mix), though eyed me suspiciously when I tried to pass off some cashews. He doesn't like cashews, he likes almonds, though Ella's not bothered either way because she's too busy watching Bindi Irwin on ABC kids, who's explaining all about cockatoo behaviour when we've got a real live specimen on the balcony.

When Batman finally flew in, we went out to Paddy's markets at Darling Harbour, where Ella had a joyous time tearing through the aisles of chinese tat, stopping to touch a few Snoopy watches and almost making away with a giant Nemo fish that swam in circles with flashing eyes and a tune I knew I'd never get out of my head. I realised today she has all the makings of a fine pickpocket so am on the look-out for some fingerless gloves and a stripey teeshirt. If there's one thing that's rubbed off from all these yummy Sydney mummies, it's the importance of your children having all the right kit.

And where better to learn the finer points of felony?

This afternoon we headed across the coathanger (wheeeeee!) to Balmoral, a lovely family-orientated beach on Middle Harbour, you know, the sort of place you avoid like the plague before you have children and make a bee-line for afterwards.

The thing about these family-orientated beaches is that there's something comforting about (a) seeing people who look as exhausted as you do and (b) not competing for towel-space with the specimens of youth installed on beaches in the eastern suburbs, all of whom remain incredibly thin despite appearing to eat and slurp their way through their own body weight in smoothies/beer/cake/sandwiches/pies within any given two hour period (and if you think I'm exaggerating, consider my 26 year-old boss, a girl who looks like she might slip down a gap in the pavement at any minute, yet who consumes a breakfast of toasted banana bread and a smoothie whipped up from half a pint of milk, two heaped dessert spoons of Milo powder, a chopped banana, greek yoghurt and two egg yolks every day).

Anyway, we had a lovely afternoon in the sun, though only the lightest of grillings; a very poor show considering the colour of the sky.

nb. Thongs, n, Flip-Flops (Australian)