All that hacking into walls and floors has awakened a malevolent spirit from his eternal slumber in the dark dungeons of the Bartlog estate. At night he silently floats up, passing floors and walls as if they're not there. Then he closes his cold, ash-white bony fingers around Mrs.B's alarm clock and changes the waking-up time. First it was just a couple of minutes, but this morning he made us get up at six o'clock.

Worst of all, it took us - or rather my sweet balloon-belly - a full ten minutes to realise we still had an extra half hour of sleep before us. So with much mental swearing we returned to bed.

Mrs.B accused me of having reset the alarm clock. Seriously, does she think a full-time semi-professional morning hater like myself would turn back the alarm just for the heck of it? She's the only one that ever touches that alarm. So there's only one conclusion:

We have a poltergeist in the house.

Today, Mrs.B is exactly 20 weeks pregnant, according to the gynaecologist. How she knows when exactly we played 'hide-the-salami' is a mystery to me. Maybe she goes around at night and peeps through the windows of her clients. I don't know.

Anyway, everything is fine with the baby. We decided not to ask whether it's a boy or a girl, and so far neither my wife nor myself has spontaneously burst into flames out of sheer curiosity. Of course, the gynaecologist is all knowing smiles when we speculate what it's going to be.

I hope it's a baby girl, if not now then the next time, or the next time, or the next time. I'll put five-story bunk beds in every room of this house if I have to!

I was taking Wolf to bed the other night. He was doing his usual stalling routine of drinking-peeing-kissing-gathering his toys-drinking again-poo poo-kissing again etc.

He took two of his toys cars, than halfway up the stairs he decided to 'let them sleep' in the living room. When we were about to go up again, he changed his mind another time. So I got fed up, and took him in my arms to carry him to bed. He screamed and yelled and wanted me to let him go and fetch his cars.

And then he bit me in the shoulder.

Not just a little nip! No, he bit me like a starving tyrannosaur would attack a 4x4 full of cute little Hollywood children.

At this point, I would like to say that I remained calm and dignified and started an open dialogue with my son explaining him that he'd hurt me and that this was socially unacceptable behaviour.

But I didn't.

So I did my very best while reading his bed-time story, with extra sound effects and much kissing afterwards to show that, yes, I love him dearly.

I've been very busy at work the last couple of weeks. And during the weekends, I spend every available minute tinkering in the new bathroom. Plaster, paint, cement and sawdust is flying everywhere, but despite my best efforts, the end is still not near - although it does start to look something like a bathroom instead of a Neanderthal cave in bad need of a refurbishment.

When I'm not working on the bathroom, I'm hauling old bricks and blocks of cement out of the garden. The mountain range of debris is gone now, but there are still stacks of pavement tiles against the back wall and Mrs.B is pestering me more and more because she wants them gone so she can plant her new ivy plants. She did forget however that there's still pavement where all the rubble was, so that's some more tiles for me to break out and evacuate.

And then of course there is shopping to do, and food to be prepared, and some cleaning. We also have new babies to see, friends to visit, family to see, etc. It seems like Mrs.B writes a new social appointment on the calender each night.

I know I'm stressed because when I do have a calm moment - somewhere between 9.30 and 10.30 in the evening - I can't get my mind to shut down. Thoughts keep whirling through my head and I have frequent panic attacks because I haven't done this or that yet (had one just now - must not forget to fill in an application for a visa for Congo). At night I dream of plastering walls, correcting project accountancy, installing baths, programming, removing debris, and so on, and so on.

And the most annoying thing is that this is all because of activities at work and at home that have been going on for months and that will continue for months to come.

Maybe I should try hard drugs. Or give alcoholism a go. That's a solution, right?

Wish list:

• Two new couches
• Garden table with six chairs
• New bike for Mrs.B
• 24-70mm f2.8 zoom lens with image stabilisation (for me, obviously)
• Camera/laptop back-pack
• Chandelier for the living room
• New toilet for the bathroom
• Cupboards for the bathroom
• Computer case with quiet fans
• Adventure tower with swing and slide for Wolf, for in the garden
• ...

That money will be gone soon, I guess...

Wolf has the chicken pox. I'm told that this is a good thing, because if you don't get it at an early age, you will suffer much more when you catch the infection as an adult.

I disagree. Now we have to get up each night to put drops of that red disinfectant stuff on his pox and cuddle him and calm him down and read him bedtime stories, only to restart the whole procedure thirty minutes later. If he's grown up, he'll be able to tend for himself and we'll have a quiet night.

Although we thought on a number of occasions that Wolf would get it, because on of his buddies at the daycare or at school had it, we didn't see it coming this time. Last Friday I took him to the doctor because he was coughing like a Russian diesel engine that comes to life after a harsh Siberian winter on the open steppes. But then the doc said it was just a mild infection in his throat.

Incidentally, on that very occasion Wolf managed to crap in his pants just moments before we saw the doctor. So in addition to his cough, he smelled like a tank of manure in the blazing sun.

Anyway, according to the doctor (second visit, this time with clean shorts) it will all be over by the end of the week. Which is just as well, or he'll infect the Easter bunny.

Obligatory picture n°1

It was freezing cold in Paris, mammoths and woolly rhinoceros were making a come-back and a glacier was growing on Montparnasse. But my wife HAD to have a milk-shake. Pregnant women - sigh!

We visited Père Lachaise cemetery, because when you visit a beautiful city, cemeteries are of course high on your list of things to see.

...and of course you can't visit Père Lachaise without saying hi to old Jim (obligatory picture n°3758)

If I had a name like that, I'd seek an early grave too

View from the top of the Arc de Triomphe. Poor old wifey, doing hundreds of steps while being pregnant is hard.

The Quartier Latin

See how cold it was? The water in the base of this fountain is frozen solid.

In a trough coup d'état, spring has taken hold of the capital, occupied the television station and set up road blocks on every crossroads in town. The change is so sudden that I'm sweating in my thick winter coat and my three layers of sweaters every time I poke my nose out.

The sudden change in temperature has some funny side-effects. Wednesday was really a nice day, so I decided to make a walk during my lunch break. But when I came at Brussels' Warande park, it was as if someone had organised an impromptu marathon. The whole park was full of people jogging, sprinting or walking at a leisurely pace in sports clothing pretending to make an effort. There were so many joggers that they had to queue at some places, hopping on the spot like maniacs.

It was so funny, these people looked so... desperate to me. I've got a long history of hating to run. I think it's a tragically boring way to get around or to loose some kilos. Whenever I'm late for something or when I have to be some place really quick, I always try to teleport myself by sheer strength of will. Only if this doesn't work (it generally doesn't) I'll resort to running.

So I did the sensible thing and walked to the city centre to bask in the sun on a bench and enjoy the smells, sights and sounds of Brussels in early spring.

When she was pregnant of Wolf, Mrs.B happily explained to everyone that wanted to listen (or not) that she felt great and wasn't experiencing any symptoms of nausea or intestinal unrest or cramps or any of that stuff that other women sometimes experience during the first three months of pregnancy.

Oh hubris!

People strolling around in Antwerp may notice the regular pattern of puddels of slime in some streets and public places. It is a sure sign that my fast expanding bumblebee has been around. For this time she regurgitates more than an owl with a hiccup. What goes down, must come up. It's lunch revisited. And breakfast, and diner, and everything in between.

Furthermore, it's been proven wrong that this is something women only experience during the first three months of pregnancy. She is in her fourth month now, and still puking strong. That baby is kicking against her stomach with all its strength.

Which is great, because every time that kid is annoying she can play the 'do you have any idea how much I suffered when I carried you in my womb' card.

Am there. Doing that.