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I've been meaning to say something here about how, despite the evidence of recent posts, our life is NOT in fact all Victorian morality tales for infants, but then we took a turn for the still-more Dickensian; we all succumbed to colds, which started out with fever & chills, developed into tubercular hacking, and in Peter's case, pneumonia. The whole, dreary, weeks-long episode appears to be on the verge of closing, although with its last gasp it apparently exhaled a noxious miasma of stomach flu upon us.  Dad used to quote a friend who said that having young children at home was like living over an open sewer, and it was amusing at the time. Just at present, however, we are not amused.