DISCOVERED that me and Freddie Mercury have more in common than a first name.

And no, I haven't grown a 'tash.

During a particularly energetic portion of this week's Piccolo music gathering, we were required to stop at a second's notice and stand still.

It was at this point throughout the song that I chose to adopt Freddie's signature air-punching pose. It was uncanny.

But I don't know why I'm surprised. Everyone knows me and Hugh are the champions.

For a while there, I thought the parentals were discussing the merits of upgrading our in-house televisual and sound system preferences.

I had hoped this would result in a change to the inked-in law stating that under no circumstances will one Freddie T have a telly in his bedroom before the age of eight (and even then, there is only a commitment to discussion of the idea).

We ran our socks off at the MetroCentre soft play (not literally mind you, barefootedness is sternly frowned upon over there).

I do love that place though. It's so loud and screamy and there's always a chance you could make your escape through the gate which kids can open by themselves.
Strangely, mum's not so keen.

1. Driving

Racing battery powered cars and bikes round a 15m track is very cool, but they lack a little bit in the horsepower department, which is why on my 17th Birthday I'm going to be asking Mum and Dad for a Dodge Viper. They can't say I didn't warn them... and just to be clear, a red Lupo will not do.

It was prompted by the surprise departure of a black and white footballer, who'd decided he wanted a bit of colour in his life. Red, to be specific.

Mum reckoned he should have stayed true to his monochrome roots, particularly as that is exactly what he said he'd do a few days shy of Halloween.

Ok so this is fairly predictable, but I'm not Les Dennis and I didn't need to survey a 100 people to know what the top answer was.

Last year me and Dad (sorry, Dad and I) built a 6ft tall belter in Heaton Park, with arms, buttons, dark eyes, a jaunty smile and even some yellow shoes courtesy of Jimmy, our talking cocker spaniel.

By my reckoning turnout was approximately (I didn't have my abacus) 83% down on your average week, but what we lacked in numbers, we more than made up for in fervour.

And so we should. It was the last week of 'normal' songs before the festive dust gets sprinkled on the songbook and they break out the Christmas selection box.
Bring on the jingle bells ladies.

I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I'm playing the pivotal part of Joseph, so I've had to take things rather more seriously than I'd hoped.

Learning the lines, learning the songs, learning to cope with a fancy dress costume that has nothing resembling a cape or wings... it's all requiring a lot more concentration and effort that I'm used to.

In the middle of the night, I offered Dad the best description I could. I knew scary eyes and a stripey cardigan were involved. As morning dawned, I was able to offer a much more detailed rundown of his characteristics...

Simply add a pair of scary eyes to the pile of clothes in the corner and there you have your photofit, Dad. Do your best to catch him, I can't have another night like that.

Ever since I was in newborn threads, I've very much enjoyed sampling the
variety of atmospheres, smells and - as I got older - menus of both the
pubs in our immediate vicinity and those further afield (which funnily
enough, are usual in the middle of a-field).

Go figure.

I haven't yet had the pleasure of playing the game competitively... up
until the age of three, you're apparently more likely to excel at musical
bumps, musical chairs and other party games which don't require the
discipline of staying still.

Aside from being able to take a 75% accurate inventory of my extremities,
and get through three-quarters of my favourite counting book without
assistance, Hide and Seek is now firmly on the recreational menu at Telfer
Towers.

Obviously, the tight timeframe in force limits the sophistication of the
hiding places available to the parentals ... but I've told them that's
absolutely no excuse for laziness.

Apparently Sam has gone to see the doctor after feeling a little under the weather.

Elvis (his tank companion) is trying to do enough scoffing and flapping for the both of them, but it's not the same.

It'll be OK though. Mum has assured me that he'll be back, looking almost like his old self in the not-too-distant. Phew.

I had an inkling that any future pocket money I was due would be docked at some stage... I heard mutterings about something called IVF payback: the existence fund.

But now the news has reached me that my being here currently offers a tangible contribution to the household balance sheet, the knowledge this won't always be the case has got me in a bit of a panic.