Sheet, stairs and broadsheet.

1. The sound of my mother and Alec playing a giggly game with the sheet on the washing line. Afterwards she says: "I'm afraid it might smell a bit of peanut butter now, from his hands."

2. The sound of my mother sweeping our stairs.

3.  "There's something nice for you in the paper," says Nick. The FT has printed my letter. We reckon that's probably the largest audience a piece of my writing has ever had. It wasn't anything too earth-shaking: I just jumped into the debate about whether the esteemed organ should drop the broadsheet format. (In summary, a resounding NO, because two broadsheets fit nicely under our highchair, and Alec likes to identify distinguished men as 'Dad-dad'. I was very pleased to see that the headline, A wise child knows its own father, is a quote from the Odyssey.) Here's a link, but you have to register.