Ya canna change tha laws o' physics

Back when mum and dad were physics and maths nerds, they learnt all about the second law of thermodynamics.

The second law of thermodynamics is the law of increasing entropy (or the reduction in capacity of something to do work). In nerdy jargon, it states that the entropy of an isolated system which is not in equilibrium will tend to increase over time, approaching a maximum value at equilibrium.

So a melting ice cube is a good example - its not in equilibrium so its entropy is ever increasing as it breaks down/melts.

In laymens terms it means that its easier to break stuff than make stuff. Things will continually disintergrate (lose energy) until they can break no more. Think of entropy as reaching a perfect score if you get total chaos.

So what in the wide world of sports does this have to do with Mike? (Though you may well have already sensed a link...)

Well we dont know what something that facilitates a change in entropy is called, so we hereby suggest to the world of science that from hereon in, it be called a "Michael".

We know it makes sense.

Cos if a full wine glass is sitting on a table within reach, he pulls it off (and then stinks of wine). If a newspaper/phone book/nappy/gas bill is sitting idlely by in a formed state, he'll chew it up into an apparently infinate number of newspaper/phone book/nappy/gas bill bits. If a plastic truck full of blocks is sitting neatly in the corner he'll crash it and spread the blocks as far and wide as physically possible, including under the fridge - then move on.

I think you're getting the picture.

Of course it then requires considerably more work from mum and dad to fix the chaos.
Why cant it be the other way round?
Bloody physics.
Bloody entropy.

Unfortunately one of the ways of destruction he's discovered is via his 6 neat little chompers. Which is kinda ok, until he wants food or just meets another human he hasn't met. Then its all

chomp chomp chomp...

on human tissue.

Thats one thing we'll have the thrash out of him sooner rather than later.

The other learnt activity that is indeed a candidate for a sound thrashing is his rampant mobile phone use. Yes. Seriously.

An old disused mobile phone was tossed into his basket of play things, as it seemed solid and shiny and generally worthless and inedible. He didn't care for it all that much until....
Mistress P looks around and there he is sitting on his play mat, with the phone against his ear, "talking" away into it like he'd been doing it all his life. (Which if he starts now, in percentage terms, will very soon be effectively that.)

We always liked the idea of some comedian (Seinfeld?), about giving mobiles to the homeless so that they didn't seem as odd when they were walking along the street talking to themselves. So maybe that will now be the case with babies to make their mumblings at least appear to have a purpose. Hell, their babbles into a broken handset have gotta make at as much difference to the fate of mankind as 99.9999% of mobile calls...

Oh sod it, lets just implant them from birth and get it over and done with.
"Oh, yours is a Telstra?? My son is a Virgin..."

Ya canna change the laws o' physics.
Or, it seems, youthful desire for telecommunications.



Postscript: Dad says all is forgiven for the mobile use, and indeed will pay all bills (this week) as young Mike, taken to the beach to play in the sand/chase seagulls/watch dad windsurf, clambered up onto dads sail of his own free will, grabbed hold of the boom, and got himself into a pretty darn good laydown-gybe position. Dad was so proud, instead of screaming "he's gunna break my f$*%^in sail!!!", grabbed the camera.
"Lean into the turn a little more son... there ya go!"
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