Julia says…well, nothing, really. She drinks and sleeps with a peace of mind that I haven't felt in two years. Meet my baby sister, Julia Hendrikje ter Mors, who was born on April 29 at 11.44 in the morning, Lisserbroek Central Time.

This means, among other things such as thick bags appearing under my parents' eyes, that I am now officially a Big Brother, like my father was before me. I'm not really sure what my key areas of responsibility will be in this job, but I imagine it involves lending a hand and keeping her safe from boys.

Luckily, no boys with dodgy earrings and motorcycles have appeared at the front door, but I'm prepared for every eventuality. For instance, I've confiscated the modest-sized guard bear that my uncle brought for Julia. That ought to teach them. In fact, this is probably why they have taken their mopeds elsewhere.

As I'm also Julie's media adviser, you will see her website, email address, Facebook page, etcetera etcetera, launch soon. I will get around to that shortly. For now, I have a sister to protect.

Cheers,
Mark.

I turned twenty-four yesterday. At least, by my count. In a display of some very questionable mathematics, I actually went from just-over-twenty-three-and-a-half to…two. Apparently, there is some invisible barrier you pass through unnoticed about eight seasons after you first see the light of day. From one moment to the next, your parents no longer refer to your age in terms of the number of lunar cycles you have seen come and go: "Mark is eighteen, nineteen, twenty months" to "Mark is two". This division by a dozen must be a trick used by old people to seem younger than they really are. I do see how "almost thirty-four" sounds better than "over four hundred". I suppose this means, by logical deduction, that I am now considered old, old enough to lie about my age, anyway. Great.

I think the only remedy is to refuse to lie. So make no mistake about it: I'm twenty-four, that number made cool by Jack Bauer in the TV series of the same name! And, to use another age trick employed mostly by women, I will just stay twenty-four.

Daddy (405) and me (24) at my birthday party on Sunday

The great thing about having such a so-called birthday, is that you get loads of selflessly donated, wrapped toys known as presents. Actually, come to think of it, this is a good excuse to have more such days. Perhaps I will turn twenty-five after all in a few weeks from now.

The five-car-in-one toy Grandpa got me. Batteries included, so plenty of opportunities for the toy to generate light and music when Mom and Dad step on it in the dark.

Of course, I was familiar with the concept of the present. They usually present themselves just after my auntie Cindy comes off a plane from some faraway place. In fact, while I write this from my bed, as my parents are under the misguided impression that the lack of sound from the baby monitor is evidence of me sleeping, she's actually on a plane to Shanghai, China to spend a week there that coincides with the Chinese Formula One Grand Prix. By coincidence. Apparently.

Anyway, Cindy has been very good to me, getting me lots of interesting books on The Big Barn Dance, the Jungle Jive and other literary works that have provided me with very useful insights into her American culture. Even better, those books have buttons and batteries too, for more sound effects of animals such as elephants and cows followed by muffled curses when I leave them at strategic locations in Daddy's path before going to bed to allegedly sleep.

But I digress. The reason that I labelled this post Two anyway and not Twenty-Four had nothing to do with copyright claims from Kiefer Sutherland. It's because of the announcement of some news that some of you may already know, but I have some indispensible, additional information on how to stay abreast of the latest developments.

I will soon have a baby sister!

There's no denying it. It was proven by Philips Ultrasound. Mommy's still trying to hide her under her shirt, but she's not fooling anybody.

Those of you who consider yourselves part of the inner circle around my family – if the news above is really news to you, draw your own conclusions – will already know this. What no-one knows, yet, however, is that Sis and I have come up with a digital means to keep you posted. When Mommy was sleeping, I managed to slip her a cell phone. You don't want to know the details of how I did that, you really don't. All you need to concern yourself with, is that she's on Twitter and she will keep you up-to-date on what she's doing at @thebirth2011.

I had advised her to start a blog and actually construct some proper sentences, but she said blogs are 'sooo 2009'. Also – and this actually makes sense – she can't type very much because the only phone I could give her was some discarded touch-screen iPhone-lookalike phone that my Dad discarded in frustration. You can't really write proper prose on those unless you have very small fingers. Which she does. Anyway, she also needs to save her battery, because there's no power outlet inside Mom. And I'm not about to run a power line. Mom might notice.

I expect to see her within the next few weeks, and get my phone back. The official due date is May 5, but you know women. It will all depend on the time it takes to do hair and make-up.

Cheers,
Mark.

They say there's nothing to it. This applies, apparently, to both ladies with an attitude and fellows who are in the mood. It never feels as if there's nothing to, it, though. Perhaps this is because of all the props – what you don't see is that behind every picture, there's an elaborate array of lamps, tripods and other paraphernalia. And then I haven't even mentioned the people making funny faces, as if striking a pose themselves (albeit a pretty loony one!), in an attempt to make you look in their direction. I'm a firm believer in candid photos, where you don't have to strike anything. The pictures are just taken while you use your precious time to go about your business. But sometimes, for example to promote your new clothing or fragrance line, you need the studio fuss. And then, contrary to the song I've been lamely stealing lyrics from, you should not move your body, but stand perfectly still – sometimes for as long as 1/125^th of a second! As if I have nothing better to do.

The results, I must admit, are nice, though. Gone are the backdrops of household furniture, colourful, fluffy toys or the striking orange of my Bugaboo. The pose you struck is captured forever against a backdrop of black or white nothingness. These are the pictures that will be very useful when I win my first Formula One world title in a few years, when the TV network does a quick overview of my life so far; the road to success, as it were. I'm not sure I'd want Pooh Bear or Woozle, the big blue dog, to prominently feature in the background.

Some have said – most of them were women – that they don't like to have their picture taken because it brings out their wrinkles. I have no clue what they are talking about. One thing that is somewhat problematic, is the fact that you can't argue with what a picture reveals. Sure, there's Photoshop, but even so there was no way out for me when the picture above revealed what had happened to the key to the wardrobe. When Dad couldn't get to his clean socks in the morning (I will not relay the slightly distasteful tale of how he wore yesterday's pair to get around this supply problem), I was caught, on film, with the smoking gun in my hand. I tried that other song, It wasn't me, but the smelly-sock-wearing authorities didn't buy it.

So instead of having my own picture taken, I prefer to take the camera myself. Mirrors and self-timers notwithstanding, this is the most reliable way to ensure that you're not in the picture yourself, with whatever you've stolen not quite far enough up your sleeve. It makes for very aesthetically pleasing images, too, with the obvious exception of certain members of the Odourous Footwear Department.

"Mark, put that camera down, son! It costs more than a thousand diapers!"

"So proud of how good my one-and-a-half year old is with shutter speed and aperture!"

"I'm not opening my eyes if you keep flashing at me! (purr)"

Maybe I'll publish some pictures on the cover of a magazine. Marlon Brando, Jimmy Dean. And my Dad. Now if only I could remember the name of the mag. Dope? Smoke? Vote? It was something like that.

Cheers,
Mark.

Just over a week ago, I returned from my trip to Normandy, in France. You may wonder why an infant of my stature would travel to these parts, as it is well known that it's the rainiest region of the country. This is a problem, because the parents require a lot of attention when they can't play outside. I decided to park them in front of the TV.


Apart from the weather, Normandy has a lot going for it. For example, they have many cows there. Cows are very importany for us babies, because they provide milk. Just like mommies. Only different. My Dad likes cows, too. And mommies.


Because of this rural nature, though, there is a problem: how to get there. The infrastructure isn't all that, when compared to, let's say, Los Angeles. (that said, there are fewer traffic jams as well - except when there are cows in the road, of course) A popular way to access the territory is from the beach. Thousands of Americans did that long before I was born and even before they invented the amphibious Bugaboo. Some came even all the way from LA. I liked this time-proven concept, so here I am, with Mom, on Juno beach, which is nice and accessible and not as steep as some of the other coasts.


Captain Clumsy, always the frequent flyer, was too lazy to walk. Instead, he decided to hitch a ride with the 101st airborne division. Very true to form, he made a complete monkey's breakfast out of that.


Daaad...come on, stop hanging around. You're embarrassing me! Now why do I think I will need that sentence a lot in future...? Cheers, Mark.

You will have seen my name on more and more buildings, trucks, advertisements and television programs. You may have wondered: how does he do it? Run all those companies, drink milk, eat mango, walk, fill diapers, maintain a blog, direct and play in movies and still manage to sleep 12 hours a day? The thing is, you see, I haven't. Reluctant to give up on the milk, mango and diaper-related activities, I'm sorry to say that I've let the blogging and movie-making suffer under the tremendous stress of running a global business. My creative staff and I therefore decided that it would be a good idea to combine the two: make a movie about the business! CEOs do it all the time, you know, creating videos to 'communicate' important-sounding messages to their employees or shareholders. They mean 'broadcast', of course. Communication is when information also flows back. But anyway.

The problem with these webcasts is, that almost without exception, they are mind-numbingly boring to those who don't have a business degree themselves. They are dry speeches mostly about numbers, sometimes up to half an hour long, by men in suits and ties, whose age is in the midlife crisis bracket. The camera action is absent: it's like the director put the camera on a tripod and then walked away. I wanted to give you a more dynamic overview of my portfolio of companies, and how I built them from the ground up – and all that in just under 17 minutes!

There is one thing I need to point out before you click on the inviting Play button below. A speech about the balance sheet, in which one discusses which entire departments to fire next using phrases like 'adapting to the market' and 'rationalizing our organization', take about that same half hour to make. You switch on the camera, you talk (trying to ignore the director yawning and walking out ) and then you switch the camera off. Not so with this movie. It took about half a lifetime – literally. Because I had to fit it into my busy meeting and travel schedule, it took a record eight months to make! The first footage was shot on December 23, 2009 and the last, last Sunday. (notice how businessmen work weekends)

Due to the increasing effort it takes to adapt to the organization and continuously rationalize the market, it's unlikely that I will ever make a movie of this magnitude again. If you look at the statistics, you will understand why. 17 minutes of film in 8 months' time equates to 14 hours' work per minute. If we were to make a 90-minute feature film, that would take about 3.5 years – I'll be in college by then and my Dad will have lost most of his hair! (oh no, wait…)

The movie also loses some of its relevance when some of the events have taken place last year. For example, you'll see some businesses that I've already sold since we shot the movie. The fast food chain, for instance, got so much flak from people who only drink milk, with all bacteria still very much biologically alive in it, and eat only mangoes, that I got fed up with it. Look: food doesn't kill people. People kill people. In the end, I sold the whole thing to some clown called Ronald.

So enjoy it, because this is the end of an era. From now on, we will only do www.marktermors.com One-Day Shoots: movies that are shot in one day and then edited in one more day. If you watch this last movie to the end, you will realize this will cost me about 2.7 million euros in profit before tax. This is an acceptable expense to give you, my viewers, some insight into the daily life of an infant mogul. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe the New York market just opened.

P.S. This is just the Standard Definition version of the movie. The HD version won't upload yet, for some reason. I will post an update when it does.

Cheers,
Mark.

As the last members of a generation go away, the next generation is already arriving. This is how it's gone for millions of years. The Circle of Life. I had wanted to make a movie out of that, with some lions maybe, but my auntie Maria informed me that it had already been done. They put a singing warthog in it, apparently. Like that is ever going to be a success!

Very early Thursday morning, my auntie Wan-Ruei gave birth to my second niece: Bianca Anna.

This little girl, Sofia's sister, was only available for model photography while sleeping. This could be the same sensible attitude I took when I was her age. In the first year of babyhood, one has to deal with a lot: shopping for women's underwear, learning how to drive and catching the odd criminal. It's therefore smart to take a nap while you can.

Reality could be more sinister, though. It's not entirely unthinkable that her dad, uncle Adriaan, is deliberately keeping her sedated because of her fierce temper. Why do I suspect this? Well, the only other person I know with the initials B.A. – in his case, they stand for Bad Attitude – is sedated all the time.

Who knows, maybe mom and dad want to take Bianca Anna on a plane ride and they put something in her hamburger! Come on, girl, snap out of it!

Come on, smile for me, little babywaby. Coozie coozie coozie! Is the little babywaby so sleepyweepy…?

Pookiepookiepookie…OH NO! Listen to me! I talk like an adult! OH NOOOO!

Cheers,
Mark.

My Dad just told me my great-grandmother is gone. 'Gone where?' was my obvious question. 'To a better place' was all Dad could say before his eyes got misty.

Apparently, when people don't wear diapers for a very long time, they go away. Now Ida, my great-grandmother, hadn't worn diapers for a very long time. She was 33.937 days old, compared to me with only 474 today. I can see the sense of her economy: at five diapers a day, she must have saved a ton of money!

But seriously, it's actually not funny. I had only met her once, at her birthday last year, where the photos in this post were taken. (A birthday, remember, is when people are a multiple of 12 months old. Gran missed her 93^rd by exactly one month.) And I didn't even have a chance to speak to her properly, because she didn't speak my language yet. That's a little sad. On the other hand, now at least I can't miss our conversations. I'm putting the only picture I have of us together here on the site, so that when you get lonely, you can look at it sometime.

Why you had to go to Better Place, though, is a mystery to me. I Googled it and it's either some business in California, or a clearly not-so-trustworthy real estate agent on the east coast. I guess that in the next 33.500 days or so I still have a lot to discover and learn to understand.

Goodbye, Gran. So long.

Mark.

As any infant at the top of an international enterprise, I tend to travel a lot. I don't have any patience for the long queues of badly dressed holidaymakers who hold no frequent flyer status at all and who are actually so nervous about their one flight a year that they actually show up the prescribed three hours before take-off – only to spend them waiting in line. I have my people check me in on my Dad's smartphone, I breeze past the waiting masses, straight to the priority line (which, as you guessed, isn't a line at all) and from there I go to the lounge for a relaxing bottle of milk before the advance boarding call sounds and I get to enter the plane before anyone else. Except for the flight attendants, obviously. There must already be someone on board to serve me drinks or change my diaper, if required.

Unfortunately, the rules have recently changed, it seems. As a rule, I don't like rules. They are obviously constructions devised by rulers, to rule out the possibility that I would think for myself. As if I can't! Rules invariably get in the way of ease of use and common sense. They make you jump through hoops that the designer wanted you to jump through, even if that obviously isn't the simplest way to approach the situation at hand. The end result is the same, but the way to it has just been made a lot less efficient.

The latest rule in travel is, that it's no longer allowed for me to hide in my Dad's overnight bag. This was very convenient and sometimes if he travelled light, I could even bring Tarzan. It saved a lot of effort, because these airports are big places. As I pointed out last week, the fact that I can walk, doesn't mean I always have to.

But noooo, now they want me to have my own passport! I need to hold a piece of paper in my hand that says who I am and what I look like. As if people don't know that! Why don't they just go online and check out my blog? Pieces of paper are so 2008. I wasn't even born then!

But the passport was just the first rule. Inevitably, it led to more rules, specifically concerning the passport photo. And this brings me to my point (and I hear a group of people the length of the Malaga check-in line breathe a sigh of relief: FINALLY!)

You see, I'm the most photographed baby in the world. Cameras seem to follow me everywhere. You'd think I could just slap a cool picture of myself on that passport thing, such as one of these:

Nope. We have rules for that. Rules that say what makes a good passport photograph. Naturally, these do not coincide with what makes a good photograph, period. Basically, what the four-page (!) requirements document describes is how to make the dullest photo in the world, with bland lighting and poor composition. Just to give you a taste of the full document, these are some examples of 'good' photos:

I'll bet you're wondering what the 'incorrect' pictures look like now. Well, that's a disappointment. No pictures of people with the tops of their heads cut off by a short photographer and nobody in a red Indian costume. These are the pictures that are incorrect. Obviously.

But ok, the rules are the rules and it is usually more difficult to work around them, than to just get it over with. I instructed the house photographer to take a picture according to the rules, but that wasn't so easy…

Unfortunately, just when I thought I could get out of the glare of the two improvised, 500 Watt softboxes the photographer had set up to create the required unimaginative lighting, it was discovered that the size of my head was wrong in the photo. Believe it or not, on the 35 x 45 mm photo, the distance between the onset of the ears has to be between 16 and 20 mm. On the third image above, it was…22 mm. Increasing the size of the frame is not allowed and digitally altering the aspect ratio of my head didn't seem like a good idea, either. This is photographers' mumbo jumbo for 'I'm afraid we have to take another photograph.'

Now I hope they don't have a rule against me holding my toothbrush (bottom left), which was only discovered after taking the photograph…

Cheers,
Mark.

Exactly forty-one years ago today, some American bloke got out of a rickety airborne vehicle, largely constructed of tin foil, and made quite a big fuss about it. He immediately blogged about it to his friends down in Houston, which, even I must admit, was pretty progressive in those days. It's a shame the model of iPhone he used had pretty poor image quality and the download bandwidth wasn't all that, either. Skeptics later claimed that Neil (that was the guy's name) made it all up and he'd never been where he said he had. But honestly, if he had faked climbing down a ladder in a Hollywood studio, he would have invested in some proper lighting and Technicolor. Even my Dad doesn't make sorry-looking movies like that!

Or does he? I don't think he was around for Neil's movie, but he sure was here earlier this evening, when I was casually strolling through the living room. If you ask me, I was just taking some small steps to get where I was going without getting my knees dirty for a change. Mankind need not worry about it. Unfortunately, thanks to the grandson of the camera Neil used, July 20 is once more a historic day. At least people will be able to see me clearly in 2051, because I'm walking around in Full HD! Eat that, Neil.

Cheers,
Mark.

It had been a while since my last bath. This is mainly due to the fact that, now I'm a man of a certain age, I don't take baths anymore – that's for babies. It's not like my dad ever takes a bath. He just stands in the artificial rain every morning, now that the weather's improved in the Arctic and there's not so much rain anymore. So I didn't take a bath either, I took a duck.

Everybody knows ducks are associated with cleaning oneself up. All ducks are yellow, except for the Delft blue ones, of course.

Then there is a bread-eating bird that my mom took me to see. It's also commonly called duck, but those are clearly not real ducks, because I can't imagine how they would get you clean. They're not even yellow. Besides, these buggers are pretty aggressive and I wouldn't want to get in the water with them.

Now I know this has been a source of great debate already, but: size matters. Period. The action of cleaning involves getting wet. You're not going to get much action when you have a small duck. Therefore, I have a big duck. The trouble with big ducks is that you have to blow them first before they get really rigid so that you can sit on them. Luckily, I have Captain Clumsy to do that for me.

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I could of course have told the Captain where I keep the pump. But I didn't, because it was more fun watching him inflate the duck without any help. His face turned a beautiful shade of red. He is clearly not a duck himself, nor does he have a duck, as far as I can tell.

Getting clean in the duck was great fun. All my girlfriends now love me again because of my duck and how it made me smell of lavender.

However, the ducking experience (I almost said bathing) was cut short by an unfortunate intervention by the Laws of Physics. The same irritating rule book that makes you fall flat on your face when you forget how to stand, or that makes your hair stand on end when you put your fingers in the power outlet, when mom and dad aren't looking. In this case, it was Archimedes' law that spoiled the fun. You know which one I mean, the one that says that the net upward buoyancy force is equal to the magnitude of the weight of fluid displaced by a body. My body, in this case, which is pretty trim as a result of my frequent workouts (I'm still trying to break my own lap record for crawling around the living room).

In physical terms, this means the weight of my body pressing down on the very buoyant duck (thanks to the Captain's injected breath), was insufficient to keep it down. The duck started to float, turning me in to an inadvertent Captain myself, of my very own duck boat. This was all fine with me – I've never owned a yacht before – but mom deemed it to dangerous. Just because I'm a descendent of Clumsy, she figured I might capsize and drown. The fun was over. Bah. Archimedes sucks. Or blows. I can't decide.

Cheers,
Mark.