Mark Daniels: Out of the mouths of babes...

Anybody who has brought children up while living and working in a pub will know that they can be your cherished little angels, beloved of all your customers who'll do their best to teach them how to cheat at darts and the occasional new swearword to use in the playground.

Or they can be frustratingly embarrassing to the point where you want a hole to open in the ground so that you can dive in and disappear.

Take, for example, my youngest son. At seven, he's pretty much spent most of his sentient life inside a pub. He's great at maths and isn't afraid to argue with a customer who's teasing him.

And he also knows that on a Tuesday afternoon the pub shuts at 2:30 and reopens at 5:30. So when he got off the school bus recently and saw the front door open, he walked into the public bar, took one look at the dark-suited individuals sat around at the tables, drinking coffee, looking upset and talking quietly, and loudly asked: "who the hell died this time?"

Then there's my ten year old son, who's desperately trying to exert his authority and usurp me as the man in the house. When Ali was away recently our temporary chef managed to break the cooker. Quite badly.

"My mum's not going to be very happy with you," Malachy said to the member of staff. And then, to add salt to the wound: "good luck in keeping your job."

But I was amazed recently to learn the level of, shall we say, 'adult' education that is taught in school to ten year olds these days. By the time my school had taught me to such level, I'd pretty much figured out what girls were for anyway.

This has meant that my eldest is now somewhat obsessed by the course nature is about to take with his body, and has lead to some rather amusing conversations and observations.

Including, last Saturday, Malachy going up to the sixteen year old who comes in to wash the dishes after lunch, folding his arms, studying her carefully, and looking her up and down.

And then saying: "you look like you've been through puberty..."

Cycling for charity...

"Dad, why on Earth would you want to bike sixty miles?" Such is the wisdom of a ten year old used to just being shoved in the back of the car with his Nintendo and told to shut up, even for a trip to the Co-op for milk.

The answer is simple: I'm reaching that stage in my life where I need to prove something to myself. I can't afford a Ferrari and an extra-marital affair would probably land me in a spot of hot water. Therefore, I've got to undertake a physical challenge, just to prove I still can.

And this Sunday the big day will finally have arrived. I'm hoping to have completed the London to Cambridge charity ride within six hours but, to be honest, I will just be happy to finish it.

We didn't really start planning the ride properly until four or five months ago and the training has been a little difficult, partly because I managed put myself in hospital and partly because East Anglia is flat. Apparently the first obstacle we have to undertake when leaving Pickett's Lock is a hill.

But I'm looking forward to it. My cycling buddy and I decided we'd raise money for three charities: Breakthrough Breast Cancer, the Irregular Cornea Foundation, and Asperger's East Anglia, all for personal reasons, and this week we exceeded our goal of raising £1500. That means at least £500 to each of the charities we've chosen to support, and we're extremely grateful for everyone's generosity.

If you are feeling generous, please donate here: www.charitygiving.co.uk/markkeithandothers

On Sunday, thanks to the stalking technology of Google Latitude, anybody interested in seeing how we're getting on will be able to visit my pub's website: www.thetharparms.com​ - and click on the link to the map page where updates from my phone will be letting everybody know how we're getting on.

Or not, as the case might be...!

And then, when it's all finished, I might be tempted to drive over the bike with my car...