Although the clocks go forward this weekend, our ten-month-old baby has been operating on British Summer Time for almost a fortnight now.

He has been waking us at the ungodly time of 5.30am and refusing to go back to sleep. We've tried soothing him, leaving him to yell, feeding him in the hope he might nod off again. But all to no avail. The little imp is ready for the day ahead at first light.

I had hoped Max wouldn't be an early riser. His five-year-old sister was always up with the lark and we endured three years of it until she could recognise the number seven on a digital clock.

We bribed her with all sorts of treats to make sure she didn't disturb us before the allotted hour, although it is only recently that she has stopped coming into our room in the middle of the night to check if our clock says the same time as hers. Sadly, for one so young, she does not have a trusting nature.

Max was a good sleeper at first, so I assumed our nights would forever be an easy ride. He's still fantastic about going in his cot. But no matter how late we make his bedtime, he is wide awake for the dawn chorus.

It doesn't help that we haven't yet got around to moving him out of our room. The plan was to wait until he was reliably sleeping through until seven, then move him in with Eve. That day looks increasingly unlikely.

"Give him some milk," my husband mutters from underneath his pillow as Max begins his tuneless song in the early hours again.

"You know we'll be on a hiding to nothing," I say, from underneath mine.

We then hear a thud, a brief silence followed by a more urgent cry. Max has tried to stand up in his cot, but has got knotted up in his snugly sleeping bag and has toppled over like a drunken caterpillar.

I get up, lay him on his back again, stick his Mr Badger comfort blanket in his mouth and, for a few seconds, he smiles.

But as soon as I move away from his cot, the cacophony returns.

Now his big sister is joining in. She doesn't come into our room but during the seconds when Max is drawing his breath for another outburst, we can hear her humming the Sleeping Beauty waltz. At 5.45am she decides to call out: "Is it seven o'clock yet?"

I get Max out of his cot at 6am. By now all our neighbours are awake and are, no doubt, cursing us without reservation.

I stagger downstairs with the boy, get him some milk and we both slump on the sofa in front of the telly to see the latest news from Iraq. Half an hour later Eve has joined us and we're now watching a video of Thumbelina, although I'm too tired to spot the difference.

"We must get Max into his own room," I say to my husband a while later.

"Why don't we get him his own house," suggests my husband. "Preferably on the other side of Brighton."

I don't mind losing an hour on Saturday night. At least getting up at 6.30am on Sunday will feel like a lie-in. It won't last, though.

Max is bound to reintroduce the old wartime measure of Double Summer Time before the end of next week.