When I got back to Cheshire yesterday afternoon, after four nights away and a tiring drive from the North East (I saw the immediate aftermath of one accident on the northbound M6, and the sat nav diverted me onto A-roads for some time to skirt around another) The Boy (14 months old) beamed at me and said “Dadda” as soon as I walked through the front door. Then he toddled off and crawled upstairs (something I had no idea he could accomplish unaided) with me following close behind in case of slippages, walked into his bedroom, pulled a slimmish volume out of his little bookcase and handed it to me. It was called My Dad. I had not the slightest clue he possessed it, and still cannot work out whether or not its selection was a lucky fluke. But it certainly gave me a warm glow (and not the disconcertingly damp sort that men of my age have to start worrying about). As did going out to an extended lunch with Mrs H’s extended family today, at which The Boy circulated, shaking hands with all and then extending his arm to point out “Dadda” with apparent pride.
He will learn, no doubt. But it’s nice while it lasts.
I wonder what my mother, who would have been 101 today, would have made of her only grandson?
|Formula 1 driver training ...|
|... followed by a spot of football practice|