Pooped

There was a time in my life when my brother had to repeatedly tell me that I was reading too much John Irving; I saw omens and interconnectivity in everything. And gradually over the years, I've managed to recognise coincidence for what it is and not get spooked out by perceived premonition and portents, by some post hoc poetry of a moment. 

And yet, that said, today, on his fourteenth birthday, Dan ambled into the kitchen some time late on in the morning and was *clearly* taller than me for the first time. It was appropriate but perhaps a little too apposite. 

We had a late afternoon tea party celebration for this lovely chap who savours every present he opens and who couldn't be more grateful for everything he receives. In fact, it was his sisters, gathered around the table, who were more impatient, even as he waited, happily, for the Vans they'd given him to be laced.

As these parties do, it trailed on into the evening, and here is Hannah, on the verge of dozing but not dropping her wine glass. That's my girl.