Outlook

I wonder how many British people look out on a view like this. Classic Victorian and Edwardian terraced houses, built for the labouring classes in their millions at the height of British Imperial hegemony. Two-up, two-down, an outdoor coal-hole, wash-house and privvy. In modern times, the outbuildings converted to a kitchen, a bathroom fitted in somehow. Outside, a narrow passage opens on to a long, narrow garden - one of a domino-psck of similar gardens all along the terrace. Most of them now over a century old and still flexible enough to adapt to modern life and to be a place where people choose to live - true sustainability, and a credit to the original designers

The boy and I spent a lot of time alone together, lit by this window, while others laboured over holiday food. He's at a moment of transition, a balance point, a nick point. He's confident, instinctive now, in managing his body: where to put his arms and hands to lever himself to his intended position, how to pull himself to his feet, how to hold on with one hand while gesturing or manipulating objects with the other, trying a succession of strategies to pick something up, if the first one doesn't succeed. But not quite yet mobile, not quite yet cracked the code of shifting weight, alternating movements, exploiting momentum. He's not anxious, though, not frustrated; I feel he knows it's coming, content to wait and work at it until the stars align. Then the garden; then the world