The little fella

My sister and I went for a brisk walk to get some fresh air after the little fella got a clean bill of health from the Chelsea and Westminster having fallen down the stairs this morning.

It all happened moments before my brother arrived with his partner and the  3 girls, the big cousins. Mum, dad and the little fella rushed off to get checked out just as the others arrived. My great, nearly 4 year old, niece suddenly disappeared into the corner of the sofa under my arm having just been bossing me about all morning. After about an hour or so of coffee and general catching up she emerged to realise she had a whole school of big girls to boss about and took her cousins to the bedroom for much bossiness. My brother and his partner regaled the long association with the Chelsea and Westminster over the years … the myriad broken bones, sepsis, more broken bones, the burst laundry wash tablet temporary blindness, etc.

Thankfully everything was fine and when they’d gone my sister and I whisked the pushchair and little fella out for some late afternoon air and sunset.

My niece and partner went out for dinner and we babysat and recovered with supper and wine; glad of a very short burst of London diversity, people, architecture, abundance of life.

Extra - all the girls gathered together… far left, one hand, middle niece (first year Leeds uni - history and philosophy); next, two hands - youngest niece - GCSE year; loves geography and art; next, little hands, great niece, 3 yrs, very excited; far right, one hand, oldest of these three nieces, (last year at Nottingham, history and politics). 
I feel so sad that P isn’t here to talk to them, so much better than I ever could, about a shared love of of history, politics and art. I was telling the elder about Howard Zinn’s, You Can’t be Neutral on a MovingTrain. I’m glad my eldest niece, mum of little fella and little hands, had that time with him and valued it so much.