Baby love...
As you get older, the things you remember and the things you forget can be quite unsettling. Never has this been more apparent than last weekend, when we offered to babysit our grandson Little Z, for a couple of nights. He arrived on Friday afternoon hidden somewhere between four Waitrose hessian carriers, a cooler bag, a swim bag and a rucksack (with his name on, in case we got confused and somehow brought the wrong kid home). Daughter number one barely stopped the car in the drive, choosing instead to slow right down, pass out Little Z and all the bags, and leave with a backwards wave and a shout of 'Where's the gin?' Of course, he came with instructions as befitting all new things which come into our house. As always, I read these and was verbatim on how the next forty eight hours were to go, whereas the husband muttered those immortal words, 'How hard can it be, for heaven's sake?' The first instructions involved food, playtime, bath and bed (sounds like