Remember the child who wouldn’t eat?

Bernard’s tea tonight consisted of a portion of spicy falafel bites, with oven-roasted beetroot, scorzonera and potato chips, served with a blob of coriander and chilli dipping sauce. This was followed by a bowl of yoghurt and a large banana, and accompanied by a small cup of milk. I gourmet kid you not.

There’s no excuse, really, for the long absence. I haven’t downed tools in a huff or anything, I just haven’t felt much like having a presence here. That sounds somewhat mystical, but is not meant to be. Since Christmas there has been One Thing After Another, including query-norovirus, query-teething, a few days off work, several busy days at work, and the allotment, amongst other things.

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Bernard has always had a bit of a dirty giggle. His first sniggers, on having his knees tickled, were filthy little chuckles. Now he has a range that stretches from the snigger of a dirty old man, to the crazy cackle of a mad scientist. Most of the time we have no idea what is so funny; he is amused by something that we don’t know about, and maybe that’s the joke.

Yesterday evening we played piggy in the middle until he was breathless from laughing like a hyena and running backwards and forward between us, trying to catch a small toy owl. It was cruel but hilarious, and he didn’t seem to mind.

Today when I dropped him off at his childminder, he threw his arms around me and gave me the world’s biggest hug, before dashing off down the hall to join his mates.