I sit in front of my computer, adjacent is the dining table full of the detritus of Sunday’s lunch. We had two of my grandsons come visiting, bringing with them of course my son and his wife, otherwise known as Mummy and Daddy. For a couple of hours, my world was lit up by the infectious grin and captivating smiles of those two small boys. What we ate, and what we talked about is irrelevant, as that afternoon was complete once they came through the door; one jumping, as all five-year-old dynamos do, the other safe and smiling in his Daddy’s arms.
As five-year-olds also do, he has decided that heaven, or rather dessert, consists of chocolate biscuits; not ice-cream, nor fruit and cream. But of course disaster had struck, as absent-minded Granddad had not purchased a pack of ‘Hobnobs’ specifically for the lips and tongue of one small boy. I offered ice-cream, or fruit, and as a last resort came up with ‘ordinary biscuits’.
So I am seated in front of my computer, next to me is a saucer holding two chewed remnants of shortcake biscuits, because as every five-year-old also knows, all raisins baked into biscuits are to be avoided like they were diseased. I sit here, with a silly smile all across my face, as the house has become quiet again; but it is a quiet which holds the memory of yet another perfect Sunday, when smiles, and toys, and biscuits rule above all.