Autumn, the season of mists, mellow fruitfulness and birthdays. For whatever reason we have a bunch of family birthdays squeezed into a roughly four week period at this time of year. It's a month or so of frantic present buying, cake baking and dinners.
This year also happens to be another birthday, dearer to me than all those family members who have enjoyed countless birthdays and cakes (I jest, family members who read this newsletter). This birthday is special as it is a first. A celebration of one year of life.
The baby can't sit, gurgle, cruise, stand and has a concerning lack of interest in everyday objects. It doesn't drool or giggle or refuse to go to sleep when it is tired. It doesn't wake up in the middle of the night, in fact it just lies there doing nothing. The only upside is that I don't have to change its nappies. Should I be worried?
No, of course not, because my baby is a book. The apple of my eye. The fruit of my...never mind. It is supposed to just lie there. Hopefully not in a pile of remainders with a badly creased spine, but on the bookshelf of a reader of taste and discernment (such as yourself). There it will stay, an asset to the wit, good looks and charm of the owner. Occasionally, as when the owner has guests over, the book will be taken down from the shelf and placed on a coffee table in order to impress friends, family and other freeloaders. It will spark conversation and inspire compliments as to the keen intelligence, fragrant allure and magnetic charm of the owner.