Bringing up boys

The Grandfather, having brought up two sons, knows a thing or two about the wishes of boys when it comes to Christmas and birthday presents.

Thanks to him, Mr Coffee did not reach 40 years old without owning a bright red Ferrari.


The Littlest Latte loves running after the Ferrari. And she has been loopy this week, feral and moody and full of excess energy.


Littlest is not a girl who stays neat and clean or who goes shy when people talk to her. Littlest is out there. She is talking wildly to the puppeteers at the puppet show, she is lying on the floor in the middle of a busy shopping street waving her legs in the air, she is having a tantrum, she is pretending to be someone else, she is climbing onto things and jumping off things and doing it all very, very loudly.

I once had a good old moan about her to her godmother, who has two sons. "She's fine. She's just a boy," she said, helpfully.

As school approaches, she seems to be even madder. And having spent all of Sunday with her pretending to be a boy called Elliot (a fully formed character with a deep voice, who has a Ben 10 duvet, a room full of dinosaurs, a hatful of repressed rage and a little sister who is "always putting her grubby little hands on my STUFF") has made me slightly less nostalgic for days and days alone with her.

The other day we bumped into the nice lady who will be her new reception teacher next week. "Are you ready for school, Littlest?" she said.

I was. "She's all yours," I said. "All this insanity is for you."