In the quiet week between Christmas and new year, a small boy bustles around the sitting-room with no regard for the early hour of the day. My son is half-running, half-staggering, chortling at me as he recites his favourite nursery rhymes. All earnestness and beseeching, the straw licks of his hair caught now in pale beams of sunlight. So endearing, so loveable, so tiny and yet so complete. I am dumbstruck with love for him. A light comes on inside me.