News from London overnight that I am a grand-uncle. Again.
I have somewhat lost count of how many that makes, largely because MrsDavy’s side of the family is, well, fairly extensive. I used to think I came from a large family, and then I met my in-laws. Not so much a family tree as a family forest. (I would not say Mirkwood. You might think that, but I could not possibly comment.)
There is great delight in the new generation except for one small thing: it means that I am now one of those old people at family reunions that the children are forced to say hello to without really understanding why. I might even have the odd hair sprouting out from my ears which was one of the fascinations with the old uncles and aunts as I recall from my bewildered childhood. (Those hairs seem to sprout at an ungodly rate, somewhere between shaving and getting in the car.)
But that is one of my roles now, I have come to accept, for the next generation. Someone on the periphery, not quite in focus, and never quite clear how connected. Liable to belt on about odd things such as rugby referees, and why Napoleon was a bad bugger, and the shocking decline of tertiary education standards. And occasionally maybe able to offer a piece of well-timed advice or assistance, although you never really know whether it hits the mark. (Lord knows that my godson Mayhem seems to have got through thus far without too much help beyond the occasional ten dollars for
fags and booze religious reading.)
That’ll do me. Just put me in a corner with a double gin, and everybody toast the arrival of Chloe Elizabeth.