This weekend, my sister had her second baby. He is called Louie, spelt with almost all the vowels. 7 pounds 3, super cute with Chinese eyes and a hint of my sister’s mouth in his pout, dressed in the same blue and white stripes as his big – but still incredibly little – brother.
I was going – before Louie’s arrival – to write about the things I’ve been packing in to stretch out the weekends. About how it is pretty awesome that 48 hours can hold so many great things and how, sometimes, when Monday comes around, you can find yourself in a totally different place. End of the week drinks where you can almost feel the lightness and late night Chinatown dim sum. Duck ponds and afternoon coffees and a gig at Shepherd’s Bush where it feels like you should be watching theatre rather than rock –
So many people.
So many things to see –
And, although he has all of this ahead of him now, it is not the potential that amazes me. It is, unexpectedly, the sense of peace radiating from his sleeping face. The fact that, amongst all this chaos, there are, every day, these moments when a new life starts. A pause after the long expectation and before the long nights when you can do nothing but stand back and think –