mothers on the verge

My little angel has a crush ! A proper, full blown, gangly, gauche, blush-inducing crush. The object of Firstborn's affections is a sweet little thing, let's call him Mr T, in the same class at school. Mr T is French (naturally, Les Anglais being an endangered species in Kensington these days), brown of eye and limb, and really quite charmingly shy. The romance first blossomed in a leafy Kensington square one sunny Sunday afternoon. I knew something was afoot when Firstborn spotted Mr T on the other side of the garden, immediately becoming skittish and exciteable yet throwing a major tantrum when it was suggested she go over to play with him. Firstborn then applied herself to the pretence that Mr T didn't exist, contriving to rush past him as often as possible with a tribe of other kids in her wake, laughing merrily and looking as if she didn't have a care in the world. Poor Mr T didn't stand a chance - not being an Experienced Man Of The World with the knowledge t...