Public spaces with lots of people in them will always include lots of little boys. But today all the little ones were boys. Toddlers. Horrible reminders of what I've lost. Thank goodness I managed to get a seat on the plane away from the sound of them. Which is a dreadful thing to say in normal circumstances, but these are not normal circumstances.
I cried pretty much all the way here. In the departure lounge the lady who had the bad luck of sitting next to me asked if I was ok. "My son died. He was only two and a half. He drowned in our pool." Sharp intake of pity breath, hand to throat. Me again, "Take care of your children." "Yes", she replied, not knowing what else to say.
Funnily enough I've just read a chapter in the book Wendy sent me, written by grieving parents, about how you react when people ask how you are. Some just said ok, some felt the need to tell everyone about their loss. I just blurted.
Here at Luton Airport - in the M&S to grab a sandwich, I automatically picked up two packs of their brilliant wet wipes - always good for sticky little fingers. It was only after I'd paid that I realised I don't have those sticky little fingers around any more.
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