Bertie

A little fat hand swivels on its chubby wrist, or at least where a wrist would be were it visible through the chunky rolls that envelop it.

"Iggaligga!" he shouts, followed swiftly by "Mmmmm - AH". For those who are not in the know, or alternatively who don't speak baby-lingo, he has just hollered "See you later" and followed it with a smacker of a kiss.

Thighs that beg for raspberries are wobbling tentatively through their first upright paces.
"One..." we all call, "Two...", arms outstretched and face transformed in rapturous grin, dimples deepening with every step, "Three..." He stops abruptly.

Clearly, he feels it is time for unstinting applause. He claps thunderously and bellows his approval at his own achievement.

The force of his movement threatens to topple him and we all watch, suddenly silent, breath held.

He rights himself, grins again and continues his jerky journey until, eleven independent steps taken, he lands unceremoniously on a plump, nappy-clad bottom.

It is no tragedy for there, undetected by his parents or, indeed, the hoover, is a perfect sultana. Mission accomplished.