One of the pleasures of visiting my parents' house is, of course, seeing familiar pictures. But here's a new one, sitting on the old piano that probably hasn't been played for the last thirty five or so years (and was resuscitated by my father in the first place). That is - it's a photograph that I've seen before, in miniature - but here scanned by my father, blown up, mounted, and now in an old silver frame. This is my mother, aged around eighteen months, and looking very cute. But it was taken, she tells me, not so much to celebrate her cuteness, as to demonstrate to critical relatives that no, she was not a small and sickly little thing, but was actually growing very well and healthily, thank you. It's a disconcertingly familiar direct look, still.