Behold the walrus

Clive wouldn't leave me alone even after the knicker-shooing.

I expected Jeff, the artist, to be a man of few words, sort of tall, dour and dusty and faintly redolent of pipe smoke, as befits someone who spends a lot of time creating great art in a workshop. He was completely the opposite, and arrived with a big smile and an even bigger parcel, and I got to shake his hand hello and goodbye, thereby stealing a double dose of genius from him. He stayed an hour, and we sat at the table talking all about the making of the walrus, about his three kids, about my one baby, about his neighbour, about cycling in London and about doing up old houses. He was very happy to meet Esme, and explained that he has a real soft spot for babies and a secret wish for grandchildren at the moment. Esme got to play with his battered, scarred, proper woodworking hands, so she got to absorb some artistic genius too, and he made a point of popping back to say goodbye to her as he left. What a thoroughly great bloke.


Here I am stroking the walrus (stop laughing, you there in the cheap seats). I wanted you to see how alive it seems but it's hard to capture on film.

It is not the first walrus to live in this house, but it is by far the best.