When my grandson Arthur was born in October, I took a gift to him (and his father and his grandfather): a t-shirt (in Arthur’s case, a onesie; but his dad and grandfather have regular shirts!) in honour of Forrest’s favourite childhood book. How many times did we read Where the Wild Things Are? Oh, a thousand. At least. It seemed to me then — and still does — a perfect distillation of childhood rebellion and the constancy of love. So how wonderful to have this photo in my inbox just now, courtesy of Manon. Our own wild thing, after his bath.