Little Blue Pig

There's a little blue pig that stares at me from my desk. Eyes, beady. Ears, pointy. Body, spotty. It may seem a childish way to aid in my money saving efforts, but I respond well to stimuli aimed at less complex psychology. Which isn't meant to indicate my level of intellingence, but perhaps shows that I'm easily pleased.
My little blue pig is the physical presence that represents my dreams of going back to my favourite place in the world - London. London with it's grey cobblestones, black cabs, red phone boxes, terrible coffee. London that owns Trafalgar Square, Soho, Oxford Street, Globe Theatre. London that has plays showing in the West End night after night, that holds a thousand delights and more yet to be discovered, others to be revisited.
London, my love, my dream, my hope. I will see you again.

It's a perfect moment

that comes once in a while. The sun peeps out from behind a cloud onto an earth recently rained on. That's the first sign.
The second sign is the sound of crickets making music to which the whole of nature listens.
The third sign is the child in my lap, leaning casually against my chest, so unconscious of the delight he gives me by this simple action. Not knowing how I want to clutch him there, hold him by me in the sunlight so that he will never know darkness.
And then he turns slightly towards me and speaks words, so quietly it's almost as if he's talking to himself instead of to me. Words that seep into me the same way that sunwarmth does when I bask in it. The words are these:
'I love you, Auntie Manda.'