A historic week for the family Flett (the one commencing 8 September). It started with the 30^th anniversary of my parents on Tuesday, was sandwiched with my qualification as a solicitor on Thursday and ended with the birth of the first of the next generation on Saturday 13^th September 2025 at 3.22am.

Naturally, I was on a train to Aberdeen on Sunday morning. Two titles now acquired, uncle being foremost in my mind. One a seven-month anticipation, the other a culmination of five years’ work.

Laterally, in terms of the legal traineeship, though, it has been more a question of waiting out the time, meeting the requirements and allowing the two years to pass. Up until now, I have never really had a five-year goal. It makes me wonder what the next will be.

The gaining of my restricted practising certificate towards the end of last year and admission to the roll of solicitors (ceremonially confirmed this summer) felt like more of a milestone for me. This allowed me to do everything a solicitor does insofar as I am acting for my employer and not calling myself a “solicitor” while so doing. The formality is discharging my traineeship and the subsequent removal of the prefix “trainee” on my signature.

In terms of non-directly career-related active self-betterment, I have resumed French classes again after the summer break. This provides useful structure for my learning, but I do think I need to get serious if I want to make serious progress. There is only so far a syllabus can take you.

I also don’t want to let my German fall into abeyance. So perhaps I’ll see if there’s a conversational meetup I can join to get me up to scratch again and hopefully surpass where I was post completion of my degree.

Last year was perhaps the fittest I have been physically, with the Loch Ness Marathon in September 2024. I have resigned myself to the fact that a PB may well be out of my reach in the Great Scottish Run at the beginning of October, but I am having a much better time training for that than the 26.2 miles. No injuries/total exhaustion are a blessing.

As I was saying, I was on a train on Sunday morning. Terminus, Union Square, that between place of ages. A train at one end, a bus the other … and a ferry at a not-so-burdensome stretch.

I beelined for the Foodhall and picked up a pizzetta (the first knowingly eaten and called so) and ginger beer. No sit-down meal for me. A lift (in a red Tesla) from a grandad of less than 24 hours (the dad’s dad) to the maternity ward without delay. Well, there was some delay as a multi-storey car park was unnecessarily ascended and descended before I was safe in the passenger seat.

In no time at all, we arrive. Summerfield Ward, Room 7 is our destination confirmed by text 20 minutes ago. The atmosphere is hushed; the air itself pregnant.

Blue curtains shield what lies behind. The new being within knows not what lies beyond.

The blue veil marks the threshold across which all will change.

I am entreated to wait there for a moment. 22 hours into existence the baby tries to feed … it’s not happening this time, and I’m invited in.

A pink whisp-haired head pokes out from beneath blankets, at rest on a pale chest. I cannot hug one without embracing both; they are one and inseparable on first encounter.

I begin to investigate more closely after passing on my congratulations. Her lids are closed to the external world, but my proximate curiosity wakes her from her shallow drowse and L— flickers into life.

What eyes. Out of proportion to her tiny body. Curious and searching. Curious as I am to find out the who of this newly pressed talisman of potentiality. Tracking this way and that, the deep blue irises are restless to discover too, or so it seems.

Before we can be properly acquainted, the grandparents and auntie (dad’s side) make their way out, and I am ushered too. The feeding has been challenging and the attempt must be seen through. I decamp to a café, then to an Aldi to buy grapes to bestow on my return.

When I come back, the new mother is triumphant. Feed 1 complete.

A vomit and a change later I am passed the precious product of an arduous labour. She is so light and completely reliant on me, even to hold her remarkably untensioned head up.

My bag was left in the footwell of the Tesla, so the new father drives me to retrieve it and to check into my accommodation. After some outfit upgrades and a Wetherspoons meal, I went back to say goodnight, this time bearing gifts for the newborn (perhaps not yet age-appropriate). At the beginning of the week, I found myself in the Baby & Toddler section of Waterstones and picked up two classics, Spot the Dog by Eric Hill and The Tiger Who Came to Tea by Judith Kerr.

After 20 minutes with L—’s crown in the crook of my arm, I bid the new parents farewell and left them to establish their household.