My Dearest Perry,
Alexander Rupert O'Connell is officially three months old! He's a happy little chap and a real chip off the old block, as the Americans say. Blue eyes like his dad, smile like his mum, good looks like his Uncle Jon.
We're trying to figure out if his hair is brown or blonde, but so far are unable to draw upon a conclusion. My bets are on brown.
He's a smart little fellow, too. He recognises me when I walk in the room, and he can wave his arms and legs around and hold his head steady. Evy's already started reading to him, which I think is ridiculous, but she insists upon doing it.
At this rate, the little bugger will have memorised Homer's Odyssey by his first birthday!
Seeing young Alexander's start in life sparked somewhat of a paternal instinct within me, and I decided last week that I was going to buy a dog. I had my puppy picked out— a basset hound with the biggest bloody ears you've ever seen— but Evy shot my idea down, saying that I can't have a dog as long as she has a baby.
Unfair, isn't it?
So I'm afraid I'm just going to have to sit here and wait until Alex can speak and I can introduce him to scotch.
O'Connell keeps asking me when I'm going to move out, but I think I may have to stay with he and sis for another couple of months or so.
After all, I'm just readjusting to life in England. The weather here is miserable as always, but I'm sure it's as hot as the face of the sun back in Egypt.
Come to think of it, I quite miss the sunshine. Who knows, maybe I'll hop on an aeroplane and come visit you one of these days?
I'm sure there's plenty of room for me in that new house you wrote about.
I heard that there was an earthquake in Palestine earlier this month as well, so do stay safe. I've never been subject to a quake-of-the-earth myself, but apparently they're quite nasty. So try and stay away from objects that might fall on your head, darling.
Despite having just grown another human inside of her (something which I would have thought exhausted you women people), Evy is already itching to go out and explore places.
Old Mum's dying to get back out in the field— God only knows why she can't just stay still and be quiet for ten seconds— but she can't leave my boy Alex yet, even though she has all these job offers flooding in.
O'Connell suggested that they hire a nanny of some sort to give Evy a little more freedom, but I cant understand why they don't just let me look after the baby once in a while. He's my nephew, after all.
You'd think they didn't trust me, Perry!
I know that really they're just being polite and all that, but I think this 'nanny' thing is a load of tosh.
If only you were here, you could knock some sense into them. Or, even better— you could be the nanny! That would be an adventure and a half, eh?
But, of course, you're very busy working for the Egyptian Excavation Society or whatever bloody vulture-filled squad of dumbbells is underpaying archaeologists nowadays.
No worries, though. I'm fine over here, you're fine over there, and as long as you don't take any wooden pennies we'll be all right.
Good luck with whatever dig you'll next be immersing yourself in, and remember to tell me if that millionaire lady-friend of yours is married in your reply.
Cheerio and all the best,
Jon.
P.S.— Enclosed, you should find a photograph of that stunning little whippersnapper named Alexander.