My son, just short of four, has discovered swords.

He's had his first real 'sword-fighting' injury (and not cried); a moment which made me very proud - as every ex-warrior Mum should be.

This morning, I told him I had a real sword, and took it out of the wardrobe to show him.

His face!

He looked at it - and me - with an expression of awe and wonder and disbelief; he stretched out his fingers, but didn't dare touch it. He said, 'It's a sword!' in a tone that would have suited the young Arthur, standing by the Stone.

It is a sword.
It is real.
It has been used.

When he touched the metal, his face broke into a smile like the sun coming up.

Just sometimes, the wacky juxtaposition of my new life with my old one is very fucking cool.