Good God. Hubby and I watched Sky News in horror last night. I don’t know whether you saw the poor parents of Rhys Jones, the little lad shot dead in Croxteth, Liverpool yesterday, but it’ll haunt me for years. Rhys had gone off to football training when his football coach came knocking on his Mum’s door to tell her that her son had been shot in the street. Can you even imagine cradling your eleven year old son in your arms as he dies from a gunshot wound? Rhys’s Dad was on his way to work when he received the phone call to tell him that Rhys had been shot and arrived at the hospital to find staff desperately trying to resuscitate him. He described coming home after Rhys’s death and looking into his bedroom: school clothes still on their hangers and new packs of pens and pencils all ready for his first year at secondary school.

Quite apart from the fact that a parent should never have to bury a child, how horrendous is it that an eleven year old youngster can be shot in broad daylight in a Liverpool street? When I kissed my sleeping, but usually noisy, silly, annoying, cuddly, affectionate, daft, sometimes naughty, often cheeky boys last night, inhaling the smell of mud, dog, straw, toothpaste and, well, little boy, I thanked my lucky stars for every second I have with them.

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