Lucian Freud: big baby.

Nearly twenty years ago, my wife was in hospital, about to give birth to my third and youngest son Tom. It was June. There weren't many other expectant mothers in the hospital, and we were rather left to our own devices. As it happened, when Tom was born - without drugs or much assistance from the midwives - he was the heaviest baby born in the hospital for a quarter of a century. He weighed in at something around 12lbs.

My wife was understandably pretty shattered after the event, bruised, battered and sore. We got to know the nurses quite well. One of them, a very nice girl, said she was also studying an art course. I remember telling her I painted, and we were chatting about who our favourite painters were. Hers was Lucian Freud, and he has always been one of my favourite painters since I saw his portrait of John Minton in Manchester in my teens. One day I brought into hospital a beautiful book I had on Freud and said she could borrow it and give it me back when she'd had enough.

Of course, suddenly Linda was discharged from hospital and we took Tom home. I never saw the nurse again, and I never saw my book again. I could have gone in and chased her down and asked for it back, but it seemed like a fair trade: they gave us Tom, I gave one of the girls who helped us a lovely book that she probably really enjoyed. But I missed the book, and it had cost a fortune.

Tom is eighteen now. SIx foot three, bearded, and at university. It's Christmas Day. He and his brothers handed me a heavy parcel this morning as we exchanged Christmas presents. I opened it up, and it was the beautiful, big, slip-cased book on Freud shown here. He was an astonishing talent, an eye and a hand second to none, and I love every picture in it. I hope that nurse enjoyed her book. I hope she became a painter.

Happy Christmas.