I have a niece now. She is called Evelyn. She is eight months old. Eight months is not a long time at all. People hold grudges for longer than that. There are David Lynch films longer than that.

Eight months. Let’s say Evelyn lives until 80. She has lived just a tiny fraction of her life. Basically, everything is new to Evelyn. She probably hasn’t even seen a sunset yet. It’s going to blow her mind. I am jealous because she has not read Doctor Zhivago. I’d love to recall discovering tea for the first time; milk as smooth and white as Michelangelo’s David swirling into the cup.

Babies bore me, on the whole, but Evelyn is a revelation. Maybe not when she was small and squishy as a beanbag and her eyelids were always shut against the world. But now: she smiles. She laughs.

When this happens, it is a burst of joy in me profound as a flavour. I can make Evelyn grin and giggle and gurgle, which I imagine is an even better feeling than playing to thousands at the Hammersmith Apollo or landing a comedy special on Netflix. Evelyn thinks I am hilarious. I can make the same physical joke all day and she never gets bored. When she laughs she kicks her legs and waggles her arms. You can see the skin around her eyes tries to crease, but it’s so brand new and factory-fresh it can’t be anything but taut.

Evelyn doesn’t just beam when I’m pratting about, however. She smiles when she looks around, taking in new sights; when birds swoop overhead, because what is a bird? When dogs with haircuts trot past. When my sister takes her to the classes that seem mostly to consist of assault via feather boas and squeaky toys.

My favourite iteration of the baby smile is the one that follows at breakneck speed from the terrifying moment of almost-cry; that liminal state of a tiny person’s mood. There is no better feeling than seeing a contorted, reddening face morph back into a wide smile. This is the baby-entertaining equivalent of saving a conversation going rapidly off the rails with a punchline that lands perfectly.

And while Evelyn’s smile is of course the best, the spirits are buoyed by any wide-eyed tot having the time of its life shaking a rattle in the park or tumbling across grass, staggering up, and howling with unselfconscious laughter. I still don’t actually want kids, I don’t think. But I can just borrow Evelyn now, in a good mood, for a quick boost.