Happy Annunciation one and all.
Yesterday evening the girls had their first spoonsful of babyrice. They took to it with such generous enthusiasm that they creatively pursued their relationship with the food far beyond the passive monotony of the traditional linear interaction that the rest of us conform to when it comes to eating: it was no less than an ecstatic theatrical explosion of eschatological proportion and unwritable beauty. By the end of the meal, there was babyrice gluing hair together, drying in eyebrows, collecting between eyelashes and piano-keys, decorating ears and noses, seeping through babygrows and swimming in the creases of necks and wrists, sliding beneath rolled-up sleeves and down steel guitar strings, forming in dynamic puddles on the ageing carpet, glossing finger nails, dampening socks, lubricating shoe laces, plastering together the leaves of rare books, discolouring the antique, hand-made wallpaper, dripping from the crevices in the ancient ceiling and eventually, flooding the entire village.
The weaning has begun.
Violet Grace
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Ivy Elisabeth
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