Dear journal,
A week after giving birth to me, Lady Penelope shifted her resting position to the sofa for week 2 of my beginning life.
She spent all her bygone days of that week stretching her weak, wobbly, smooth legs and stroking my tiny back as I slept soundly, blissfully unaware of Alan having a mad half hour in the spare bedroom where he, Tin Tin and Brains were to stay until ‘er ladyship regains her strength again.
Until then, the only dedication she had for my developing, tiny figure was cosy, parental love, no matter how tired she was.
Tin Tin served us some fluffy mashed potatoes with butter and cheese. There were two spoons - one shining silver one for mummy, and one was small and baby appropriate for my tiny, toothless mouth: a pink, safe plastic spoon with a cute white rabbit face on its tail end, smiling in a friendly manner.
We took turns sharing spoonfuls. Mummy would have a spoonful, then she would feed me mine, pretending to be a swan with beautiful white feathers gliding into a beaver’s stick-built dam.
I’ll never forget the second week of my developing life, and the cosy smell of cheesy, buttery mash filling our isolated lake house in nature.
Tit for tat,
Butter for fat,
Sybil
XXXOOO
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