So, I introduced Piglet to Heffalump and at first she was all shy and coy.

Then I went to brush my teeth and left them to get to know each other. They had a little chat. She made some piggy noises, he made some scratchy and crackly noises. They talked about the weather (hot). They played some games (educational).

Well.

Then I came back and she was all ‘who are you?’ 

I feel like my work here is done. Sigh.

You didn’t send more flowers? You did? Oh you shouldn’t have, oh, go on then, I’ll take them.

Thanks Granizado!

Thanks Granizado Oglesby for the lovely flowers! Not only did she send flowers after she left, Granizado Oglesby did a makeover on the terrace while she was here, bringing Birds of Paradise, Andalucian flower pots and passion fruit creepers to our world.

Not only is riu Catala for river, our spiritual home, it also means she smiles.

Hooray for flowers, and hooray for baby smiles!

Continuing the series of Movie Impressions, here’s her Superman pose.

Piglet is now already five weeks old and still two weeks away from going to Ireland to visit her paternal granny. Granizado Kennedy hasn’t seen her first grandchild in action yet, so we made this little video last night while listening to Mogwai’s ‘Young Team.’ 

She sucks on her soother, stares off into the distance, drools a little, flails and chills in equal measure, and generally looks cute. Excuse the sudden jumps between ‘scenes’ - that’s because we had to edit out lots of wailing. I’m hoping she was just hungry, rather than not liking the music.

It’s been over a week since the Who am I trauma, so Piglet has had some time to mull over the existential implications of nothingness and being. Bear in mind, a week is a quarter of a lifetime for her, so that’s a lot of mulling.

Piglet decides to face herself, as a external reality separate and distinct from the cosmos.

She thinks: ‘I am…, yes, I… am.’

Of course, her huge ever-growing pulsating brain already knew that, so that’s OK.

Then she thinks: ‘I rule from the centre of the ultraworld.’

This sense of universal power wraps her in a comforting Orb of contentment.

But doubts arise in the hearts of contented men (and babies, probably).

She thinks: ‘Am I alone at the centre? … Perhaps not.’

She thinks: I am not alone. I am not… everything.’

The protective selfishness of her world is pierced, and momentarily she sees all the forces of the cosmos around her, the distances, the other presences, the other presences that persist outside her thinking of them. Briefly, she glimpses all the intersecting planes of all shapes stretching out in all directions. She sees through singularities, stands at the shore of a universe at once complex and simple. She relishes the beauty of everything.

The curtain closes again, and it’s all too much.