R and I had a great day in Cardiff with Baby B, who continues to surprise and amuse us. Although he still hasn’t got many recognisable words, it’s quite clear that he understands pretty much everything that’s said to him, and his pre-speech babble, though still mainly focused on practising the production of different sounds, is starting to be aimed towards making himself understood. As an example of his level of comprehension: R asked him this morning, “Who’s my best boy?”, and after thinking for a second, B pointed at his own chest. Several hours later, I asked him the same question, and he immediately responded in the same way. This is genius level, clearly.
The worst moment of the day came when I was in charge of him out in the garden this afternoon, and while trotting along the path he caught the toe of his shoe on something and crashed to the ground, grazing one knee. He cried, quite reasonably, but allowed himself to be comforted and then taken inside, where I gently cleaned the graze. After this he mostly forgot about it, but every now and again a particular movement, or contact with a toy or a piece of furniture, would remind him of his war wound, at which point he’d bend over and examine it, carefully pull off a tiny bit of damaged skin, offer it to me while saying, “Dere,” (which in this context definitely means, “There you are – have this”), and then go happily about his business again. He’s a very charming child.
Both today’s photos were taken at Forest Farm. The extra is – finally – proof of what I’ve suspected for several weeks: the Glamorganshire Canal supports Beautiful as well as Banded Demoiselles. The main image, of course, is a fabulous fresh male Golden-ringed Dragonfly, who brightened my day by lifting out of the reed bed, where I hadn’t spotted him due to his perfect camouflage, snatching a snack out of the air, and then re-settling to eat it. This is my first usable photo this season of one of these spectacular dragons, but I hope very much that it won’t be the last.
For the record: Johnson claims to have resigned, though he apparently intends to stay in power until October, or at least until he’s had a massive summer thrash at Chequers to celebrate his current marriage. That’s the marriage that took place fourteen months ago, and Chequers, the grace and favour house the country pays for. Some Ministers are now allowing themselves to be re-hired, because they have no pride, dignity, or expectation of ever being employed by anyone else. Two of the worst people in British politics have already announced that they’d like to be the next PM, and worryingly, the Conservative Party hasn’t immediately told them to go away and reflect on their behaviour. Half the country is in a state of panic because they think this ‘resignation’ is a trick, though the Daily Telegraph says it must be true because Johnson has already phoned HMQ and told her he’s going. Conveniently forgetting the last time he brought about a constitutional crisis by lying to the Queen. In our house, the champagne has been moved to the very back of the fridge for now, because we’re suspicious, bitter and twisted Metropolitan Elitist Liberal Remoaners, and we’d rather watch what the Liar in Chief does than listen to what he says.
