Lola is dancing in her one-piece blue pyjamas. The sun is swatting parts of the room - the shade bites into the glare, leaving blades of light. The song playing is her favourite. She stands legs astride & sings a good guess at the chorus, mangling half the words, but it does not matter. She is the glory in this morning. We have completed a jigsaw for the first ever time & it now lies on the floor like a forgotten masterpiece. It is of a rabbit eating strawberries from a yellow bowl. She arches over until her head touches the floor spreading her arms outwards she holds this pose - it is impressive. I implore her to take a bow & she acquiesces. I'm playing all her favourite songs. It is an intentional manipulation I am not ashamed to admit committing. & anyway, it generates joy for us both. & what could possible be wrong with that. We have spread a snowdrift of paper across the living room floor, practising writing letters and primordial poetry. & what could possible be wrong with that.