The Burden of Responsibility

Became a godmother today, to Master F (age 4) and Little Miss K (age 2). A strange concept seeing I've not been christened myself (which according to some makes me a child of the devil) - but I went along with it whilst trying to suppress an inappropriate smile at the whole throwing-out-of-Satan ("and all his little minions" finished my brain, which apparently remembers far too many lines of Blackadder scripts).

Little Miss K did me proud during the ceremony by presenting her knickers to the congregation, while Master F thought that a christening was something that you waited around for before it arrived suddenly, like a bus. And when he waits for a bus with his mum, he sings. Loudly. I am just thanking my lucky stars that he saved the "You have big boobs!" pronouncement until after the ceremony.

I interpret this godmother job as being entitled to give the children noisy toys, to read them the books I loved when I was a child, and to load them up with sugar and red food colouring before handing them back to their parents at the end of the day.

Couldn't get them to sit still (much less together) for a photo. But at midday I came across Master F sitting in full, harsh sun in the backyard(which is why there are such deep shadows on his face), serenely picking 'flowers' (weeds). He'd gathered quite a little bunch of tiny flowers and held them up for me to admire.

Immediately and rapaciously, Cranky Old Godmother swooped with her camera, like a gyrfalcon descending on prey, to nab a blip- any photo would do! - for the day.