Gemma's moving on to a very cute sounding "mummy" while sticking with an old skool "dada". I increasingly have to comfort myself with a two week old incident when she moved into give (formerly-known-as) Mama a kiss, only to fake her out at the last second and plant one on me instead.

That ridge? It's still a ridge. And that lack of wailing? Things haven't been quite so quiet and the drool has intensified, so all signs point to an explosion of teeth, except for the teeth themselves. While at a friend's place yesterday Gemma did find and play with another girl's toothbrush, so at least she has aspirations. On the upside, no cavities.

The first family visitor since we moved was here last weekend, and honours go to Grandpa Bob. Accompanied by a luggage allowance-busting rocking chair, Dad reacquainted himself with the view of Greenland and cruised into Heathrow last Friday. Dire and erroneous weather forecasts squashed plans to hit the coastline, so it was an all Gemma, all London extended weekend. Luckily the gummy one was shedding her midweek fever and perking up, so smiles and playtime ruled. Grandparent proximity also rules, as highly reliable and cheap babysitting was on hand when we went to Paul and Jenn's wedding, a highly enjoyable and slightly more posh affair than what we usually get up to on a Saturday night. Backed by the formidable and statesmanlike presence of Rex on drums, the jazz band exposed the undertrained nature of our dancing skills until the early hours of the morning, as there was no nervous watch glancing to be home by a specific time. The visit was also a catalyst to head to some restaurants, and have an afternoon tea littered with grandparents (with three sources of genetic contributions) at Lucy's place.

Gemma and Kathy also combined to give me this year's Booker winner, The Life of Pi, from Montreal's Yann Martel. While not as commonly spotted as the ubiquitous Ulrika on the tube this week, it was a pretty good read.

It only took 15 months, but the telltale sharp ridge along those gums indicates that a tooth is about to break out. After using teething as an excuse for all inexplicable crying for the last six months, we think we're there (without, as it turns out, that much wailing). Now looking forward to an explosion of molars. And speaking of mouths: Gemma walks, she talks. "Cat" is now joined by reasonable facsimiles of ball, dog, maybe bottle (not sure if that one was a coincidence) and a very, very cute oh-oh.

Social skills are coming along with the start of daycare, or the "prison for small people" that Kathy felt on the first day (since largely diminished). Gemma herself doesn't seem to mind her new digs.