We must mollify the grown-up child with two-dollar peach-colour silk-satin: sanctify her star-feet - we try to hide chipped coffee-mugs. How long can I stay, feigning affection for her scripted slips, her paper skirts? Her fingerpaint smile? Her decadent croute-dent, her pesto, her peppermint style? Like feline ivy clings to the wall, and climbs, and shivers in the breeze, and finds its roots fifty feet below, and can't come down.