Cluck cluck, cluck cluck, cute

It happens not infrequently when I coo at infants that someone makes noises about biological clocks and maternal instincts. I rarely welcome this turn in the conversation. On the savannah, however, I was able to gaze at baby animals with impunity, the rugrats in question being heavier than me.

Aah! Noble Young Tusk!
We saw plenty of baby elephants on the Masai Mara but this tuskless chap was the smallest. He looked like a shrivelled little alien and was still being nourished at the breast of his mother. Being nourished, I might add, by means of the juvenile trunk. When he grows up, he can look forward to eating for seventeen hours a day in order to maintain his body weight.

Ooh! Baby Tenderhorn!
Baby rhinos gambol! Mama rhino strolled, baby rhino skipped off. Mama rhino caught up reluctantly, baby rhino whizzed around. Ah, the games. And that pink streak in the background is pure flamingo.

Aah! Little Clawmonger!
First, we spied the lioness and then we made out the figure of the lion in the scrub and then and then we followed the path of the lioness into another scrubby outpost and gurgled as one as she nosed around her four little cubs. For some reason, this scamp was taken to visit Dad across the way. I acknowledge that a lion cub is not, strictly speaking, smaller than me but defy anyone to charge me with the desire to bear a lion in my womb.

Cute, cute, cute: such blasphemy on my world weary edge. I would be a far less cynical person were I confronted with such appealing young innocents on a regular basis. For this reason, I count it a blessing that I do not live within ooh-ah of a safari park.