The liquid in the big cauldron gives off a succulent heat, steaming readily up into his face; it wets his forelock, and the scent of spices wafts through him. The spices, like the cauldron and the thick stew it holds, are dark in his nostrils, a rich blend of salt, sweet, spicy and sensuous- a perfect complement to his mood.
He grabs an empty bowl, then dusts off the bench behind his bum, forgetting the fact he’s just slid down it, dusting it already with his backside. He sits.
He makes a face, snarling his features in a caricature of the Doctor’s more disgruntled moments; it’s all for the Child’s benefit, of course.
As he plops a wooden spoon he found near the cauldron into the bowl full of dark, porridge-y grey swill and bright blue flecks and chunks of pale spiral something, he mutters, “… smells like a lot of nasty vegetables, muffin. Shall we dig in then? It’s the only thing suitable for Daddy’s hatch for metres around. I think I shall, really.” He pauses to scratch his head, digging his fingers into his limp and floppy hair, “… now be a good…. baby… demon… bean… thing and don’t make me vomit.”