The stories of Christmas

Oooh Christmas books down from the loft: Wibbly Pig and his itchy scarf, Angelina skating, Olivia the pig on Santa Watch. And our favourite, compulsory reading every night at the moment: Just for You, Blue Kangaroo. As delicious as mince pies and as cosy as a yule log fire. Still not quite there on the true meaning of Christmas, despite the madness of a nativity play in our living room on Monday, but I suppose there's a glimmer of hope in the message of Lily doing everything for her blue kangaroo, and him wanting to give something back in return.

Books and Christmas go together like holly and ivy. On woman's hour this week, I heard of a tradition of reading Dickens' Christmas Carol each year, starting on 1 December and finishing on Christmas Eve. That's one I mean to start next year. Move over, Wibbly ...

The true meaning of Christmas?

It bothers me that if you keep Christmas non-denominational you're not left with much aside from the presents.

I haven't worked out the answer to this problem yet, but when my sister suggested that, instead of drawing a Christmas card, I write a story, I thought I might give myself the challenge of coming up with something which captures what I think could be the true spirit of Christmas, without the baby Jesus.

We should take a moment here to realise that what my sister was actually saying was: face it, you can't draw, so while you might like the idea of giving your festive message the personal touch, the rest of us are wondering how we can politely not display your latest attempt at homemade greetings on the mantlepiece ...

Anyway, back to the case in hand. Walking in snowy Norfolk at the weekend, a story began to form itself in my head. (and by the way, may I add here that making up stories in your head as you walk sure beats worrying about work or Christmas shopping. From now on the moment some annoying niggle threatens to detract from a beautiful view, I shall be bopping it on the head with a 'once upon a time').

Home from work tonight just in the nick of time for a goodnight kiss and a wheedle for a story, I thought I'd road-test my new tale on my toughest critic. I won't tell it to you here - but in a nutshell I was rather chuffed with myself for using snow as a metaphor for the ephemeral nature of consumerism. But in a way I thought an almost-five-year-old might understand.

'But you can't bring snow inside mummy, it would melt. You'd have to have a very very cold room'
'Yes, yes you would. And she did. she had a very cold room'
[more story, at the end of which the snow does indeed melt]
'It's all right though because next time it snowed she'd have lots of snow again'

I'm getting the sense that my metaphor is just a little bit too subtle.

So this year, expect a card carrying the message:

Once upon a time there was a little girl who just wanted more and more stuff and refused to take no for an answer until her parents got so annoyed all they bought her for Christmas was a lump of coal. It didn't make her understand what Christmas was all about, but it made them feel better. The End.

Admire the view, and think of a story ...

The Funniest Book in the Whole World

I love these expressions that are creeping in to our lives now school has begun. I never quite know how much little a knows what they mean.

So, apparently, John Burningham's THE SHOPPING BASKET is the funniest book in the whole world.

We did chortle a little. But we didn't laugh our heads off. It's great for quirky, gawky illustration, lots of animals and good lists of fruit for counting. We were late for bedtime tonight though, so no time for counting here. Poor old Steven had to be in quite a rush to run all those errands for his mum ...

Mainly because I did want to have time to read MADELINE.

Away for a grown-ups only break in Norfolk for the weekend, I was delighted to see Madeline nestled into a beautiful window display in the bookshop in Burnham Market to take home (middle class? moi?). I don't know why it feels like a perfect read for the time of year, especially this year when snow has fallen so early. There's nothing Christmassy about the tale, and yet it feels so wintry and festive. Perfect for tucking up warm and dreaming of Paris.

Although little a is now worried about her appendix. Let's hope that laughter is the best therapy ...

Cat and Mouse

What is it about kids wanting to be animals? In the past week I've swung wildly between 'mummy cat' and 'owner' but the pretty constant theme is little a as kitten. This makes barking orders to stay in bed quite difficult - a bark doesn't carry so much meaning when it has to come out as a meow.

And it's added an entertaining new spin to Angelina's Royal Wedding (how apt! perhaps little a is a psychic cat! I can roll her out for the olympics now that the world cup octopus is sadly no longer with us). We still relish the twee stories and drool at the tasty wedding feast. But we also gobble up the mouselings as they prance across the page.

Most satisfying.

All together now: Meeeowp!

No strings

My lovely friend Paul pulled some strings to get us tickets to see Disney on Ice at the O2 recently. Little a was transported. The princesses, of course, were a big hit - no surprises there - but the lasting favourite has been Pinocchio.

The scene didn't stand out particularly at the time, aside from the scary whale. (We're going through a bit of fear-discovery I think. She was scared by the supposedly comic opening scene with Goofy and the Zamboni - leaping into my lap, wailing and clutching at me as though Godzilla himself was stalking the blue plastic seats). Since then, though, we've been subjected to 'I've got no strings on me' played on repeat interminably.

It's maybe a price worth paying. I've been inspired to dig out the original tale and put straight my sketchy recollections of fairies, foxes and donkeys. Little a seems captivated by the idea of a boy brought to life by love. It brings out in her the same reaction as a game we used to play with a big cardboard box: a special delivery arriving on my doorstep of my very own 'real girl'. Of course Pinocchio must have been there all along in my subconscious. And it seems to me a good first introduction to the birds and the bees. Not the act of creation itself, but the feelings you hope will accompany it.

Hmmm, that's deeper than I meant to go when I started to write about this jolly song that's going to be annoyingly lodged in my head all week. But it's true. And a lesson I'm a lot more comfortable with than the 'find-a-prince-and-kill-your-stepmother' messages of most of our storytelling inheritance ...

Bonfire night story

There once was a tiny spark born when a match was struck to light a candle.

The spark danced and spun in the candle flame and was happy. The candle burned bright on the windowsill, and the spark looked out through the window where she saw the stars twinkling and winking in the dark night sky. Burning brighter with yearning, the spark flew up up on the hot air above the candle flame, until she WHOOSHED out of the open window.

Out on the street below, she saw crowds of people walking in the cold darkness, faces bright with looking. Sparkling and shivering, she followed as the wind blew her hither and thither among the people.

They came to rest on the dark green of an open heath, and there the spark saw the biggest brightest flames she had ever seen. Burning brighter with yearning, she flew up up on the hot air above the bonfire and made a dancing whirling dervish with her new friends.

Out on the heath, both hot and cold from the fire and the night, the people raised their faces to the sky. Following where they gazed, the tiny spark saw a roaring WHOOSH of blaze and flame that burst into the darkness in a shower of sparkles bright and red and rainbow green, tumbling golden back to earth.

Burning brighter with yearning, the spark flew up up in the rocket stream and when the other sparks fell back down, she pushed on, on, reaching upwards ever upwards.

Far, far below, the tiny faces watched, bright and filled with wonder, eyes a-spark with the lateness and the heat.

Up and up the tiny spark flew, above the crackling fireworks, beyond the clouds, past the cold gaze of the moon until she came to rest in the velvet dark of the night sky.

There, she twinkles on long long long after other sparks had faded back to fire; and they named her Astrid, for that means STAR.

Monsters

Oh dear. What made me think a book about Monsters might make good bed-time reading?

It was the 'mythological' that did it: tapped straight in to my middle-class misconceptions that if it's inspired by Ancient Greece it must be good.

And reading it was fun. Wittily and inventively illustrated by Sara Fanelli, it got me thinking I might dig out some of the stories in full. We counted Scylla's heads, we spotted the two closed eyes of Argus, we decided that Pegasus was our favourite.

Lights out. 'Dream really happy dreams'.*

Five minutes later. 'I can't dream happy dreams I can't. I can only dream of monsters'

At least, I hear you say, she'd absorbed the lessons of the night: now she will know her harpies from her furies - her classical education has begun.

No, I'm afraid not. The monster that would stalk her dreams was tyrannosaurus rex.

Thank heaven (Zeus?) for Pegasus. 'I like horses. I like that he has wings. I like that he carries the stars. And there are children. He's my favourite'. Also, we decided, if T rex did show up (apparently being extinct doesn't count in dreams), then Pegasus could whisk her up so she could bop him on the nose (while he scrabbles widely but ineffectually with his pathetically small hands) before flying off to safety over the mountain to swim with mermaids and dolphins in a beautiful lake.

This still wasn't quite cutting the mustard (I don't like dolphins. I like mermaids though) so I laid it on thicker, with the application of a fairy godmother who would turn all the monsters into frogs (no, into butterflies - ah my daughter with her poetic soul!). And last but by no means least, the magic spotty blanket that would make them all dizzy so they'd fall over.

Brilliant. So instead of giving her a solid grounding in the classical tales, I've sent her off to the land of nod with a rattlebag of nonsense.

Ah well, whatever it takes for a good night's sleep.

*Charlie and Lola afficionados among you will recognise this as a quote from 'I do not ever want my teeth to fall out'. Now absorbed into our nightly lexicon ...

Dr Dolittle, Jane Goodall

I've just watched a BBC Four profile of Jane Goodall. What an amazing woman - beautiful, calm, absolutely single-minded in her purpose - and inspired to it all by Dr. Dolittle.

The magic of books ...

 

Happily Ever After

I've spent this week immersed in fairytales, and I have to say I've been a bit distressed.

I was looking out one in particular, that I vaguely remembered for being about seven brothers who were swans and their sister who made them shirts of nettles to turn them back into men.

I remember it as magical and have a strong visual memory of something I've never seen - the boys turning to swans and flying in the moonlight.

I wanted to tell the story as part of my Book Week session at the local nursery, where they've been telling stories about their families and themselves. I thought the swan brothers and their loyal sister might suit the theme quite well.

The Grimm original turns out to be a complex tale, dark and twisted as they tend to be. And I find it a tough call: it's not the blood and poisons and death that I want to shield from my daughter and any other children I might be telling stories to. It's the wickedness of people: the calculating stepmothers, the careless fathers, the brutal siblings.

I think I want to keep the swan brothers as they are in my childhood memories: beautiful and endangered, but still somehow with a sense of purity and innocence. I fear I may be hopelessly naive and not preparing little a for the realities of life at all.

Or maybe it's that I feel Julia Donaldson's message is a better one to learn. We read Zog this evening at our friends' house. How brilliant: it has all those elemental elements of fairy tale - dragon, princess, knight - but with a great twist on the classic ending that gives them all an 'after' to the happily ever bit. And not a wicked stepmother in sight.

So, I think I will tell the story of the seven swan brothers, but with more of the beauty and less of the baby-snatching (the poor unlucky heroine in Grimm's tales suffers not only an evil stepmother but a wicked wicked mother-in-law).

And it turns out the shirts are to be made, not of nettles, but of starwort, a delicately beautiful water flower.

Everybody ready for a barnyard dance!

My dear friend Emma just reminded me of the brilliant Sandra Boynton. I don't think I've written about her, and that is just wrong.

Barnyard Dance came as a present when little a was born, or at least not long after, from relatives in Canada, and it's one of the best books we've been given.

If ever you wanted a book to get you up and dancing and shouting, it's the barnyard dance:
Stand with the donkey
Sliiiiiide with the sheep
Scramble with the little chicks
Cheep Cheep Cheep

Genius.

Also highly recommend 'But Not the Hippopotamus'.

Am inspired: rest assured, after school tomorrow, little a and I will be stomping our feet, clapping our hands, getting ready for a barnyard dance.

Maybe we should draw the curtains first ...

Black Beauty

I met a really lovely and interesting woman today who is 60 and has just re-read Black Beauty, because someone reminded her of it the other day.

I love that.

reading allowed

Three weeks in to her school career and little a is reading already. Well, that's what I thought until I clocked that in fact she'd learned the words and was reciting them back. But I guess she's sort of recognising the letters and that's prompting her memory, right?

We have reading 'homework' to do with her: books to read together, and a notebook to write down what she thought and how she got on. The first book she 'read' is called Nog. It's about a dog. Gripping stuff: Nog goes in. The cat runs out.

As well as the total rush of pride (misplaced as it turned out) I've also got deep deep nostalgia for the books I learned to read from myself. Desperately want little a to be learning from Billy Blue-Hat and the Village at Three Corners.

I can't imagine that Billy and his chums were any more exciting than Nog - and Janet and John certainly not. So it's just making me wonder: by wanting to read the books I loved with little a am I trying to trap her in an old-fashioned childhood that isn't relevant any more? I'm definitely really protective of what she reads and even worse about TV (basically, Charlie & Lola on very rare occasions and that's it). I'm an entertainment fascist. Am going to have to find a way of letting go ...

beautiful creatures

I've been dreading the start of homework, it seemed to mark the end of innocence more even than sending little a off to fend for herself in the world of big school, too-large skirt flapping below her knees.

But when we peeled back the velcro of her 'postal system' school bookbag to find a reading log, fithusband and I were actually quite excited. This is the kind of homework we can do.

Also, little a is choosing her own books to read and that's really interesting to see. Thus we've been introduced to the excellent Grumpalump (with perfect timing - that very weekend we saw a hot air balloon right up close); and a less excellent book about pirates (afraid I can't remember what it's called). And - as if we weren't spoilt enough with all this new reading matter - she came home this week with a bag from the Booktrust with two books, to keep! Much excitement.

And so it's been a couple of weeks of weird and wonderful animals, from 'the mole rolled' and 'the bear stared' in the grumpalump, to Eric Carle's slow, slow, slow Sloth. Like most people, I grew up with The Very Hungry Caterpillar, but this was my first encounter with his sloth: and a menagerie of unfamiliar animals - a peccary, a quetzal, a cock-of-the-rock.

Tonight, to extend the theme, we dusted off Curious George goes camping; in which he gets the wrong end of a skunk with some stinky results. I'm not sure how I feel about Curious George - for a start, he was cruelly snatched from the jungle in book one and now lives in Manhattan with the man in the yellow hat. They're definitely tales from a different age.

But in spite of this new exotic array of beasts, Big Dog, Little Dog remain the number one favourites. Unlike George they're standing the test of time - and more importantly, the test of being read night after night.

Big Dog, Little Dog

Can we read my favourite book in all the world? The red and green one?

This is one of those books I'd forgotten I remembered. When I found it in a box of old books at my parents' house, the familiarity was instant.

I don't know what it is about the illustrations, the simplicity of the story, but this has to be a classic component to any child's book collection.

Fred and Ted (surprisingly chic in a 70s knitwear catalogue kind of a way, given they're only clad in roll-neck jumpers) couldn't be more different - or better friends.

But when they get into a pickle over finding a good night's sleep, it's a bird who has the answer (of course).

Happy to make this particular trip down memory lane as many times as little a requires!




PS not particularly book-related, but this week gave in to a long-held temptation and bought an imperia pasta maker. Little a took to it like a duck to water - or more like a laundry-mistress to a mangle. Highlight was chomping on wolf-shaped pasta while singing 'who's afraid of the big bad wolf' ...

Starting School

Well, that's it, little a is launched into the world and my days of intricate details of what she's been up to and whether she's earned a smiley face today are done.

From now on it'll be all grunts and cryptic comments, in response to my probing questions about what she had to eat (why do we care? My mother still asks me that as one of the first things when I tell her I've been somewhere. It's still annoying. I am vowing not to ask it. Ever. Like saying 'haven't you grown! No no I shan't I shan't, however tempting and true it might be).

Working mumness means school gate duty has been delegated to fithusband and the grandparents so far. How heartbreaking is that? I didn't even see her in her uniform on the first day, and I'm gleaning everything secondhand from everybody, with varying degrees of success.

Anyway I think she likes it. Her only assessment on day one 'I didn't have lunch' - I guess I take this as a positive sign, that she wanted to stay for longer. And on day two 'I wasn't shy'.

Grandma tells me little a met the cook today, and knows her teachers' names. Grandma has also befriended half the mums at the gate already. Many more years of probing-question experience. I know it will take me at least until half-term to reach the same stage of schoolgate-integration.

All of which is a long-winded way of saying I'm very pleased I tracked down a copy of the Ahlberg's Starting School. It doesn't have the captivating charm of Each Peach or Burglar Bill, but it's a lovely straightforward tale of what to expect from your first school days, and reading it with little a last night I felt I had some sort of vicarious insight into this week's momentous events.

Certainly a different league from the execrable Disney creation Cinderella Plans Her Wedding which came in the post from princess G today. The special new pencil case and beautifully written good luck card just about managed to balance out the pain of "with friends by your side, anything is possible!"

And I just know which of the two will be favourite bedtime reading in the nights to come ...

Mr Men and Little Miss

We're really into the Mr Men at the moment.

I think the originals are best - Mr Tickle and Mr Small. Somehow the little Misses just aren't quite as good (don't get me started on Little Miss Star - the worst of celebrity aspiration coming true, oh Hargreaves how could you?)

It's amazing how many grown men there are out there with Mr Men on their t-shirts too: little a likes to spot them. Perhaps I'll get her an i-Spy book to record her findings. Mr Messy and Mr Greedy in one trip to Waterloo station alone.

I draw the line at that notorious BHS starter-bra range for Little Miss Cheeky though ...

A picture worth a thousand words?

Picture books are so tempting. In Foyles today to choose a new treat, I paused longingly on Emily Gravett's Rabbit Problem, skipped through a tale by Margaret Atwood (not a patch on Handmaid's Tale, though quicker to read), yearned for Pippi Longstocking illustrated by Lauren Child*.

But it's not enough to have beautiful illustrations. I've learned to my cost that a picture isn't worth a thousand words. They're important, but it's the words you're going to have to read time and again, and a lot of children's books are sadly lacking on that front. The rabbits were exquisite, the text witty, and the climactic popup fantastic - but the narrative drive comes from calendar entries, so I can't see it becoming a new classic in our library.

In the end, we turned to our old favourites - and still the best - the killer combination of Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler. It's her words that just make it, and his pictures which bring them to life.

Their latest, Tabby McTat, includes opportunity for singing: how could I resist?

Little a: 'Can I see the robber again?'

In Edinburgh for our wedding anniversary this bank holiday weekend, we saw the very grownup storyteller Rachel Rose Reid, weaving her own tales with the life story and tales of Hans Christian Andersen. No pictures, no children, just her words (and the wonderful lyrics of Joni Mitchell) and a spellbound audience. For me, the magic of storytelling will never be something you outgrow.




*When little a is just that bit older, and up for investing in words without pictures, we'll be back for that Pippi Longstocking. Can't think of a better combination of illustrator with storyteller. But in the meantime, our lovely neighbours brought back the original Pippi picturebook from Sweden. Completely surreal, but little a loves the tales of the strongest girl in the world, who cooks for herself and carries her pet horse.

Piggy Tales

I have such mixed feelings about my yearning to be a storyteller. I find those thick woollen cardis deeply itchy, I just don't think comfortable shoes are attractive, and I can see from the puzzlement in my friends' eyes when I confess my secret dream that the word storyteller is somehow fusty and earnest, whatever the Independent may have claimed this weekend [http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/features/tall-tales-meet-the-storytellers-spinning-edgy-new-yarns-for-the-digital-age-2055972.html]

Over time though I've come to see it's the perfect medium for me. And there's something incredibly immediate, breathtakingly scary but liberating, about having nothing but words to bind an audience to you.

Admittedly, not many professional storytellers ply their art with a four-and-a-half-year-old trying to sit on their head. But then I'm not a professional.

So, last weekend, I had my first storytelling gig. We were camping with pigs - yes, literally sleeping in pig arcs, with piglets in the neighbouring fields (come to think of it, my friends got the same you're totally insane look at that as a weekend pursuit) - and I plucked up courage to offer my storytelling services.

Day one, huddled in straw as the elements lashed at the mud outside, we found Edward Lear's piggy-wig, and huffed and puffed and blew the house down. I unearthed a lesser-known Hans Christian Andersen tale, of the princess and the swineherd, and went on a limb with a story little a and I had invented the night before. And without a script, I could spin the tales just long enough for the rain to end.

Day two, we took refuge in the pub (the fabulous Royal Oak in Bishopstone http://www.royaloakbishopstone.co.uk/) as the heavens continued to pelt us. And without little a clambering on me, we had a much more focused group round the table, for the pig who cried wolf, and a story we all made up together.

I loved it. My favourite moment was in the pub. Two boys who'd mainly spent the weekend terrorising piglets, and who were waiting for the tractor-taxi, not even listening to the stories, were drawn in closer and closer. And the fear in their eyes: the belief that there really was a wolf stalking the table.

The Independent piece today talks about storytelling not just being for children under six, and I agree. I think it's timeless, that people of any age will be drawn in by the picture you weave with words. But children are the most exacting, and satisfying audience: if they don't like it, or are bored, they'll tell you. And if they love it, you don't just make them happy: their parents love it too.

I've definitely got the bug. Now I just need to pluck up the courage to do it again. Watch this space ...

Cautionary Tale

Tomorrow night, I must get home in time to make a cake for my ungodson's Christening. So it's exceptionally good timing that little a's favourite bedtime read at the moment is THE DUCHESS BAKES A CAKE. My husband has read it ten nights in a row now (he claims: though since he was off gallivanting round Liverpool at the weekend that has to be taken with a large dash of tabasco). So I'm in the good books for making it back in time for bedtime tonight.

And good book it certainly is. What other tales outside the Pilgrim's Progress could get away with rhyming leaven with Heaven? And this without a thinly veiled religious message, even.

I love everything about it: the simple but cute illustrations (the Duchess's daughters in little red caps, adorable), the pacy rhyme ('You'll all be delighted, for I'm going to make/A lovely light luscious delectable cake) and best of all the moral of the tale: baking's a dangerous game best left to your cook. Stick to the reading and writing ...

Asked little a what was her favourite thing about it.
Answer: 'The rising'

In a nutshell: Duchess, more accustomed to bluestockinged pursuits, sends cook on holiday and determines to bake said lovely light luscious delectable cake - only to find an improper proportion of leaven takes her right up to Heaven. Call the cavalry, but not even a shower of arrows can bring her down ('All that they hit was a couple of sparrows').

Then Gunhilde, the youngest, she howled and she wailed,
And their every attempt to quiet her failed.
"Don't cry, dear," the Duke said, "about your poor mother.
I'm sure, if you wish, I can find you another."

Turns out little G is nothing more than hungry - and can you guess how they rescue the Duchess from the top of her cake?

It is tales like this that make me glad to be in the modern world, one of civilised ingredients such as self-raising flour.

A book as lovely as a tree

One of my husband's favourite pastimes, when he's not diving into the undergrowth hunting out mushrooms, is tree speculation. This consists of striding through the countryside confidently pointing out nearby Ash - or maybe Elder, or it could be oak ... He's a carpenter. If he didn't undermine his first declaration, I'd happily take him at his word. But I guess they look different with their leaves still on.

So you can imagine my pleasure to find A LITTLE GUIDE TO TREES nestled amongst a really lovely selection of books* in a giftshop in Walburswick. It's an Eden Project publication, written and charmingly illustrated in Edward Ardizzone-style by Charlotte Voake, and it's an absolute treat.

Each spread is dedicated to a different type of tree, with the distinctive leaf-shape easy to spot in the top right-hand corner, and tips on what to look out for in each season, along with titbits of knowledge. Did you know Alder is used to make clogs? Or that birch twigs make good broomsticks?

We spent a happy afternoon, measuring the height of a tree using nothing more than a friend and a pencil, and identifying - really, truly identifying, no more speculation for us, thank you - the trees we saw on our pre-lunch walk. Ever the Eden-minded naturalists, we took note of the book's advice to take the book to the tree, not the tree to the book, and didn't pick leaves. But the book is a little large for carrying on walks, so here's a tip: take photos while you're on your walk, return to pub carpark, get book out of car, and then happily occupy small offspring with matching pics to illustrations while you sup your pint of good local ale ...




*Snapped up two other treasures in the giftshop: for boat-building husband, Kipling's THE SHIPWRIGHT'S TRADE stirringly illustrated with woodcuts by James Dodds (a former boat-builder: perfect!) and KATIE MORAG DELIVERS THE MAIL. Little a captivated by both. A succesful book-hunting trip all round, and icing on the cake of a picture-perfect day at the seaside.

Playing Dead

Enjoying a revival of SCAREDY SQUIRREL at the moment. Makes a nice break from LITTLE MISS STAR ...

We're all going on a ...

Last week was blissful. Our last chance saloon before school kicks in, we snuck away before the end of term to a cottage in Lyme Regis.

In our book bag (Daunt's, of course ...) little A packed:
GORILLA by Anthony Browne - a present from a work colleague, an absolute treasure of a discovery, beautifully illustrated and wonderfully pensive
SCAREDY SQUIRREL MAKES A FRIEND by Melanie Watt - I love these books, discovered through little A's Canadian cousins. Lots of fun
SOME DOGS DO by Jez Alborough - as you know, a favourite of ours
To which I added:
THE VELVETEEN RABBIT, THE POOH STORY BOOK, Tony Ross's FAVOURITE NURSERY RHYMES and a lovely illustrated edition of CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY.

But our friends had brought some literary treasures too, so as it turned out, only Charlie got a look in, our book at bedtime serial for the evenings.

Biggest hits were box sets of Pepa Pig (cue much grunting) and the Little Princess books. I do love Tony Ross's illustrations, but have to worry that the princess teaches v bad habits. A lot of quoting of 'I don't want to go to bed' went on ...

But what bliss, always to be home for bedtime, spending days on the beach making sand castles, sand dragons, seaweed witches and neptunes, and making up adventures for them all as we went along.

Best borrowed book of the holiday was THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER'S LUNCH: proper suspense narrative there, and very appropriate for our seaside holiday. And I was itching to get my hands on ALIENS IN UNDERPANTS SAVE THE WORLD but our Little Princess was too obsessed with the Little Princess.

Really really lovely to be away with story fiends like us, spending happy evenings outdoing each other with comedy accents and grown-up asides; and even getting a little quiet reading time ourselves. What did I read for me? Tracy Chevalier's REMARKABLE CREATURES, of course. Had to be either that or FRENCH LIEUTENANT'S WOMAN ...

Only disappointment of the trip was that the Ahlbergs' lovely dedicated bookshop has turned into a Cath Kidstone emporium. The twisty wooden bannister and painted blue-sky nook are all that remain of a haven for reading delight. Every book by them is a treasure: I can still recite EACH PEACH PEAR PLUM by heart, although little a too old for it now. But I've just found a new title - STARTING SCHOOL. Could be just what we need, come September.

cool dreams

LITTLE GREY RABBIT AND THE SNOWBABY and PINK! the unlikely story of a Penguin who turns - you guessed it - pink. Perfect cooling reads for a hot summer's night.

Plus totally not book-related but a handy tip for leftover sandwiches (this evening, ham, but would work just as well with cheese, marmite, chocolate spread ...): squash firmly together, dip in a bowl of lightly beaten egg, then fry both sides in a little olive oil (or, for a real treat, butter) - deluxe eggy bread! Little a not a fan, which gives me the excuse to eat them all ...

Happiness is a Hemulen

The other night, as a ruse to get little a to wash her hair, I told her the story of the little mermaid. The great thing about making stories up, or telling them from memory, is that you can make them last just the right amount of time - and build in cunning ploys to get what you want along the way.

I'm not sure how well I remembered it, I was trying to avoid Disney creeping in too much (though couldn't get away without the mermaid being called Ariel, of course), but also kept getting flashes of Angela Carter popping in to my head, which is possibly a little too advanced for four and a quarter. So I steered clear of 'every step she took felt like sharp knives' feminist symbolism, but did leave Ariel pining for her friends and family in the sea, in spite of being happily in love with her Prince.

"I like that story" was the verdict from little a
"oh good. Why did you like it?"
"Because it was sad"

Isn't that interesting? I definitely have a tendency to steer towards the happy ever after, and even happy all the way through stories. With the exception of a bit of George's Marvellous Medicine I'm probably horribly guilty of wrapping my child in narrative cotton wool.

I'm going to have to wean myself off that.

But am I allowed to keep my two treasures on the theme of searching for happiness?

One is a new discovery from an old favourite: Tove Jansson and WHO WILL COMFORT TOFFLE? I'd been itching to buy Moomins from the moment little a became a twinkle in the eye,and I can remember reading this to her when I was on maternity leave, which was definitely too advanced and more for me than her. Anything Moomin is an absolute treat, and this is a quirky love story up there with the Zeeder and the Zyder as something you could just as well give to your first love as read to your small child.

The other is a secondhand find, from an author I'd not heard of, though a quick google tells me I possibly should have. It's called HAPPINESS! by Eva Janikovsky, with totally brilliant and deceptively simple illustrations by Laszlo Reber. The author is from Budapest, and the translation I suspect is a little clunky. But it's funny and endearing, and honest and true: a little boy learns that what makes him happy isn't necessarily what makes those around him happy - but that making others happy can make you happy, even if you're doing something which you didn't expect to make you happy. If you get what I mean. There are some grownups I'd like to send this to. But in the meantime I like reminding myself as much as I like the message it gives to little a.

So, last night, as we swung gently on the swingseat in my parent's garden*, I could feel happy, even though I was reading the super-icky adventures of Lettice the ballet-dancing rabbit - because 'It's really very difficult to find out what makes others happy. But, you see, it can be done'.




*I have to confess to cheating a little - it's so much easier to be happy here than anywhere else, because it is my favourite place in all the world. I whiled away many a long summer holiday curled up here with a good (and not-so-good) book ...

rumpeta rumpeta rumpeta!

You may have noticed that I'm a big fan of children's books with loud shouty join-in bits. little a is too, especially if those big loud shouty join-in bits can be accompanied by clambering on to my neck, sitting on my head and bouncing up and down with the kind of glee that only my osteopath could share.

My lovely next door neighbour, who has twins a bit older than little a, is a brilliant and generous story-reader. She takes her time, asks questions, engages the kids in what's going on.

I'm ashamed to say that I read aloud the same way I read in my head: too fast. If I could skim-read without the 'you-missed-a-bit' police taking action, I probably would. And I'm a lot less likely to ask 'how do you think he's feeling? is he angry?' than I am to leap up, stride around the room and do a bit of excessive angry-acting.

All of which is a round-about introduction to two delightful stories which have top and tailed my day nicely. They're perfect for me, because you can't help but let the kids join in, and you don't even have to remember to ask.

Morning choice (aside from Kipper builds a tree house which yes is very cute but no does not make my sun shine brighter) was The Great Big Enormous Turnip.

Our edition is illustrated by Helen Oxenbury. The inscription in the front is to me for my third birthday from my godmother.

'Can she fly?' asked little a.
'Errrm - no ...' say I
'But my fairy godmother can fly'

Who knew the Turnip was written by a descendant of Tolstoy? I love it for that, and the fact that it's clearly a parable for group action that is probably the subliminal reason for my champagne socialism today. And of course it's a wonderful tale for reading aloud, with its repetition ('they PULLED and PULLED again!'), lists (the old man called the grandmother, the grandmother called the granddaughter ...), opportunity for bad west country accent ('grow, grow little turnip grow') and dramatic all-fall-over-in-a-big-heap climax.

This evening's delight, perhaps less well-known, but equally brilliant for all the reasons above, is The elephant and the bad baby. The baby isn't really bad, he's just impolite, but - you see - another good subliminal message is going on there underneath all the entertainment.

This used to be a favourite on our bus and tube commute (over an hour each way, was I mad?), though I expect our fellow travellers didn't feel the same way. Little a from very early on took great pleasure in yelling out 'yes' to every offer from the elephant of a half-inched pie or lollipop, and I take great pleasure in embellishing the story with my own 'oy come back ere you thieving elephant' for each victim, thus weaving in a cunning showcase of my range of regional accents. You can see why the pin-striped brigade might not have been amused.

We've read it so often I know it by heart, and it's a great one if you're stuck dandling a baby on your knee: RUMPETA RUMPETA RUMPETA!



Sad to say, the Helen Oxenbury edition is out of print, so here is the Ladybird one as well. Elephant and his bad baby still going strong though. By the way, it features one of the worst in my collection of non-aspirational mother figures, redeemed only by her impressive pancake-tossing ability ...

storytime voting

Little a was still up (just) when I got home tonight, even though strictly speaking it was after bedtime. In a fit of election day excitement I suggested a family trip to the polling station, instead of storytime.

What better tribute to the suffragettes, I thought, than to give my daughter a childhood memory of an illicit trip to vote in her pyjamas.

In the event, I fear the only part of it which didn't go over her head was the polling booth itself. She walked in to that handy ledge that's just right for making your mark on, and precisely head-height for four-year-olds.

Still, it's made a nice memory for me: and I can just fast forward myself to that first election day after her 17th birthday (maybe 16th, who knows what tomorrow may bring?) when I'll have something more interesting to tell her than who to vote for. Little a skipping along the pavement in her slippers on a beautiful sunny evening, oblivious to the tensions and hot air and the future of the shiny men in suits hanging in the balance ...

Uttley lovely

We visited Granny this weekend at her new house in Suffolk, and came across a wonderful secondhand bookshop, in an old Methodist chapel in Westleton >http://www.chapelbooks.com/shop/chapel/index.html. The proprietor, resplendant in hat and pyjama bottoms, offered us tea and coffee as we browsed through higgledy piggledy shelves of treasures, stumbling across the occasional sculptures and eccentric objets.

I headed straight for the children's books, and had to restrain myself from pouncing on Louisa M Alcott. Definitely too soon to expect little a to sit through Little Women. But what an instant hit from memory lane to find a Little Grey Rabbit book, with its distinctive title type and layout, cover design, the line-drawn endpapers, and of course Margaret Tempest's beautiful illustrations.

We couldn't wait. We started reading in the car on the way to the beach. Fuzzypeg was an instant hit with little a. And if being in the bright sunshine of the beautiful countryside hadn't already made me want to run away from the big smoke, Little Grey Rabbit's adventures learning how to make lace had me yearning for a little green-doored cottage of my own. There is something so irresistible about hedgerow creatures dressed in Cath Kidston-esque outfits wishing on the moon.

It sounds twee, and I suppose if you were to be critical, then yes it is. But it's also surprisingly witty (Squirrel and Hare are the comic foil to Little Grey Rabbit's sensible country housewife) and gritty ('Let's cook him for dinner'). And I love this quote from the introduction: 'The country ways of Grey Rabbit were the country ways known to the author'.



Seems poor old little grey rabbit is out of print - how can this be? She is every bit as good as Beatrix Potter ...

The witching hour

Tonight, even though it's nowhere near either Hallowe'en or Christmas, we treated ourselves to The Nightmare Before Christmas.

I loved the film, and picked up this copy from the pulp shelf when I worked at Penguin - long before little a was even a twinkling in the eye. As far as I can remember, I hadn't opened it again until this Christmas.

It claims to be written by Tim Burton - I have no idea if a ghost was involved (no pun intended. Actually I hate it when people say that. It's like saying 'I don't mean to be rude but ...' Clearly the pun was intended, and clearly I had a clever self-conscious moment thinking oh how witty that would be. But anyway, back to the point). It's illustrated by him too, and he is clearly a talented and impressive man, even if he did manage to make Alice in Wonderland too scary for little a to watch until she's about 21.

If you're not afraid of a bit of gothic, and your child has a slightly strange attraction to skeletons*, then The Nightmare Before Christmas is a refreshing change to all schmaltzy Christmas ick that I gritted my teeth through this year. Do you find me still reading Just For You Blue Kangaroo or Angelina's Christmas as the tulips are blooming? No - they are safely tucked up with the stockings in the loft. The Nightmare is fun enough, and dark enough, to haunt us all year round.




*When little a was about two and a half, the Wellcome Institute held an exhibition of skeletons unearthed in London. There was a poster at the tube stop we saw each day, with a huge skull on it. She loved it. So I took her to the exhibition, and she loved that too. I revelled in the contrasts: bouncy toddler in a crowd of serious academics, full of life but fascinated by relics of death. Somehow it wasn't morbid at all, but felt like a celebration of life. I suppose because the bodies were displayed as insights into history. We bought a book there - Allan Ahlberg's Bump in the Night. Sad to say, not up there with Each Peach or Burglar Bill, but fun enough if you like your skeletons a little less, well, skeletal.

Confessions of a working mother

I haven't been home in time for stories once this week. Hate that.

When I was having a particularly low time in the work/life juggling act last year, my friend Katy sent me a copy of I don't Know How She Does It by Allison Pearson. I have to say my instant reaction was 'why do I want to read about this? I'm living it' - I wanted escape, not to have my nose rubbed in it.

But you know, it's funny and it's true and it makes you want to press it in to the hands of your husband and wail 'this is my life this is my life!' You're safe to do this, there's no way he'll read a book so pink, and when you've calmed down again you'll realise that maybe it's just as well because there's not a lot he can do to make things better.

Because the true cause of things feeling wrong is emotional, not circumstantial.

Six months on, a line from the book keeps coming back to me:'nobody told me'. It's so true, that nobody tells you how it will feel when you have to leave a sick child to go to an important meeting; nobody tells you how it will break your heart that you can't make the Christmas play, or rush in late and miss the crucial bit. Before your child is born, you think about them in terms of logistics. After you've met them, the worst thing is that you still have to plan everything as logistics, but all you really want to do is pour all your energy and love and creativity into them and to hell with all the careful plans.

But the other truth that shines to me is that the pressure comes so much from ourselves. It's not about what's best for the child: god knows little a is healthy and happy, and chucks my energy and love and creativity back in my face most of the time; and it's not even about what work demands of us. It's that we think we should be able not to have it all, but to do it all. We want to be perfect mothers and perfect career girls. It's the perfectionism that does us in.

So, give yourself a break. Read Allison Pearson. Laugh, cry, and then go back to crazy multi-tasking.

the future of bedtime?

This week I bought the app of Guess How Much I Love You?

A review in The Bookseller promised 'you need never read a bedtime story again' which seemed a little sad to me.

Little a might disagree though. Essentially, it's an audiobook and ebook combined: you press the button to turn the pages, which appear just as they do in the book, and a recorded voice reads the text for you.

It has rather a nice feature which allows you to record your own reading. Brilliant, I thought, at last my outstandind reading abilities can be recorded for posterity.

Not so. We now have half a customized version of Guess How Much I love You? Featuring my dulcet tones overlaid with the wails of little a: 'I want the MAAAAAN! No mummy no! you're not LISTENING TO MEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!'

She loves pressing the button. She loves the man.

I hate the sticky fingers on my precious iphone and being upstaged by a recording.

But most of all I hate that this charming story with its elegant illustrations has become appealing because of gadgetry when what I always loved about it was the chance to curl up with my own little nutbrown hare and tell her I loved her to the moon and back. Get the app if you must, but please enjoy the book as well ...

sugar plum fairies

A confession: I'm starting to worry about just how girly and wrapped in cotton wool little a is becoming.

I started with the best intentions. I avoided pink and nurtured her instincts to climb to the very top of whatever tall thing she could find.

But pink was the first colour she recognised, auntie's gift of blue shoes induced a tantrum that could be heard in Camden - and she loves ballet in the way it seems only little girls can (Billy Elliot doesn't seem to have had a great deal of impact on our patch of SE London).

It really struck home to me this week on our trip to the Tower of London with our friends and their son. When he corrected my authoritative discussion of the catapult in the moat by the entrance by pointing out that it is in fact a trebouchet, I realised I was totally out of my league. Resplendent in knightly armour of purest plastic, he galloped around, sword in air, shouting 'chaaaaarge' at passing groups of gormless teen tourists, while little a skipped the corridors singing about princesses. Should I worry about this? Is it just the natural order of things asserting itself? Or should I have embraced the opportunity to discuss the finer points of warmongering and kingship in a hope that our bloodthirsty surroundings might shake some of the sequins out of her head?

I definitely shouldn't be reading her Angelina Ballerina. But I can't resist. The intricate illustrations, filled with cottages and chintz and home-made jam, remind me of the brambly hedge stories I loved as a child (must try and track some of those down ...) and the mouselings' adventures are sweetly pretty in every way. Billy Elliot would approve, I'd think: it seems there isn't a problem in the world that can't be solved by a delightful ballet dance.

As well as the books, there is the live English National Ballet show, which entranced little a when we saw it last summer, and a beautifully intricate pop-up house with paper dolls, that can keep her occupied for half an hour at a time.

Next week, I promise, I'll read her something macho. But this week we're being girly and frou-frou and dressing mainly in pink froth.



We chose Angelina and the Royal Wedding on our trip to http://www.primrosehillbooks.com/ today. Such a lovely lovely bookshop. Could almost have been conjured up by Angelina's creators Katharine Holabird and Helen Craig - just what a bookshop should be.

happy feelings make you fly

Bookstart http://www.bookstart.org.uk/Home is the most amazing initiative. Free books for pre-school children at key stages seems to me to be an impossibly generous and imaginative scheme.

Given my profession, little a is if anything over-exposed to books. She's devouring stories and learning letters at an alarming rate. We've even considered Steiner education just to hold her literacy back (they don't formally teach children to read until age six or seven. I like this - let their imaginations run riot while they can, I say). I wish there was an equivalent scheme for sporty things.*

I'm especially grateful to Bookstart because one of those nice free books in our most recent treasure chest box was Some Dogs Do. Ooh it's lovely.

Do dogs fly? Well ... some dogs don't and some dogs do!



*I'm being unfair. There is of course the swim4life scheme, which gives little a the chance to go swimming for free at our local, freezing, mouldy and stained pool. Rather like handing out mildewed second-hand-books in terms of inspiring us to take part, I fear.
And on the subject of Steiner - of course I'm being flippant. If I was rich enough not to work but still have the money, she'd be there with all the tiger lilies and elvises, playing with wooden toys and learning to weave.

mum's the word

When I draw myself with Astrid (I don't want you to imagine high art here, we're talking skillfully executed stick people) I never draw glasses. Even though I've worn them more than half my life, I still don't think of myself as a glasses-wearer.

And it's the same when I'm reading stories. I'm never thinking of myself as the parent figure. I'm still there as the child, having the adventure, being eaten by the monster, or flying with the snowman.

And that's why, although I love The Tiger Who Came to Tea, it's also come as a shock to me. Look at Sophie's mummy, in her cardy and comfy shoes, not uttering a word of protest as the tiger scoffs every last one of her (no doubt) beautifully home-made cakes, her only concern being that there's no food left for daddy's tea. Is that me? Is that really me?

Or - worse - the slipper-shod mother in Raymond Briggs' divine The Snowman and the comfy-trouser-wearing mum in Penelope Lively's magical Two Bears and Joe. If mothers are present at all in these stories, they're the plumper-of-pillows, plonker-of-food, breaking-of-dreams figure in the background, slightly harried looking and always frumpy.

I think I may have to go on a mission now to find a mother-figure to aspire to. Until then I'm going to stick with projecting myself on to the lovely carefree children instead. So, like Sophie, I'm thrilled that a tiger drank all my bath water, that I got to eat sausages and chips and icecream at the local caff for tea, and I'm hoping one day he might come back to see us again some day.


(very sorry to see that Two Bears and Joe doesn't seem to be in print any more. If you can get hold of a copy, it's absolutely lovely: a little boy spends the day with imaginary bears, playing in the snow of his parents' bed, climbing the bannister forests, hiding in the bears' cave under the stairs, beautifully illustrated. Definitely worth 7p or whatever the second hand sellers are offering it for)

milk and existentialism

It's never too early to start them with a little surrealism, I say.

I'm off work this week, joining the league of bewildered normally working parents trying to pretend they know how to look after their own children in the school holidays. So at half seven this morning, rather than lying on the floor having a screaming tantrum about socks (me, not her: she doesn't care that she isn't wearing any, we're running late, and I have a meeting at half nine), little a and I were still snuggled up in bed, and reading Bob & Co by Delphine Durand.

I think I can be safe in saying this is not, and probably never will be, a classic of children's literature. It's a quirky little book, to say the least. Another Tate bookshop find, and I must have been reeling from some particularly intense artistic experience at the time.

Now, I must warn you, if you're of a religious disposition and likely to be offended by the depiction of God as a small pink blob, then this isn't for you.

We like it, though. 'God has a girl voice' apparently. He's pink. Go figure.

It's basically the story of the beginning of the world, and prompts in my four-year-old such existential insights as
'when the emptiness is full, it's the fullness'
This will surely stand her in good stead at dinner parties in the future.

It feels like a good top-and-tailing of the day that one of little a's bedtime story selection for tonight was Maurice Sendak's The Night Kitchen. As my good friend Os puts it 'he's not just where the wild things are' and how right she is. I remember this book so strongly from my childhood, not because we had it at home (Maurice Sendak was only where the wild things are in our house, as it happened) but for the embarrassing fact that me and my friend (not Os I hasten to add) were delighted by the fact that you can see his willy ...

little a takes the nudity in her stride. In fact I'm not sure she even notices it. But we do have an ongoing dispute about whether the correct reading is 'slid down the side' (of the milk bottle) or 'slid down the slide'. Perhaps Mr Sendak did indeed leave out the 'l' by mistake.

Either way, it is a riot of surrealism, a dream of a book (literally) and the illustrations of Mickey flying over a city of milk bottles and flour shakers have been clearly etched in my memory from my willy-giggling girlhood. little a takes great relish in belting out 'quiet down there!' and 'cock-a-doodle-doo!' and is very keen on the idea of cake for breakfast every day. In her dreams ...



PS two more, non-book things: our 'quality mummy time' outing today was to the Enchanted Palace at Kensington Palace and I thoroughly recommend it. I'm not a big fan of stately homes and royal palaces and the like: I think houses are for living in and don't get why you'd want to peer through the precious gloom at dark and dainty chairs you're not allowed to sit in even if you're an old gent with a gammy leg. But the Palace is being renovated, and in a flight of imagination rather than covering the place in dustsheets they've welcomed a team of artists who have created a magical installation that brings the palace, and the plight of princesses, to life. This is a gothic fairytale of an educational trip, take a look if you can: http://www.hrp.org.uk/KensingtonPalace/stories/palacehighlights/EnchantedPalace.aspx?EventDate=&Step=View (There's also the brilliant pirate ship and Princess Diana Memorial Playground a five minute walk away, and the delicious cakes of The Orangery to make it pretty much a perfect day out)

And part two: a proud mother moment as little a has taken her first solo pedals on her 'wobbly bike'. 'Don't let go until we're past the houses, mummy!' How to tell her? This is suburbia. The houses never end ... We now measure distance not in miles or km, but SDH or Semi Detached House. She has today cycled, unsupported, a full SDH. Tomorrow, perhaps, she'll learn how to brake.

If you're wanting to grow your own fledgling Lance Armstrong, the pedal free balance bikes are brilliant. We've got to this point without stabilisers, and after only about 50 SDH of back-breaking pushing. (thank you, Auntie C - best 2nd birthday present ever!)

potato lids

Oh what a lovely treat a Milly Molly Mandy story is. Like the Cranford or Larkrise (the first series) of children's books.

A charity shop find, our edition is a boxed set of the four books that were rolled in to one omnibus in the ex-library book my sister and I adored as children. I was so excited when I found it (thank you, Cats Protection League ...) but thought little a, at four, would probably be too young for longer stories with no pictures. I underestimated her though. Or perhaps I underestimated the charming simplicity of the tales.

Tonight, we read Milly Molly Mandy Enjoys a Visit, in which Little-Friend-Susan comes to stay, they share a yellow candy stick, wave to Billy Blunt from the pony trap, and eat potato lids by the fire. Oooh it's like being wrapped up in a cosy blanket and given a big hug. All's well in the world.

I'm sure it's all very girly, but I'm not ashamed. Little a is captivated, and the pictures, few and far between as they are, act as good stopping points if required: and she gives a little squeak of excitement when we turn the page and there's a little black and white line drawing to pore over.

I have to confess to indulging in a (I'm sure terrible) West Country accent for Muvver and co. Though the critics were out tonight:

'Is Mrs Moggs Little-friend-Susan's daddy? [no, she's a Mrs, so she's a lady. She's LFS's mummy] but she's got a boy voice [a boy voice? oh no, did I do it wrong?] yes you did a boy voice'

Glad to know my attempts at character differentiation aren't going un-noticed ...




And if you'd like some background reading, this inspires me to recommend anything by Jane Brockett. They're my own grown up version of Milly Molly Mandy. She has a gorgeous blog at http://www.yarnstorm.blogs.com/ and her book, Cherry Cakes and Ginger Beer, includes the potato lids recipes. My favourite though, and insomnia cure, is The Gentle Art of Domesticity. I read it and dream of having the time to make beautiful things.

happy bunny

Miffy is just insufferably smug and middle class. Mrs Bunny wears twinset and pearls, Mr Bunny sports a suit and buys everyone lemonade after a lovely day at the park. Read the first Miffy and there's some very very strange quasireligious message going on there: little white bunny as Christ? most odd.

We don't have that one, I'm glad to say: but Miffy goes to the Park was a big favourite for a while, and having to read it every night was a horror.

So I steered little a tonight towards Miffy the Artist, which turns out to be a Tate publication (no surprise, since I bought it on one of our yummy mummy cultural outings to the Tate Modern). It's positively scintillating by comparison. And little a does love Miffy.

'She likes the lots of miffies. Because she's a miffy'

And there is something totally irresistible about that little cross for a mouth ...

FOUR stories tonight: brilliant that they still seem to work as bribery. Goldilocks and the three bears came to the rescue during the weekly nit safari. Hurrah for the old nursery tales that you can spin out as long as you need them to be during a tedious task. Quite a lot of wrangling and dispute though: no mummy, the bears wore shoes [who's telling the story? They put on their wellies] at grandma's house they wore shoes ... no the bed wasn't lumpy it was TOO HARD.

Time was I could tell tales however I liked and little a could be counted on to be filled with wonder. Nobody warns you how EARLY the rebellion and independence starts. But you know, with it comes the most amazing creativity and great personality. And little a tells herself stories all the time. Only child thing? I don't know, but I love to listen in.

And before I turn in, a word for the deeply brilliant Monkey and Me by Emily Gravett. She is the most beautiful beautiful artist. I utterly admire Roger Hargreaves and Dick Bruna for the simplicity and boldness of their illustrations, but Emily Gravett captures the spirit and character in a style reminiscent of Ernest Shepherd or Edward Ardizzone (ooh must discover some of his!).

The story is simplicity itself: monkey and me monkey and me monkey and me we went to see we went to see some ... [all together now] ... penguins! little a knows it so well now she's shouting out the animals before I even turn the page. But I love the way the clues are in the illustrations: monkey and me are leaping for the kangaroos, hanging upside down for the bats. And it's perfect for bedtime: you can have a last burst of energy yelling 'elephants!' before winding down to falling asleep over tea on the last page. I'd say this, and orange pear apple bear (which I've always coveted but never owned) are absolute essentials for the collection.

'She fell asleep with still a mouthful!'

Extraordinary long arms

Ahh lovely, Friday morning. No work, so little a snuggles in my bed for stories before we start the day.

Mr Tickle - never a good choice at bed time, too much over-excitement, long tickly arms at the ready. Very fun for a sunny morning.

What's so brilliant about the Mr Men is that they haven't dated at all. Who knew Mr Tickle was No.1 in the series? I found myself quite excited about tracking down Mr Happy, Mr Silly, Mr Bump again. And Mr Small and those fantastic brogues ...

No way of knowing if When a Zeeder Met a Xyder will turn out to be as timeless, but it's a really sweet story of finding love in unexpected places. My friend gave it to little a for her second birthday with an inscription saying it was one for when she's a bit older, and I can well imagine it being given as a first love gift. I'm sure all the heavy symbolism isn't making much impression at the moment but she likes the cute drawings, there's a good rhythm to the rhyming, and a big PAZOOM! for little a to shout out, and lots of little xyderzees to count at the end. A nice new discovery.

A patchwork elephant

I'm going to say the BOO!!!!!

Who doesn't love Elmer? Those cheeky elephant smiles and bright colours are impossible to resist.

Little a, little pedant, likes to point out that all the elephants on the first page aren't actually 'all the same colour' - one of them is blue. But she still knows that one isn't Elmer. Even when Elmer's painted himself elephant colour, it's easy to tell him apart. Brilliant character in those elephant faces.

And if you insist on being educational with your bedtime stories, then there are plenty of opportunities to name the colours, count the elephants, learn animal names, even develop your budding fashionista skills by choosing favourite patterns (I like the yellow elephant with red hearts, little a likes that one and that one and that one and that one ...)

So, Elmer is every bit as good as I remember it being as a child. For some reason, I particularly remember the picture of him rolling in the grey berries to make himself elephant colour.

But actually it's not my favourite David McKee [little a loves the picture of him that's on the last page of our edition: that's the man what wrote this book, mummy. He drawed it too. Glad to see our love of books is helping with her grammar, then]. That's Not Now, Bernard. I used to take great delight reading it to little a on the bus in our commuting days. Ever the performer (show-off) my husband always points out that I don't need to read quite so LOUDLY, but Not Now Bernard is too good to keep to yourself.

Elmer and Bernard both have messages. Elmer's is one much beloved by children's storytellers - it's okay to be different - but told in a delicious and entertaining way. Not Now Bernard has a message too, but this one is for the parents. And that's what I love about it. Little a (strangely unperturbed by the monster eating Bernard) just likes the story. I like it for the great 70s wallpaper and furniture in the pictures, but mainly because it's a big reminder to pay attention to your children: they're not always vying for your attention to be annoying. And is watering a plant honestly a better way to spend your time?

So stop the housework and take a moment to read Elmer instead!




(I've linked to the Little Treasures version of Not Now, Bernard - all the better for reading loudly on the bus! Pop it in your pocket for entertainment emergencies ...)

The Bears Who Stayed Indoors

It's a grey Easter Monday and grandma is reading to little a: The Bears Who Stayed Indoors. What could be more appropriate?

Perhaps we should make a spaceship and fly to the moon.

I love The Bears. The storybooks don't seem to be in print any more, but the illustrations are fantastic - bright primary colours, full of character and charm - and the stories seem very Amistead Maupin somehow: 5 boy bears: Charles, John, Andrew, William, Robert and their dalmation Fred all live together and go on adventures. We also have The Bears Who Went to the Seaside.

Charles would always rather read than join in. William is always hungry. Fred is often forgotten.

little a is the only one who can tell the bears apart.

You can still seem to find boardbooks, which give you the joy of the pictures, if not the full Bears Who ... experience

the pobble who has no toes

little a is tonight fast asleep in my childhood room.

A short post, because I want to be sleeping too ... but her choice tonight was The Pobble who Had No Toes. It's not one I remember, certainly not in the way that many of my books feel like old friends. But Edward Lear is definitely a part of me - Moses supposes his toeses is roses is one of the few poems I know by heart.

This particular edition is illustrated with weird, slightly disturbing pictures. I'll check the artist's name in the morning. Something about books from the early seventies that often seem to have rather too adult illustration styles to them. But little a doesn't seem to mind.

And I do like the idea of eggs and buttercups fried with fish ...

Morning update:
The illustrator is Kevin W Maddison. The edition is out of print now: a brief search on Amazon shows I could sell my edition for $86.54 (not that I'd want to), or I can buy a classics edition of Edward Lear. I'll have a look out for a nice illustrated edition, so watch this space.

Charlie Cook's Favourite Book

Once upon a time there was a boy
called Charlie Cook
Who curled up in a cosy chair
and read his favourite book ...

This may be my favourite Julia Donaldson/Axel Scheffler so I was very pleased by little a's choice tonight

It's a brilliantly woven story, classic Julia Donaldson rhymes which make it easy to read aloud, and lovely visual jokes in Axel Scheffler's illustrations (look at the spines of the books in the endpapers, the running heads on each spread, the 'prison library' stamp on the burglar page - make me smile every time)

little a verdict:

pirates have earrings and spotty chins [that's stubble] actually I think they're freckles

she likes to shout out "Charlie Cook" and read along the end of the rhyming couplets
And on the final page, we name all the characters surrounding Charlie's chair (for extra fun, compare the illustration at the beginning, and see if you can spot the visual clues hidden there ...)

Are you sitting comfortably?

My father reading me stories is one of the strongest memories of my childhood.

Now that I have a daughter of my own, reading to her is my favourite thing. I work in publishing, I love books, but also, in my dream life, I'd be an actress. So there's nothing better than curling up with her, and belting out a great story, comedy accents and all.

It can be hard, though, can't it, to find the good ones? There are a lot of rubbish children's books out there. No wonder every star thinks they can write one. So often, when I'm reading, I'm thinking 'I could do better than this'. And I probably could. But you know what, I could never write The Gruffalo, or Guess How Much I Love You, or the Milly-Molly-Mandy Stories.

When little a chooses Dora (aka Borer the Explorer), my heart sinks - despite the chance to indulge my terrible Spanish accent. But anything by Julia Donaldson, I can read it again and again.

And that's it, isn't it? our kids love stories. Their imaginations are running wild, the whole time. What I love is when the books we find set my imagination running wild, too.

So often I find myself with my friends reminiscing about the books we loved. We can spend hours listing them, revelling in the memories of first discovering them, and retelling the adventures of characters who seem almost more real than our own childhood friends. And it's so exciting to recommend an undiscovered book to someone new: there's such a vicarious thrill in thinking how happy they'll feel when they read it for the first time.

So when I found myself getting very over-excited with jhw (my boss) the other day about The Family from One End Street, and feeling sorrow at the passing of Tales on Half Moon Lane (lovely bookshop in Primrose Hill), I thought - why not make a little space online, to recommend the books I loved, and celebrate rediscovering them, or finding new ones, with little a?

My daughter is four now, so I'll do a bit of catching up, tell you the books we've loved up till now. And then we'll go on our journey of discovery together. She's growing up so fast, I want to hold on to every minute. But at the same time, I'm so excited that soon she'll be old enough to read CS Lewis, and Robert Westall, and Susan Cooper.

My childhood favourites will be a big part of this, of course, but I also want to find new stories. I'll ask my family and friends for their favourites. And I'll see if the stories I remember have stood the test of time. Will I still love them? Will little a love the same ones?