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 ...