Here's a plea to the grandparents: when your heart thrills with the thought of your granddaughter's little face when she sees the fabulously pink and sparkly bag of books you've given her for her birthday, spare a thought for your own poor child.
Did you really spend all that time and money on the very best education so that the fruit of your loins could read, night in, night out, the moralising adventures of Princess Poppy?
Argh, they are so sweet my teeth hurt to read them: Poppy and Saffron and Honey, and their adventures in Honeypot hill (or something, I may be misremembering and I can't bear to look at it again tonight to check).
I admit, I would have loved them when I was little a's age. The illustrations are sweetly pretty, they have engaging little letters in real envelopes at the front, and they do attempt to teach something of the ways of the world.
But do they stand up to being read again and again interminably for the whole of the month of January?
No, they do not.
Although little a's birthday was only on the 20th. That was a week ago. Has it really only been a week? She's threatening to take them on our half term holiday. I fear I will be lacking in new material for this blog for some time to come.
Time to bring in some Horrid Henry or Roald Dahl, because if my brain is turning to pink blancmange, what good can it be doing to the precious daughter?
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