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 ...