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.