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.