Don't let your children read this

Why do we lie to our children? Where did that tradition come from? While I'm all for encouraging the magic of Christmas, isn't there enough in the giving and receiving of gifts? The sparkle in a child's eye on Christmas morning (the one that melts a parent's heart and makes all the preparations worthwhile) is part to do with the lack of sleep, the lights and baubles on the tree, and the excitement of the presents to unwrap. Would it really lose much, or anything, if the old man in the red suit were removed from the proceedings? I believe in stories, make believe and fairy tales, but don't try to tell my children that Snow White or Rumplestiltskin are true!

And where did the Easter Bunny spring from? We had Easter Eggs from our parents and friends, and even the occasional family egg hunt, but were never told that any of it came from the Easter Bunny, when I was a child. And as for the tooth fairy...

I am hook, line and sinker sunk in the pretence of the tooth fairy, as youngest still believes and has a very wobbly tooth. Much gratitude flows from her to the inventor of croissants, pain au chocolat and ice cream as any food firmer in texture causes the tooth to hurt. She has a worry though : does the tooth fairy visit France? She's usually pretty forgetful in our neck of the English woods, at the best of times. Lets hope she has a good map, doesn't get lost (fairy sat-nav??) and hasn't drunk too much of the local vin. And I suppose the fairy exchange rate is probably as awful as the human one. But at least, having wings she doesn't need to fork out for any petrol!

Or is there a French tooth fairy already on the look out for that little package left under the pillow.

And will she remind me? ...

Comments

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful. Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here - in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast. Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and

Walking The Dog

Search This Blog