Craic On

Children’s literature is the best. When The Son was growing up, I loved reading to him. I do a pretty passable #Eeyore. Some have even commended me on my #Piglet. That’s another story involving prunes and Bombay mix, the ultimate delicacy. One of the joys of reading to very small children is the large print that books for small children tend to come with. They allow plenty of scope for “ooing” and “ahhing”, pointing out tigers and fitting in the odd squeeze of the listener on your lap. What’s not to like? The Son has fond memories of reading together. He remembers sitting in our kitchen being read the first chapter of #Black Beauty. He cried. I cried. Even #Mr Ferret, (not an unaccounted for character but the builder fixing the Kitchen window) cried.  The Son has been reading to The Grand since he could stay awake long enough and he’s been thinking about how I can read to him as well. There’s no avoiding it.  Things aren’t what they used to be.  My large print copy of #The Just So Stories doesn’t loo