Instant nostalgia

Today until the last half hour has not felt nostalgic. I don't think I can ever feel nostalgic about packing a bag, least of all in the dead of winter when I seem to be having stress headaches all the time anyway - you know, the kind bending over a bed folding a jersey can give you? That. I was reasonably brisk in the morning, getting upstairs to find a bag and some packing cubes (I swear by them) just after elevenses time, and managing to fill one by lunchtime. The bad bit was that I didn't have everything in the full bag ...

It was after lunch that I began to fade. Before I knew it, it was time for King's on the radio and about 20 minutes in I realised I needed some fresh air and abandoned Himself and the carols and headed out into the gloom of impending darkness. By the time I reached the front I realised that not only was the fine rain really quite heavy but that the wind off the sea was pretty brisk, so when I finally left the shore and headed up the access lane to the West Bay my trousers were wet through and clinging to me. However, I felt better. 

It was while I was in the back bedroom, which is also a library with shelves almost to the ceiling, that I found myself reaching for this book. First published in 1946, it was possibly my favourite childhood book, one which was first read to me and then re-read over and over by myself. (I could read before I was four, because I can remember doing so when my mother was away having my sister). Several years ago I was given this copy, as old as as dog-eared as my own, by son Ewan, because I'd put it on my wishlist on Amazon. I don't know what happened to my own copy - it vanished decades ago. 

I've chosen a page quite early on in the story to illustrate something I still think is important. Look at the language. Look - especially look - at the sentence structure and punctuation. Look at the parenthesis, its sinister implications underlined by the use of brackets. I can remember the relish with which my Dad read it to me, the relief I felt every time I realised that Millicent was safe (because the fox who was disguised was drowned in a pond while chasing her, leaving only his footsteps onto the ice that broke but none coming out again. Retribution was final in these days! 

In another section, a tortoise friend knocks on the door and cries, "It is I, Torty!" - just as in Babar the Elephant one character who used to terrify me says, "It is I, Misfortune!". No wonder my generation grew up literate and aware of the proper use of subjective and objective forms - it was fed to us when we weren't looking! Fantastic stuff.

I'm writing this before dinner because I really shouldn't hang around after Midnight Mass tonight when we have to travel in the morning on the limited ferry service... but if I get a suitable photo I'll stick it on as one of my two remaining extras. Meanwhile I have recovered my cool writing this, which is a good result. 

If I don't revisit this post, have a lovely Christmas, however you celebrate it.