Troll

My father is a brilliant story teller. It doesn't matter whether he's telling a joke, an anecdote or giving an after dinner speech, he always strikes the right note. Which is why, as children, my sister and I always insisted that it should be dad who read us a bed time story. Not mum who was a primary schoolteacher who spent a good part of her day reading to children, but dad.

I know and remember all this. What I don't remember is that our favourite, most requested bed time story was Three Billy Goats Gruff, mainly because dad was a very convincing Troll. Apparently we would scream in terror when the goats came trip-trapping across the bridge and the Troll appeared and roared at them.

So, when mum and dad went to Norway a few years ago, mum thought it would be funny to bring me back a Troll as a souvenir. Not remembering dad's Troll impression I didn't know why she thought I'd appreciate this hideously ugly ornament. She had to explain the significance, which rather spoilt the moment.

I also hadn't remembered, until I just googled it, what a grisly fate befell the poor Troll. I'm surprised I'm not still having nightmares about it all.