As an author in school I sometimes pass round an invisible dragon so that children too young to read my books can observe it on the palms of their hands, describing what they see, hear and feel. Imagining. Most do, bright-eyed and captivated. Once I finished by telling them how outrageously naughty my dragon had been in another school. As my narrative ended, a small boy asked intently, “But did he really?” He’d seen that there was no dragon to see. Yet part of him believed.
I find that thrilling. But as adults we’re not so different when we read fiction. I recently returned to a Young Adult classic after about eleven years: Malorie Blackman’s Noughts and Crosses. It’s important, vivid, tragic and shocking. First time round I found it so compelling that I read it in the street – and yes, walked into a lamppost! But would my reading experience be different this time?
4:45 I wake and hiss along the landing to make sure my brother isn’t sleeping. We feel our stockings in the dark as if we don’t know exactly what’s in them.
5:32 Singing Away In A Manger as sweetly as we can, we pad downstairs and hover at the doorway of the big bedroom, to be told, “Happy Christmas!”. And to come back at six.
5:51 Christmas begins in Mum and Dad’s bed, with matching stockings unpacked to reveal a satsuma, chocolate money in a net bag, a pencil and a larky sharpener. Maybe a Pez dispenser, tricksy pen or Knitting Nancy. My parents know better than to include bows, ribbons or decorated hair slides because I hate my wild hair as much as my turned-up nose.
