I have become the stories that my parents told each other, nervous, excited, looking at the sky.
I am the stories that friends have woven and imagined, each new beginning another tale.
One day, one day, I will be the stories that my children more or less remember or in their own ages tell their own.
I was, will be, and am those stories.


Guess what happened next! You’ll never guess!

Was it the elephant?


Did Guacamole the cowboy come back?


Ooh, ooh! The spaceship –

No! No, it was Mrs Bunn the baker! She –

I don’t remember her.

Mrs Bunn! Mrs Bunn the baker! She –

No, I don’t remember her. Tell me about the elephant. I like the elephant.

Tell me a story

Daddy, tell me the story of the ninja horse.”

“I don’t know that one.”

“The princess, the sword and the unicorn.”

“Or that one.”

“Mummy knows them.”

“Clever Mummy. What about the one where Jack’s beans talk?”


“The one where poor little Nick never gets chosen but one day the teddy bears pick Nick?”

“OK. But only if they live happily ever after. And together.”


“I like together.”