I don’t recall anyone reading bedtime stories to me when I was a kid. That’s not to say they never did. Not at all. There’s a lot I don’t recall mostly because my “I think I can, I think I can” little brain hit maximum capacity some time back.
But I do remember Dr Suess and his foul green eggs, I remember the otherworldliness of Magic Faraway Tree but, absolutely, I remember Roald Dahl and feeling somewhere deep inside that I was adopted and he was actually my Dad and I, his forgotten bastard child.
But let’s put the past behind us for a moment. Actually, let’s not. Because those books rescued me from troubled times as a child. Even under sometimes disempowering and unpredictable conditions that rancid-looking ham gave me a glint in my eye and Dahl’s George’s Marvelous Medicine gave me belly laughs in place of tears.
James and the… Read the rest