By ‘eck, it’s My Eck!

It simply didn’t occur to me that I could wish for an Eck. I mean, I did wish for one, but made no Christmas list mentioning the dear Eck.

Eck

So, how much lovelier to discover my very own little Eck (no. 72) in a parcel last night. I didn’t know how Daughter could be so sure I would like her present. Silly me. Some things are certain.

Cat 1

Cat 2

Whereas Son might now regret asking for a cat. He got two, but perhaps not quite of the type he’d prefer. Not that he’d be allowed the real thing.

The protocol about giving away proofs is quite clear, and I tend not to. But what is a bookwitch to do when a book Daughter would love turns up as a signed proof the day before Christmas? (You’re right. The witch wraps it and gives it away. It’s understood that a review will have to materialise in return.)

The lovely girl also provided me with A Wrinkle in Time. That was on my list. My very short list.

And Daughter was happy with this kind of thing,

Upsidedown book

but I really don’t see how three large volumes full of knowledge can be dragged back to her place of learning.

Tree with presents

Before the destruction, the tree looked reasonably tidy with their Guardian-wrapped parcels underneath. Speaking of which newspaper, Eck’s creator Meg Rosoff wrote about lying, pardon me, fibbing, to her daughter about Father Christmas. How could she? I had a similar discussion with Mrs Pendolino only this week, and it seems I’m on my own. It didn’t occur to me to lie. Fib. I knew he doesn’t exist, and I came to no harm.

Backbone, Meg, that’s what it is. Fib to children about something else instead.

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