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