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A story with dragons in
This may, at first, appear to be a story about elephants; pray do not be alarmed.
The reason for this is that my aunt is a spinner and a knitter. In my grandparents' house upon a hill in Bath, on the tiny single bed in the tiny room overlooking the garden, that used to be my aunt's and is now my grandfather's study; from which one can see the blackcurrant bushes and hot air balloons; is a knitted elephant, about the size of a child's torso, all in yellow.
This elephant is named Custard, and as is the way with elephants, he is much, much older than I.
My favourite thing about him was not that he was just right to hug, nor even his ears, but the stories my father would tell me (or tell us): about Custard and his friend the yellow dragon Ogwurt: ogwurt being, of course, our childish mispronunciation of yoghurt.
Or, rather, the stories he would tell us about Ogwurt And Custard, because that is how we referred to them and that is how we would ask for them.
They involved jungles and snakes and Ogwurt flying above the trees following Custard's passage by the trembling of the leaves. They were adventure and communication and more-or-less the only time my father ever told us bedtime stories.
This perhaps goes some way towards explaining my abiding conviction that dragons - especially if they are yellow - are friendly and kind and a little bit inept; and why stories with dragons in feel rather like an unexpected and bittersweet homecoming.
The reason for this is that my aunt is a spinner and a knitter. In my grandparents' house upon a hill in Bath, on the tiny single bed in the tiny room overlooking the garden, that used to be my aunt's and is now my grandfather's study; from which one can see the blackcurrant bushes and hot air balloons; is a knitted elephant, about the size of a child's torso, all in yellow.
This elephant is named Custard, and as is the way with elephants, he is much, much older than I.
My favourite thing about him was not that he was just right to hug, nor even his ears, but the stories my father would tell me (or tell us): about Custard and his friend the yellow dragon Ogwurt: ogwurt being, of course, our childish mispronunciation of yoghurt.
Or, rather, the stories he would tell us about Ogwurt And Custard, because that is how we referred to them and that is how we would ask for them.
They involved jungles and snakes and Ogwurt flying above the trees following Custard's passage by the trembling of the leaves. They were adventure and communication and more-or-less the only time my father ever told us bedtime stories.
This perhaps goes some way towards explaining my abiding conviction that dragons - especially if they are yellow - are friendly and kind and a little bit inept; and why stories with dragons in feel rather like an unexpected and bittersweet homecoming.