I have shared my disastrous attempts at telling stories to the Golden Boy, the genocidal horror of Noah’s Ark, the maternal violence of the Sugar-Cube Goaty-Goat have been documented for posterity.
But now I have triumphed. Maybe a little late- the Golden Boy is now 9 years old, but better late than never. I have finally found a story which captivates his heart.
I did not mean to plagiarize, Gentle Reader. When I embarked on the adventures of YC, a young warrior who was bored of life in his village and set forth to find adventure and excitement, I did not mean to blatantly rip off one of my treasured childhood stories. But as I described YC fighting fearsome wolves, fleeing goblins by climbing up fir trees, escaping at the last minute by clutching on to the talons of a friendly swooping eagle, I realised my brain and memory have tricked me, and I am recounting someone else’s story. Nevermind. The Golden Boy now thinks I am a story-telling genius, and asks eagerly for the next installment – something which had never happened before. he listens to YC’s escapades with shining eyes and rapt absorption. Fortunately the story is something like 500 pages, and there are plenty more adventures for YC.
Maybe, one day when I am old and maybe dead, he will stumble on the original, maybe through the film -I honestly don’t see him plowing through the book, where the adventures are distressingly scattered through with pages of dwarf songs. And then he will remember, remember me, remember his warm and cuddly childhood, remember snuggling up to me when he was 9 and I was soft and young(ish) and beautiful, and listening to the stories which he thought were mine, the most smartest and wonderfullest mommy in the world.