Illustration: Edward Lear
My father is a great story teller. When I was a little girl; despite my ongoing disgust at the injustice of being told when I had to go bed; I always enjoyed being read stories and nursery rhymes.
The Owl and the Pussycat was a particular favourite; it involved singing; and I still remember the dread when we got to Wee-Willy-Winky as it was the signal that story time was over and I had to go to sleep. My adamant protests that I was not tired and that we should read more always fell on deaf ears.
Now that I am all grown up and living in Canada, I speak to my parents frequently using pre-paid phone cards that have set limits of minutes that can sometimes expire without warning.
Last night I was talking to my father when I was happily taken back to the story time days. I sat there, all comfy on my bed, while my dad told me a story (the plot - scene by scene - of the recent film Ratatouille). I was so taken back to my childhood I even reverted to asking typical 'child questions' like..."if the rat is locked in the drawer how can he see to read the piece of paper?"
So given my idyllic temporary return to childhood you can imagine my horror when my phone card abruptly ran out of minutes and the line went dead just as Dad got to the really good bit. I was shocked and disgusted, where did my story go?
It was infinitely worse than childhood, where at least I had Wee Willy Winky as a warning sign that the end was near.
Perhaps I should suggest to the company that they take up Wee Willy Winky as their warning?