The Fluffy Book Above the Pool (a.k.a. A Textured Anecdote for World Book Day)

During my early work days, I attended a course to become a Reading Friend. This was held at a local sports centre.

In order to get to the session, we had to notify the front desk and then turn abruptly up an unexpected stairwell. As I ascended, the lights became more artificial and the smell of sweat and chlorine was smothered by lavender carpet cleaner.

When I arrived at the necessary floor, I had to cross a long thin burgundy walkway with windows on the left, looking down on the swimming pool below. Every now and then, I turned to observe a hasty splash of some childish swimmer, hoping to startle an adult who was focusing hard on her butterfly stroke.

At the end of the walkway was a conference room with white tables, at the centre of which sat a man and a woman amid an assortment of board books and picture books. The most important book of all was at the centre: the one in which we signed our attendance.

Throughout the two-hour session, the man and woman held up different books and showed how to coax the interest of a young child, the importance of asking questions about what they think might happen next and drawing attention to the background detail of the consistently impressive illustration. Then, when they both ran out of puff, the man and the woman told us to turn to the person immediately to the right of us and practice. Pretending that another grown-up was a baby was immensely weird until you had to be the baby yourself. I had fun with it until I heard myself actually say, ‘goo-goo ga-ga’.

Then after a quick and energetic feedback, the man and woman brought out the pièce de résistance: a pink fluffy board book. This was to show the tactile nature of reading with babies and how it helps early development. We all got to stroke the woolly cover and flip a couple of fabric pages before hastily passing it on, fearing that a thorough inspection might seem like outright fetishism. It was just a shame that the dyslexic teenagers I would be dealing with wouldn’t benefit from such soft tomes.

Once everyone had tickled their fingertips with book fluff, the man and woman moved the precious touchy-feely book out of sight, never to be used again. When I left the session, I glanced under the table and noticed a thin metal case between them, the kind you expect to carry precious cargo. I imagined the book inside, strawberry-scented wool and feathers pressed between two pads of protective foam.

Years later, after working in libraries, I learnt more about tactile baby books and how well they last. A metal case isn't nearly enough.

EASY RIDER AARON (a.k.a. A Morpeth Vignette)

Aaron spins his wheels in the parking lot. Dad is taking absolutely ages in Home Bargains and Nan is dozing off in the Land Rover. She is supposed to be keeping an eye on him but Aaron is glad to have a few minutes' freedom. 

    He races his shiny green scooter up and down the short stretch of pedestrian walkway in front of the car. This would be more fun if he was wearing his black and silver streak helmet but Dad forgot it in the morning rush. It was lucky they had left Aaron's old red one in the boot but it's now tiny and squeezes his head, especially at the back. Nevertheless he drives through this discomfort, steering around uneven paving stones.

    When it's time, Aaron pulls up by the trolley shelter and waits until a white van reaches the traffic lights across the way. Then, as the lights go green and the van sets off, he zooms forward himself. 

    He's lucky this time, scooter reaching maximum speed just as the loud engine kicks into gear. Aaron roars along with it. In this moment he forgets everything: the midday boredom, his nan snoring and the squeaky front wheel, and imagines that he is the one burning rubber.

   However this feeling soon slips by like the wind in his face and the van's noise fades off round the bend. Just as he spies a lorry approaching and his foot pushes down on the pedal, Aaron finally feels the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder. The boy looks up at him, failing to hide the disappointment on his daredevil face. 

   "Come on, easy rider," Dad chuckles. "We're heading home." 

LOBSTERS GROW THROUGHOUT THEIR LIFETIME (a.k.a. A Late Crustacean Poem for International Women's Day)

The girl scrunched her nose at

the hatchery, the fishy smell.

Her mum led her inside.

Aren't lobsters interesting?

A tank filled with dirty water.

Those aren't mud flecks, Mum said,

Those are babies.

Lobsters grow throughout their lifetime.

The next tank had fewer flecks

and the one after that had things that looked like lobsters.

The girl stared at the curves of their shells,

the curves that would be their pincers.

They arrived at the nursery,

large lobster mothers sheltering busy babies

crawling back and forth beneath stiff, still figures.

Mum drew daughter close.

The last lobsters were huge, one per tank,

men in aprons standing over them.

Occasionally an antennae twitched,

a pincer closed and opened.

The girl gripped her mother's hand

and they hurried out together

past cartoon lobsters collecting donations:

a pound each for the privilege.

At the car, the girl touched the window

while Mum watched, hand on the key,

wondering just how big they would be

in half a century.

NO WORDS NEEDED (a.k.a. An Ironically Verbose Appraisal of Wordless Picture Books)

2018 has brought me a new hobby. I have started reading picture books.
           I know. A grown man, a bachelor with no children of his own, likes to pick up and flick through books meant for toddlers aged 3 and up. At best: strange. At worst: creepy.
           However my eye is drawn to what my eye is drawn to and my eye is mostly easily drawn to excellent drawings. Brilliant brushstrokes. Incredible colour. In short, art.
           This is my next revelation: picture books are an art form and that ought to be appreciated by a wider audience. Of course, they're primarily meant for the development of babies but I should say they have appeal to adults too. What better way to encourage a parent to read to their child?
           And yet, here is my third peculiar truth: the picture books that I have most enjoyed are the ones that I don't actually have to read.
           There is a trend of rising popularity in junior fiction at the moment and that is picture books without words. Picture books in the purest form.
           Below are three fine examples and a succinct exploration of why I find them so particularly charming...



FOOTPATH FLOWERS by JonArno Lawson and Sydney Smith

            My first official wordless picture book.

            A very simple story. A bright little girl in a red hood (coincidence?) is walking home with her father who is preoccupied with his phone. In fact the whole town seems preoccupied and dull for it.

            And then there are flowers. Yellow footpath flowers that our young friend uses to bring a little colour to the washed-out busy world around her.

            As such this is a perfect springtime book and it certainly made me smile. The unfurling of good will was subtle and creative with such touching pictures as below.

            Quite frankly words would have spoiled this journey as they seemed to have already spoiled the world that this little girl lives in. If nothing else they hardly seem to matter much.

            Vibrancy and creativity are of far greater importance. After all we don't have enough of it in our own world.

A STONE FOR SASCHA by Aaron Becker

            We move to the beach now. To a stone. To a broad but gorgeous history lesson.

            In fact there are two stories to this book: the first of loss which is handled very sweetly. A little girl's dog passes (presumably the titular Sascha) and her whole family is heartbroken though not as much as her. The impression given is that she doesn't quite know how to act on this feeling.

            Then she finds a golden stone. We are flung into the past to see this stone's journey throughout history. It's a destructive one from fallen meteorite to numerous fallen civilisations. There is plundering and wreckage. And yet the glow of gold remains in the picture. It survives all that to find its way to a lost little girl on a late summer's day.

            I would venture that this is a surprisingly complex tale for children. Then again that usually means that it's the kind of book that parents can learn from too.

            Death is difficult to process but so is life. Neither is permanent but what remains in between should be cherished.

LINES by Suzy Lee

            Here we are at last at winter. Or is it?

            Compared to the previous two books, this is a minimalist tale of black and grey lines on white pages with a little ice skater at its centre. The only splash of colour is the red of this skater's hat and mittens.

            However, look at the curves and loops that that little skater leaves behind. Look at the criss-cross of thick and thin lines and the gradual, beautiful mess.

            It may not seem like much but that becomes necessary to the ending. For this is not just a day on the ice, it's a gentle musing on the magic of imagination.

            As it reads in the blurb: 'It starts with a line. Whether made by the tip of a pencil or the blade of a skate, the magic starts there.'

            Again this can be read as both an encouragement to children and a reminder to adults. The white page may be daunting at first but don't worry too much about making a mess. You'll get there in the end and you certainly won't be alone in it.

            As you can see there is a broad potential to such books.

         In a way it saddens me that we don't have such picture books for adults. We do have comics and graphic novels though these still largely rely on a balance of pictures and text which can sometimes eschew more in favour of words.

         As for animation, that is a wonderful experience too though it takes some of the imagination out of the process. As I flipped through these books, my mind was allowed to wander and then to focus on the subtle crafty details left in by the artist that are open to interpretation.

         Nevertheless, in the interest of easing young children into the sometimes baffling world of reading, such titles are a great starting point. These books are there to help with dyslexia and other learning difficulties that might impede language acquisition. These books are there for slow learners. These books are there for parents. These books are even there for strange blog writers.

         These books are there and I do hope people realise.