Wiser folk than I say the art of storytelling was lost when we started writing things down. I’m sure something changed forever the first time someone put chisel to stone, but we also gained in the process. I love writing. The feel of my Waterman fountain pen on fine moleskin paper, or biro on the shopping list pad, or pencil in a notebook. I love books. Crisp new books, never before touched by human hand. Secondhand books whose history I share with unknown readers who maybe left a shopping list or a boarding pass behind as a clue. Library books shared with a whole community. I love them all. I even managed to save a few books from my own childhood to share with Bear. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Mary Poppins, The Water Babies.  When I was pregnant I bought a book for him each month. My postnatal hormones wouldn’t allow me to read Dogger without crying for at least a year!

I love reading too. Bear calls any book without pictures a “mummy’s book.” I love being pulled in from the first sentence. Well-crafted description is so satisfying. Believable dialogue makes the characters leap out and into a future beyond the confines of the pages. The last sentence of a book can make it or break it. I love a happy ending, but I’d rather have a sad one than fake a happy one.

And yet. Sometimes stories just have to be told for the sake of it. If it’s unwritten, the ending can change each time. The plot can thicken or dilute according to the time available and the audience. Some stories are good only good for the moment. Others would completely lose their meaning if they were written. Sadly, we mostly only tell made-up stories for our children now. Bear even likes stories that are simply about his day. There doesn’t have to be a point to them. His favourite is about going on the Clipper. Before he started school we used to sit on the same bench in the park every Wednesday for the same story about a dinosaur called Eric. He can make up stories too. It’s great. It’s another way for him to make sense of his world. My Dad used to make up bedtime stories for Auntie and me. I can remember them now, but I bet Auntie remembers them differently and Dad differently again. Making up stories for Bear would be too much for him now, but he’s always enjoyed reading to Bear at bedtime. This evening, after Bear had got his pyjamas on and brushed his teeth, he clambered onto the sofa next so Grandad could read to him. Whatever day it is, that’s a perfect ending.