While it's still frozen over in our garden it's been a day of baking (chicken and mushroom pie and corned beef and onion pie, if you're wondering), curling up under duvets snatched from beds and napping in front of the TV. I have hung one of my favourite Christmas decorations inside our vase of artificial lilies for decorative appeal for no other reason than to hold something of the season with me all year.
I embarked on a big project this evening. I am writing a children's book for my daughters. The tale of a fairy who lives in a majestic willow tree and who has been warned not to get her wings wet. This fairy is rather precocious and the story builds from the fairy getting her wings damp and embarking on a journey to redeem herself. It's loosely based on a story my late nan used to tell me while curled up in bed and I clearly remember asking for it again and again up until my pre-teens. Each time I heard it it had changed slightly; the product of her ageing memory and my ageing ability to understand more complex themes. I will adapt this story for my daughters, bind them and allow the book to go wherever it may lead. I feel they need a story that has meaning. I feel since they never got the chance to meet their gorgeous, talented and inspiring great-grandmother this is the best gift I could ever give to them.
More than literature; the gift of memories.