The one where I attempt some grown up writing about 'The House at Pooh Corner'


Writing sarcastic posts, ranting posts and generally daft as a brush posts is one thing but embarking upon a public confession of love for a book in the mummy blogging arena is a whole different kettle of fish. I read a fair amount of other mummy blogs and quite a few seem to also work as freelance writers and well to be frank I have writers envy! There is no way I could possibly write such endearing pieces of work as those that I read from others on a daily basis so I tend to crouch somewhat behind short funny posts and hope no one notices that I can’t actually  ‘write’ for toffee (though I’d try harder for chocolate !). So be gentle with me I beg of you as I show you my favourite childhood book… A.A. Milnes 'The House At Pooh Corner'

No this book did not fall out of the Ark, it originally belonged to my Uncle Alan and over the years found its way to me - probably through my nimble fingered childhood antics.

Like my good self, it’s a bit battered around the edges and lacks all the pizazz of books these days. It doesn’t make noises (unless you whack your husband with it) and it has no lumpy, bumpy, crinkly textures for chubby little fingers to run over. Nevertheless it is the book that I am most looking forward to reading to my children. The reason why? It’s my childhood favourite.

Printed back in the day before Disney got its grubby mitts all over it, The House on Pooh Corner by A.A.Milne still fills me with some of the excitement of my eager 8 year old former self.

Dog eared from years of my fumbling, the inquisitive prying of eight curious childs minds and countless house moves it looks like a well-loved book should look. Open it up and you can smell the lovely old book smell – never underestimate the allure of the smell of old books. I am pretty sure I could make millions if I patent the smell of old books into a spray for Kindles.

When I first thought about writing a post about a book that holds a special place in my heart this instantly screamed at the shelf at me “Over here! Yes it’s me! You know – the one you supposedly love and yet never look at!”

Feeling suitably chastised by a book that cannot talk, as I am beginning to think only I could, I decided to assign it some ‘special time’ last night. Like these ‘date nights’ I seem to read about of late, a special time that just me and the book can remind each other while we first fell in love.  Post-bath and dressed in my most mumsie and drab snuggliest and comfy PJs  I settled down with this book. And being  a  ‘special’ occasion  I poured a rather large G&T  as everyone knows there’s nothing like a large G&T to enhance my inner-emo.

I had only spent a few minutes flicking through the pages before I found myself welling up with tears at the childhood memories it evokes. Ah the coloured pencil scribblings that cover every small picture within – I still recall the afternoon that my mother realised that I had been colouring in in my book, boy was I in trouble.

My relationship with the book though runs so much deeper though than I first thought – it’s reminded me that my children are now ‘the me that I remember being’ and that I am now my mother. I think what I am trying to say rather clumsily that so much has changed in what suddenly doesn’t seem much time at all. I’m the grown up now and I’ll be the one making what will be my childrens childhood memories – what enormous pressure !