Potty About Potter
I fully admit I’m a literary slut. Not something I’m terribly proud of - how I long to be the girl that reaches for an Austin or two prior to 10 days in the sun, but oh no, no. It’s Jackie Collins and her contemporaries all the way. I do have my moments, reaching for the occasional classic or Man Booker Prize winner, but those are few and far between.
Prior to Christmas, I had mentioned to the Husband that’d I’d like Janice Dickinson’s autobiography. What I actually received was Janice Dickinson’s best selling dating guide “Check Please ! Dating, Mating and Extricating“. Was he trying to tell me something ?
In an attempt to steer the Munchkin clear of the literary version of fast food (and let’s face it, being my daughter that’s a risk), I’m ploughing my way through Beatrix Potter each night to help simulate the places that other books don’t reach.
Neatly packed in one giant tomb we sit, like a Werther’s Original advert, cosy and ready for bed, the soporific effect of Miss Potter not missed in the slightest.
As they state now that a child’s feeding habits at 4 are illustrative how they’ll be as an adult, I’m hoping the same can be said for their literary tastes.
