This morning, I read Julia Harrison’s piece “Story telling” from her always-thoughtful Silver Locket blog. It immediately brought to mind some stories my son and I shared when he was little.
He was four years old when I lost my hair as a result of chemotherapy. Someone had advised me early on to get a wig sorted out while I still had my real hair, so it would be the best possible match. I called a friend I hadn’t seen for ages and we had a bizarre but hilarious day in Notting Hill, choosing me a wig then heading off for a late lunch. I can’t recall the name of the restaurant but its distinguishing feature was that when we ordered house wine, it came in an already-opened bottle, marked to show how much it still contained. We were charged for what we drank, presumably in centimetres, although it was all a little bit fuzzy by that point in the afternoon.
My wig really was an excellent match for my real hair but my son was disconcerted by my new appearance. As far as he was concerned, there was little to choose between my bald head and my wig. Both were repellent. I felt pretty much the same but I wanted to make him feel more comfortable. I tried to make him laugh by imagining what would happen if I was walking along one day and my wig blew away. Very soon, we had made up a story which culminated in my wig blowing into a lift as we chased it. Inevitably, the doors closed and we were left scrambling up the stairs to keep up with it. There was no obvious conclusion in which the wig and I lived happily ever after, or my hair grew back and the wig retired (although both are currently the case) but that wasn’t important. The story had served its purpose in making the wig something we could joke about and a part of our family story. My son got used to my new appearance, telling me that my head looked like a boiled egg. I never really got used to it but I came to terms with it and now, my hair looks just as it did before.
The other tale that we all still remember is the story of Horace the Rook. I invented it while we were staying with my parents in Devon. Just beyond the boundary of their garden is a tall tree, which we could see from our bedroom window. I noticed that there were often rooks perched there, sometimes in groups but more often, just one, and I made up a story. The hero was a rook called Horace, who lived in the tree with Mrs Rook and all the baby rooks. Every day, Horace would fly off to the beach (in reality, just 10 minutes’ walk for us) to forage for food. One day, he found something wonderful and brought it back as a gift for my son, who, of course, also featured in the story. I had to tell it every evening at bedtime, not just while we were in Devon but often also back at home, for many years. Despite regular “nudges” from my husband, I have never written it down, although it is still clear in my mind. If you want to know what happens, you will have to wait and see….
Small stories, significant things 