“In my day, television was called books.”

A few nights ago Julia begged me to tell her a bedtime story. Too tired to make one up on the spot, I improvised. She curled up in bed and I told her the story of Anne Shirley and a boy named Gilbert who pulled Anne’s hair and called her “Carrots.” Jules loved this story, especially the part where Anne cracks her slate over Gilbert's head, and a few nights later she begged to hear it again, so I told it again and added Diana Barry into the mix. (Next time: Josie Pye.) When she asked for another story, I told her about a girl named Buttercup and how she fell in love with a farm boy who only ever said, “As you wish” to her.

Right now she thinks I’m the best storyteller ever, until she discovers the books or the movies and then the jig is up. Next I think I’ll tell her the story of Beatrice and Benedick and how they fought and fought and fought until they were tricked into falling in love.

Thank you William and William and Lucy Maud.