Toasting, toasting, 1 2 3

This is the original toasting fork from my childhood in Ireland. As the winter grew near, my mother would gather us around the drawing room (!) fire at night, and read to the middle three of us, me, Kate, and Ben, all freshly-bathed and pyjama-clad. Gobbolino the Witch's cat, The Story of the Little Red Horse and a rather scary story called Johnnie Tigerskin are among the tales I remember. The Turf Cutter's Donkey came earlier.

On high days and holidays there might be marshmallows, too, toasted over the fire till they were crunchy round the edges, or actually ablaze and hastily blown out. They carried the taste of exotic treats, rarely gifted.

Today at nursery we took a fire pit outside and lit a small fire, complete with marshmallows on sticks or the very same toasting fork. Though the smoke got in our eyes, most of the children enjoyed the fire, but I was amazed at the number who either didn't like marshmallows, or didn't like them toasted. If ever I needed reminding that it's not 1972 any more....

Meanwhile, in 2015, my mother has just rung to ask me if I'll do one of the readings at her wedding. Her husband-to-be yelled in the background that I'd better say yes, because the programme has already been printed! I guess that's that, then. Traditionally I cry all the way through weddings or funerals, so for a change I won't be doing that. I did a reading at my elder sister's wedding, but I never expected to be doing one at my mother's wedding! Not least because she was married in 1959 and I'm not a Time Lord. I wonder how many 78-year-olds get married in the UK every year? It's her second wedding, and her fiance's third.

Under the circumstances of discussing hymns and readings, I did not feel I could ask my mother if she remembered reading Johnnie Tigerskin. I am quite sure she doesn't. Her bedtime story reading-ability was legendary, and it's no accident that my five siblings and I have all turned out to be avid readers.











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