I have taken on a new job, it is Storyteller in Residence at the Roald Dahl Story Centre.I will be telling stories both beautiful and beastly. Mine and Mr. Dahl's.During my residency I will be sleeping in my Gorgeous Storytelling Palace in the orchard of Roald Dahl's old abode "Gypsy House" I am thrilled and looking forward to getting started.Something, however, is already happening...
It started in my dreams, I dreamt that I spent most of my time in Roald Dahl’s orchard with a crumpled map, searching for sweets and another one where I buried a grid of crystals under my tent before I put it up and then, as I dug them up at the end of the residency, they had transformed into chocolate bars.What does all this mean?
This morning the snow continued to cascade down, to the delight of the child and the child inside the grown up. I sat at a single track train station drinking my coffee from a jam jar (I was going to turn the jar into a lantern for a spring ritual later that that day, it seemed silly to use a cup as well).
There were about ten of us dotted about the platform, mostly adults, one girl who was crying because her hands were cold. She thought her dad’s idea of blowing on them was utterly ridiculous and gave him a withering princess look to tell him so.
Inside the flimsy shelter there was a man, safe looking, round and soft, and next to him was a little boy. I would like to tell you what this little boy looked like but he was thoroughly swaddled on account of the cold so I could barely see his face. I could tell you one thing for certain, he was.. Entranced.
As I got closer to the little shelter they were huddled in I heard the voice of my dreams, a lilting lullaby voice, steady and low.
This man, this dad was reading ALOUD a story in front of everybody and WE WERE ALL LISTENING.
We loved it. And not any old story, no, no no it was "James and the Giant Peach" and it was not only my favourite book in the world but it was my favourite bit of my favourite book in the world… James had just opened the door and gone into the peach stone, and the door had disappeared behind him, (because it can, because it is a story). This delicious storyteller was just about to say..
"James’s large frightened eyes looked slowly around the room…."
I don’t know why, it makes me tingle, that sentence.. I can hear him gulping with a dry throat and I am dying to remember what those large frightened eyes are seeing.
And I was not the only one…
No one dared move on the platform, even "crying because her hands were cold little girl" came up and listened until she remembered that she was crying because her hands were cold.
WE loved it, and we were a random selection of city bound grown ups.
Our eyes bulged as the spider licked her lips with her black tongue and we smiled as the centipede was accused of exaggerating when he said he had a hundred feet.
When the train finally chuffed around the corner we all let out sighs of whist and wonder and stepped on the train. I did not even mind when I slowly realised that I had got on the wrong train and would have to spend my lunch money on a taxi to avoid being late for the day.
I did not mind because someone had dared to tell a story, out loud, in public, in the morning…………
I have decided that it is an omen that my life is completely perfect in every way.
And I am curious about that part of all of us that still loves stories, that feels warm and loved and held when we are read to. That is the part of all of us that I will pour my magic over. I will remember that however old we are, whatever we look or sound like, however sharp our dress or crisp our delivery …..We all love a good story…The part in all of us that gazes in wonder at the snow and the`stars can be reached through stories, after all "It is never too late to have a happy childhood"
So let the words flow and wish me luck. x
It started in my dreams, I dreamt that I spent most of my time in Roald Dahl’s orchard with a crumpled map, searching for sweets and another one where I buried a grid of crystals under my tent before I put it up and then, as I dug them up at the end of the residency, they had transformed into chocolate bars.What does all this mean?
This morning the snow continued to cascade down, to the delight of the child and the child inside the grown up. I sat at a single track train station drinking my coffee from a jam jar (I was going to turn the jar into a lantern for a spring ritual later that that day, it seemed silly to use a cup as well).
There were about ten of us dotted about the platform, mostly adults, one girl who was crying because her hands were cold. She thought her dad’s idea of blowing on them was utterly ridiculous and gave him a withering princess look to tell him so.
Inside the flimsy shelter there was a man, safe looking, round and soft, and next to him was a little boy. I would like to tell you what this little boy looked like but he was thoroughly swaddled on account of the cold so I could barely see his face. I could tell you one thing for certain, he was.. Entranced.
As I got closer to the little shelter they were huddled in I heard the voice of my dreams, a lilting lullaby voice, steady and low.
This man, this dad was reading ALOUD a story in front of everybody and WE WERE ALL LISTENING.
We loved it. And not any old story, no, no no it was "James and the Giant Peach" and it was not only my favourite book in the world but it was my favourite bit of my favourite book in the world… James had just opened the door and gone into the peach stone, and the door had disappeared behind him, (because it can, because it is a story). This delicious storyteller was just about to say..
"James’s large frightened eyes looked slowly around the room…."
I don’t know why, it makes me tingle, that sentence.. I can hear him gulping with a dry throat and I am dying to remember what those large frightened eyes are seeing.
And I was not the only one…
No one dared move on the platform, even "crying because her hands were cold little girl" came up and listened until she remembered that she was crying because her hands were cold.
WE loved it, and we were a random selection of city bound grown ups.
Our eyes bulged as the spider licked her lips with her black tongue and we smiled as the centipede was accused of exaggerating when he said he had a hundred feet.
When the train finally chuffed around the corner we all let out sighs of whist and wonder and stepped on the train. I did not even mind when I slowly realised that I had got on the wrong train and would have to spend my lunch money on a taxi to avoid being late for the day.
I did not mind because someone had dared to tell a story, out loud, in public, in the morning…………
I have decided that it is an omen that my life is completely perfect in every way.
And I am curious about that part of all of us that still loves stories, that feels warm and loved and held when we are read to. That is the part of all of us that I will pour my magic over. I will remember that however old we are, whatever we look or sound like, however sharp our dress or crisp our delivery …..We all love a good story…The part in all of us that gazes in wonder at the snow and the`stars can be reached through stories, after all "It is never too late to have a happy childhood"
So let the words flow and wish me luck. x
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