She told us from the stage in the belly of Nottingham Writers’ Studio. The author, publisher and mother told us about her first book. Perhaps five or six years old, she had drawn Star Wars characters and written stories. Her very name means fairytale she said, as she unveiled her latest book of grown up fairy stories.
Sitting on the tram home I opened another of her books. A compilation of poetry about parenting. Poetry always confounds me, as does parenting. Surely the book would too.
My mask of practiced emotionless was not prepared for the relentless onslaught of the poetry. The words elegantly conjured up in me the intimacy, the bond between parent and child. They forced me to feel the intensity of that love.
The words made a strong and gentle love and I poured them into me. I was soon overrun. Tears streamed from Old Market Square to David Lane.
The book went into my bag. I only had until Phoenix Park to rise again from my puddle and stiffen my upper lip.
A bundle of six year old cuddles awoke me the next morning. My daughter showed me a book she had written and illustrated and read it out to me with pride. It was a self-help book with six steps for me to control my anger.