Children's books

The best kind of books are those that take you to a different world, where you can escape your own, immerse yourself somewhere else, so that you're surprised when you eventually look up and find yourself in your own armchair, or bed, or at your kitchen table. This holds for children's books too. As a book-obsessed person, reading to my own children is a mixed blessing. I want to transfer a love of books, so I want to read with passion. But it's hard to fake enthusiasm for the sixty-eighth rendition of Interactive-Sounds-Fireman-Sam. So I'm a mean mummy when it comes to books. I censor. Cue deep intake of breaths all round. Although my little children are allowed to own such terrible wastes of card and paper, they find that they are mysteriously buried at the bottom of the book basket. Or, if I'm in really Terrible Mother mode, I blatantly wrinkle my nose and say "let's read this one instead". Freedom to choose is all well and good, but if I'm the one who has to read and re-read, I want it to be a good book. Anything else is just a wasteful sapping of reading time. So...the favourite reading books for children in this book-dominated house are ones that I love too, where I can enter the world of the book, revel in the sounds, the rhythms, the illustrations. Where dreams take over.

The Katie Morag books, By Mairi Hedderwick, are a constant choice here. The stories are about the wonderful life of a little girl in the Scottish Islands, complete with a cast of characters so well rounded and quirky they could grace any George Eliot novel. There's Grannie Island, the smallholding, tractor-driving grandma who covers her beloved tractor in CND stickers, dad- who is oft found serving in the Island's post office and simultaneously changing a nappy and mum who - gasp - is frequently seen to be breastfeeding a baby. Not only are the stories themselves whimsical and delicious, but the watercolour illustrations invite you to disappear into the colours, the scenery, the homely world of Katie Morag. I could happily spend an hour poring over the pictures of Katie Morag curled up in the rocking chair by Grannie's Rayburn, or the Big Boy Cousins (Hector, Archie, Jamie, Dougal and Murdo Ian) wreaking havoc across the village.



Another favourite is the Alfie books by Shirley Hughes. Similar to the Katie Morag books in that they are not saccharine-sweet, and there is not a fairy or a spaceman in sight. This time, though, Alfie is a city child, who lives with his mum and baby sister, Annie Rose. What I love about these books, is that Shirley Hughes, like Mairi Hedderwick, knows children. So when Alfie goes to Bernard's birthday party, Bernard is naughty and won't take off a tiger mask that frightens one of the other guests, blows bubbles through a straw into his jelly and has it taken away by his mum! Again, the illustrations are beautiful, detailed and create a world you can lose yourself in. I love Bernard's back garden birthday party, decked out with balloons and a table with mismatched chairs, set out under a tree and groaning with the weight of cakes, jelly and sandwiches. In fact, Bernard's garden has inspired some of the decoration of my own garden when we've had parties, with balloons in the trees, bunting and general English tea-party loveliness! But there are also appealing drawings of the urban streets where Alfie lives, and his stories echo the kind of situations many little children encounter.



My First Born is long-past picture books. And although i wince every time I pass the bookshelves in her room and see rows of lurid-coloured paperbacks with titles like Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging, I try to take heart that her bedroom actually has bookshelves filled with books and that she does read, albeit supplemented by piles of gossip mags with titles like Bliss and Sugar. But I remember the illicit thrill of Just Seventeen when I was a mid-teen, devouring the problem page (was it Dear Melanie?) along with the midget gems I used to buy on my Friday after-school trips to the newsagents. Ahh, those were the days. But, as a literate mother, I do poke my nose in unforgivably to my daughter's reading material. She has gone through the Jacqueline Wilson stage - all good in my opinion, as they encouraged her to be an avid reader - and was flailing for a while. So I sneaked in some books of my own. Holes, by Louis Sachar was an instant hit. The His Dark Materials books by Philip Pullman mysteriously appeared on her shelves, but she pooh-poohed these. Not one to give up, they were joined by some less-obviously-fantasy Pullman - The Butterfly Tattoo was a big hit. More hits were Coraline, by Neil Gaiman (once she stopped sniggering at his name) - a creepy pageturner about a girl who gets trapped in a parallel world. There are several illustrations throughout, some of which are terrifying. I enjoyed this one myself (and was a little bit scared). And The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. Of the Asperger's sufferer narrator, she said "he's a bit like Dad, isn't he?" Make of that what you will. And she's currently deeply immersed in Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder - a history of philosophical thought in story form. Still sitting on her reading pile is Finding Violet Park by Jenny Valentine - it got rave reviews. I'll have to see if First Born agrees with them.





My own personal childhood faves were the Famous Five books. As a child I was blithely unaware of any alleged racist and sexist slant and tumbled head first into the adventures. I lived in that world and was often teased at school for using exclamations such as "Bother" and "Blow" rather than the more colourful Anglo-Saxon of the other kids. I couldn't have given a stuff. In my own head, I was off home soon for high tea, with buttered scones and home-made lemonade. That it was more likely to be Ross Beefsteaks and chips didn't bother me. I lived then, as now, in my books.
Another favourite that has followed me into adulthood is the Jennings books by Anthony Buckeridge. The tales, written in the 50s, follow the adventures of a prep school boy and his fellow pupils. I adore these - full of tales of ribbing the masters, and dive-bombing the tuck boxes and originator of phrases such as "What antiseptic eyewash, Jennings, you clod!" Whenever I'm feeling a bit low, even now, I get out my Jennings books. They are absolutely hilarious and open up a lost world of the English post-war prep school. I was dismayed to learn a few years back that they were to be re-issued to appeal to modern children and updated with computers, gameboys etc. No, no,no. This is to kill the essence of Jennings, Derbyshire and Co, who are so immensely of their time and place that to take them out of it would be to destroy them completely. I still root out the orange hardback copies in second-hand bookshops and it's always a thrill to find 'em. The phenomenom of the 'crossover' book didn't start with Harry Potter. A good book is a good book. Why should children be fobbed off with badly written tosh? And why should parents have to read it?!