Looking Glass Girl

This month in the Convent book group, we are reading books based on classics. Cathy Cassidy's Looking Glass Girl uses Alice in Wonderland as its foundation.

There are SO many books that use Alice in their titles. I once thought of starting a collection for my elder daughter (whose name is Alice) but I gave up because there were just so many of them: Go Ask Alice, A Town Like Alice, Alice in La La Land, Alice in Blunderland etc, What Alice Forgot... there are literally dozens of them. I mean, it's a great name, obviously, but I hadn't realised just what a heavy literary burden it bears!

This book also features a heroine named Alice, who is lying in a coma in hospital after an accidental fall. Or was it an accident? Each chapter cleverly weaves in dialogue drawn from the original Alice in Wonderland as visitors to the hospital come and go, trying to coax Alice from her long sleep, and we trace the events that led to the mysterious fall downstairs.

This is really a story about bullying and peer pressure, with a few twists along the way. The character who is set up as the villain turns out not to be the real villain after all, though I still had reservations about her behaviour and wasn't prepared to let her off the hook so lightly. Looking Glass Girl is a very competent book, but ironically it lacked the touch of magic that makes Lewis Carroll's Alice so special.

Harry Potter Charades

The girls had a friend over at the weekend, and they invented a game that kept them occupied for HOURS. Watching TV in the next room, we would hear someone stomp into the library, announcing in a pompous voice: Hello everybody, I work for the Ministry of Magic... or a little shrill voice saying, Boo-hoo, I'm a sad House Elf, I got the sack...

It turns out they were playing 'What Harry Potter Character Am I?' (catchy name, I know). They'd found a list of every character in the Harry Potter universe, printed it out (see above), and numbered each sheet and character. Then they'd choose, unseen, a number combination (say, 5-18), look it up, and then perform it for the others to guess.

For example, if I had chosen 5-18, I'd be a Gryffindor Quidditch player... a Chaser... future wife of George Weasley...

Can you guess who I am?

The Sound of My Own Voice

So it seems that my days of reading aloud might be almost over.

Since Alice was born, nearly twelve years ago, I have read to my children. Reading aloud was especially important to Alice because for a long time, her dyslexia denied her the books that she most wanted to consume -- books like Agatha Christie, Harry Potter, Little Women, PG Wodehouse. Audiobooks at bed-time have always been a part of our family ritual too, but the cry of 'Read to me, Mummy!' or more simply, 'Read-y!' would ring through our house several times a day. I must have spent hundreds, if not thousands of hours, reading aloud.

But now Alice's reading has improved to the point where she can read Harry Potter on her own and research websites about pet rabbits for hours on end. She still needs audiobooks, but she doesn't ask me to read to her any more. Evie has been an independent reader since she taught herself to read in kindergarten; now she ploughs intently through multi-volume sagas about clans of warrior cats in a forest, or tribes of lost dragons, and taps out her own versions on the laptop at top speed.

For a while, the girls liked me to read to them while they were in the bath. I must admit I resisted this, because, frankly, it's bloody cold and uncomfortable in our bathroom, unless you're the one sitting in waist-deep hot water. So gradually I stopped; and now they're too modest to want me in there anyway; and now the habit's broken, and it just doesn't seem to happen any more.

Perhaps the last hurrah of reading aloud was our last family holiday in WA, where I read several volumes of Ivy and Bean to both girls, in quiet moments between excursions. The other book that both girls loved and begged for was 101 Dalmatians, which I must have read to them four or five times.

Maybe reading aloud will be a holiday thing now. Maybe when the next holidays come up, I might pull out The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and give that a whirl. Maybe I could even get Michael to listen in to that one.

Please Look After This Bear

Alice has been reading Paddington Bear. She's now read the first three books in the series, a chapter a night, on our recently purchased Kindle, relishing and occasionally dreading the misadventures of the well-meaning, marmalade-loving, accident-prone bear from Peru.

Everyone said that the Kindle can make a huge difference for dyslexic readers, and they're right. The non-backlit screen of the basic version is not too contrast-y (I know that's not a word); the machine itself is light and easy to handle. Best of all, Alice can alter the size of the font, the spacing of the lines and even the font itself to her own preferences. In the past, she's given up on many books because the print is so small, the lines so close together, that deciphering the words is a real headache for her (literally).

The only problem is now: what to read next? Even the last Paddington volume was starting to get a little bit hard for her. The words had become slightly longer, the plots more convoluted, and she wasn't enjoying it quite so much. But I desperately want her to keep up the habit of reading every night; it's all too easy to derail her.

I had been hoping she could tackle 101 Dalmatians next, which is one of her all time favourite books, and very familiar, but it's not available on the Kindle. I've loaded up one of Lois Lowry's Anastasia books to try next, so we'll see how that goes. Lots of people have made helpful suggestions, which I will follow up. I was going to try Edward Eager's Half Magic, a favourite from my own childhood, but alas! Not available on e-book. Not yet, anyway.

Wish us luck -- any further suggestions will be gratefully received!

Tiny Garden

 This is Alice's window box. She tends to it conscientiously (much more attentively than I tend to our actual garden), using a teaspoon for digging and a tin kettle for watering. Gardening advice is obtained from her grandparents, because what I know about gardening would fit comfortably on the back of a matchbox. (Water -- not too much? Sun? Prune sometimes?)
At the moment, the box contains oregano, carrots, mini marigolds and a fern. Her bonsai ficus is not, strictly speaking, part of the box, but it does spend some time on the window sill.

 The tree attracts varied bird life.

 The oregano has gone beserk since being brought back from the Show as a tiny free seedling in an eggcup. We need to find some more oregano recipes. The carrots have been savagely thinned, and are being saved for Christmas dinner. I've never heard of anyone growing carrots in a window box. They are certainly very luxuriant; whether or not the roots are equally flourishing remains to be seen.

Wildlife hiding beneath the fern.

The window box is doing so well that I'm seriously considering handing the whole garden over to Alice's care. Come to think of it, she is already in charge of mowing the grass, sweeping the paths, and occasional watering, so she's halfway there...

Rilla By Night

Alice and Evie go to bed with an audiobook every night. Don't blame me; their father can't fall asleep without the radio murmuring in his ear, so I reckon they got it from him. Anyway, this habit is all very well when we are on home turf, but it can pose problems when we're staying elsewhere.

This weekend we had a sleepover at a friends' place. Thank God for the iPad and the free Audiobooks app which we had spent some time exploring recently. There are literally hundreds of books available, though unfortunately many are read by narrators who are... well, less than perfect. The word wooden springs to mind. The only book we'd downloaded in its entirety, and which had an excellent reader, was Rilla of Ingleside by L.M. Montgomery, one of my absolute favourite childhood reads, and the source of all my early knowledge of World War I. Essentially it's the story of Anne (of Green Gables) and her family's experience of the Great War, focusing on her youngest daughter Rilla who comes of age during those agonising years, with friends, brothers and potential sweethearts marching off to war around her.

Well, we put on Rilla when the girls went to bed at about nine thirty. When Michael and I came to bed an hour later, Evie was asleep but Alice was still wide awake and listening. 'England has just declared war on Germany,' she hissed. I fell asleep with half an ear tuned to Rilla's tribulations, and whenever I rolled over in the night, I was dimly aware of the story murmuring away. We were all squished into one room and I couldn't reach the iPad without treading on everyone, so I let it run. Al must be asleep by now anyway, I thought lazily. When I woke up at about six, sunlight was seeping into the room and Rilla was still going! But by seven thirty, all was silent and Alice was fast asleep.

At half past ten, she was still dead to the world. When she finally surfaced, she confessed that she had stayed awake all night, listening to Rilla. And she really had.

'Oh, Mum, why did [spoiler spoiler]? It was so sad. And why did Jims' father have to come back? I didn't like Rilla's boyfriend at all... It was so scary when Jims was really sick and Mary saved his life. And Little Dog Monday, waiting for Jem! Oh, Mum...' - big contented sigh - '... what a great book!' She hadn't missed a minute.

And I know I'm a bad mother, letting my child stay awake till dawn listening to a novel, so she had big black rings under her eyes and could hardly speak for tiredness, but secretly, deep down inside, I didn't mind at all. So there.

Three Men In A Bad Ending

From left: the original George, the original Harris and 'J' Jerome K. Jerome. Imaginary dog not pictured.

So I've been reading Three Men In A Boat to Alice. Written in 1889 by journalist and humorist Jerome K. Jerome, this slim and well-loved volume chronicles the adventures and misadventures of three young men (to say nothing of the dog, Montmorency) as they take a leisurely two week trip up the Thames.

There are lots of poetical descriptions of the landscape (which Alice found dull) and history lessons, as they pass various towns and grand houses (which Alice found moderately interesting, so long as we could tie it into Horrible Histories -- the Saxons had us pretty baffled though). But her favourite parts of the narrative were the tall tales the three friends share (like George getting lost in the maze) and the silly accidents that befall them along the way - the tins that won't open, the boat cover that refuses to go up, the huge fish in the pub that every man who wanders in claims to have caught, and which eventually (after an unfortunate accident in which Harris climbs on the back of a chair to examine said fish more closely, but knocks it down and smashes it into a million pieces) proves to have been made of plaster all along.

The three men were closely based on Jerome himself and his two friends Carl Hentschel (renamed Harris) and George Wingrove. Only Montmorency the dog was entirely invented, which is a fact I'm reluctant to pass on to Alice after her reaction to the ending of the book. You see, the three men jump ship. They've sworn themselves to a fortnight's holiday, but the weather in the last few days is so unrelentingly terrible, they abandon the boat with two days to go, take a train back to town and treat themselves to a slap-up meal and a trip to the theatre instead.

'What?' Alice was outraged. 'That is a terrible ending.'
She's been brooding about it for days, and last night when Jerome's name popped up in another context,* she said savagely, 'Huh! He wrote really bad endings.'
'What's wrong with the ending?'
'Those three men were really bad role models. They just gave up. They should have stayed until the very end.'

It emerged that she felt cheated of another two days' worth of anecdotage and misadventure. In her view, sending the three men home early was sheer laziness on the part of the author, and she is not prepared to forgive it.

* He featured in Who Do You Think You Are? as a crusading journalist who ruined Emilia Fox's ancestor's name. Long story.

In Other News:

Here is what the judges of the WA Premier's Book Awards said about Crow Country, which was shortlisted for the 2011 Young Adult award:

Kate Constable has taken a complex and contentious topic and handled it with a deftness that will be enjoyed by a casual reader but will be long considered by a thoughtful one. As race relations in this country are still being negotiated, this novel reminds us of past injustices while offering hope for a better future.

The winner of the Young Adult award was my dear friend Penni Russon, for Only Ever Always, which makes me very happy:

Mysterious, complex and challenging, Only Ever Always is a beautifully written story of parallel lives where Claire in the now, and Clara in a dystopian, timeless world, each face similar difficulties. Is one the dreamer, the other the dream, and if so, which? Changing voices, points of view and place make this a very satisfying novel for a reader willing to give it the close attention it deserves.

 Couldn't have put it better myself!  Congratulations, Pen.

Nuns and Horses

Alice and I were watching an episode of QI last night, where they were discussing horses. One of the panellists remarked that a certain piece of sad music always made her cry, because it reminded her of Black Beauty, when Ginger died.

Alice turned to me, her eyes like saucers. 'Ginger died? When did Ginger die?'

It seems that the audiobook version of Black Beauty just, you know, skipped that part...


As I was tucking her into bed, she said, 'Mum, have you got any good books about nuns?'
'Well, there's that book about Maria Von Trapp, the real Sound of Music story... Or I have got a very good novel about nuns, but it's for adults.'
'No, no, I want a factual book about nuns, their day to day lives, what they get up to. I'm just really interested in nuns.'
Obviously there's a gap in the market for a really gripping kids book about nuns. Maybe a pop up?

Daddy-Long-Legs

This is the cover of the book that I read when I was a kid - about nine, probably - I think there was a copy in the Mt Hagen library. I couldn't remember much about it, except that it was written in letters and even I could foresee the Big Twist coming at the end. Perhaps that's why I felt slightly dismissive of it and didn't reread it, which was a rare event back in them days.

But recently I found a copy and gave it another go, and it was just delightful. Yes, it is a little creepy that Judy addresses her anonymous benefactor (and eventual SPOILER! love interest) as 'Daddy' throughout, but hey, it was written a hundred years ago! And it was sweet. I'd completely forgotten, or more likely it hadn't registered in the first place, how lively and funny and brisk (if rather dense) a narrator Judy is - and surely her denseness is intentional, to give us readers a smug shiver of anticipation, as we can so clearly see what Judy can't.

And it's feminist too: 'Don't you think I'd make an admirable voter if I had my rights? I was twenty-one last week. This is an awfully wasteful country to throw away such an honest, educated, conscientious, intelligent citizen as I would be.' Yeah, you go, Judy!

I was shattered to learn that Jean Webster, who was an orphan herself and presumably wrote from experience, wrote only one more book after this one. She married at 39 and died in childbirth. How awfully sad, and what a waste indeed.

PS Just discovered that Jean Webster's real name was Alice! Thanks, Wikipedia.

What Everyone Is Reading At Our House

Michael: Birdsong, Sebastian Faulks
Alice: A Caribbean Mystery, Agatha Christie (audiobook); The Moving Finger, Agatha Christie (me reading to her); Tensy Farlow and the Home for Mislaid Children, Jen Storer
Evie: The Wandering Wombles, Elisabeth Beresford
... which pretty neatly reflects their main areas of literary interest: Michael, World War I; Alice, murder and mystery; and Evie, sweet little furry animals who talk.

Authors Love Alice

There seems to be something about the name Alice that writers can't resist. Obviously I find it appealing myself, since I used it not just for a book but for a real live daughter.

Did it all begin with Alice in Wonderland?

Then there was Go Ask Alice, and Alice Doesn't Live Here Any More...

But now there seem to be more Alices on the book shelves than ever before! Here's a sample:
Alice, I Think
Paper Alice
Alice Alone
Alice in Zombieland, Alice in Writerland, Alice in La La Land etc
The Agony of Alice
About Alice
Alice Parker's Metamorphosis
Dangerously Alice, Almost Alice and Intensely Alice
Finding Alice
Alice the Fairy
Alice Adams
Alice (numerous authors, including Sandra Wilson, Judith Hermann, Margarette Janoski, Myles Overton, EV Cunningham, Anne Worboys, Nancy Ross, Gary Smith, AK Albaari)
Alice and Aldo
A is For Alice
A Town Like Alice
The Liberation of Alice Love
Alice At Heart
Alice-Miranda At School
Hurry Up, Alice!
What Alice Forgot

... and that's without trying very hard.

A few years ago I started collecting second hand books with "Alice" and "Evie" in the titles. I soon amassed a shelf full of books for the former, but I had to give up when all I could find for Evie was Deliver Us From Evie, and I could see a recipe for resentment brewing.


Is there something about Alice, or do I just notice it more because I have one of my own? Has anyone observed any other popular literary names popping up?

Workshop

A friend walked into our house the other day and said, 'Whenever I come here, there's always stuff being made.' I must confess I have become so used to being surrounded by works-in-progress, scraps of fabric, glue and craft sticks that I hadn't really thought about it, apart from tearing my hair out at the perpetual mess.

But it's true. At the moment we have crystals growing on saucers on the floor in front of the TV, seedlings sprouting in jars in Rex's tank, and a half-finished zoo enclosure on the coffee table. Recently Alice made and furnished a 'burrow' for some of her smaller toys, including tiny handmade books, sheets and curtains dyed with food dye, clothes for the toys and an elaborate water-tank and dipper system.

Last night Evie made a bird feeder from a toilet roll covered in silver foil, and a birdhouse from a box that had contained grapes, which she then rushed out to hang from the trees. Meanwhile, Alice was making bread, joyfully thumping the dough - but plain bread is boring, so this became nutmeg, lime and orange bread. (Which, I must say, is actually bloody delicious - sort of hot-cross-bunnish, but without the sultanas.) The 'sauce' which was to accompany the bread was less successful (flour, sugar, nutmeg, lime juice), but hey, for every hit, there'll be a few misses.

I just have to keep reminding myself that the flour on the floor, the newspapers all over the table, rag box spilling in the corner -- in short, the general chaos of our living space -- really is worthwhile. Who knows, maybe that's the thing I'll miss the most when they're all grown up.

Overheard: Two Ten-Year-Olds Talk Politics

A: It's sad about Julia Gillard.
M: Yes, it's a shame, because she was the first woman. And she's been really mean to the Greens.
A: It's such a pity when someone isn't as good as you expect.
M: Labor and Liberal are exactly the same at the moment.
A: Like tea and coffee...
M: Except tea and coffee aren't...
A: ... they're like a tea shop and a coffee shop who hate each other. Then one gets muffins, then the other gets muffins...
M: (sighs) I know what you mean.

After School

Mum, I'm hungry.
Mum, I'm hungry.
Mum, can I have some more onion rings?
Mum, can you put this back in the fridge?
Mum, I'm hungry. Can I have an icy pole? Can you help me pull it up?
Mum, can I try that pure sugar thing [halva] again?
Mum, can I have some more onion rings? Can I have my icy pole back then?
Mum, can I have a jelly? Can you open it for me?
Can you play - can you read to me outside?
Can I have a chocolate digestive?
Can I watch You Tube on the lappy? How do you spell You Tube? How do you spell Horrible Histories?
Mummy, can you push me on the swing?
Mum, Evie's not going away!
Mummy, can you read-y?
Can you push me on the swing?
Can you peel and cut up this apple for me?
Can you tell Alice to stop watching the internet, cos it uses up too much bandwidth?
Can I have some Stingose?
Can I have some of that sugar stuff?
Can I make the lasagne? Can I make it the way I want it, not how you want it?
Can you pass me the fish oil tablets?
Can I please have some lemon cordial?
Can I have some more lasagne?
Can you push me?
What's for dessert?

Can I build a zoo?

Ssh... Don't Tell Anyone, But...

Alice is reading a book.

I almost don't want to talk about it in case I put the mozz on it, but... She has been reading in bed every night for the last week or so, a chapter or two at a time. It's our old favourite, The 101 Dalmations, which I have read to the girls three or four times, so it is quite familiar. She says the words aren't jumping around as much as they used to; also that the old, yellowed paper makes reading easier, because the contrast between the white space and the print is less.

Last night she had a choice between staying up to watch TV, and going to bed and reading, and she went to bed with her book. Of course, being Alice, she won't tolerate any hint of coercion. I can't tell her to go to bed and read; I can't talk about it to other people (so keep it under your hat, and please don't tell her I told you!) But at ten and a half, maybe we're turning a corner. Maybe.

All I have ever wanted for Alice is that she might be able to partake in the enormous pleasure of curling up with a book, and it has broken my heart that she hasn't been able to do that. Cross fingers - it might be here at last. The sight of her sitting in bed, absorbed in her book, makes my heart flutter with joy. And now all I can think about is, what can I give her next?

Tree Poem by Alice

Forlying, Forlying, Forlying
Smash!!
days and day prse by
and not a thing happens
the brown shall is
an skoth
an tell a crak
a sprout a tree is bern

Falling, falling, falling
Smash!
Days and days pass by and
not a thing happens
The brown shell is unscathed
Until a crack
A sprout a tree is born.

Ten Years Of Alice

Ten years ago today, to the very minute, I was giving my new baby daughter her first cuddle. She was wide-awake, staring around like a fierce, cross little owl. 'She's very alert, isn't she?' all the midwives said.

She was a Wednesday baby, and she has indeed at times been full of woe.

But she is tougher than she looks. She's survived being nearly starved in her first few weeks of life, almost drowned on Sorrento back beach, having half her teeth pulled out, allergic reactions to sunscreen and strawberries, and Michael almost backing the car over her just two days ago.

Happy birthday, my clever, brave, funny, contrary little girl.

Transatlantic

I'm not sure how this has happened, but we seem to have spawned one child from England and one from California.

For Evie, it's all, 'Like, totally... awesome!' or 'LOL. Rolls eyes. Bor-ring!'
For Alice, things are either, 'Absolutely brilliant, Mummy!' or 'That's rubbish.'

Evie's Littlest Pets all speak in Valley Girl voices and share Valley Girl concerns about their accessories, BFFs and trips to summer camp.
On the other hand, I have lost count of the number of times people have asked me if Alice is English, such is the exaggerated toffiness of her accent. Is it all the English audiobooks that have lulled her to sleep over the last few years? But then why didn't the American versions of the Tremaris books have an effect on her speaking voice? Is it the influence of her English grandfather (who sounds Oz as these days, anyway)? And if so, why doesn't Evie share the Brit vibe?

It's a mystery.

Reading With Alice

9.25pm
Alice: Mummy, can I read to you?
(Strangely, she never shows any interest in reading to me unless it's after bed time.)
Kate: Okay, but just for a little while.
Alice: Can we read that Picture book?
(A recently acquired copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray, see below.)
Kate: Yes, but it's got lots of hard words, so I'll have to help you.
(She hates being helped. Together we look at the first paragraph and I pick out the troublesome words in advance -- studio, odour, stirred, amidst, delicate, perfume -- so she can read the whole paragraph with hardly a hitch. She launches into the second paragraph and I help her out when she stumbles.)
Alice: From the corner of the divan...
Kate: Like a couch.
Alice: ... of Persian saddle-bags on which he lay was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable...
Kate: What might you smoke?
Alice:  Cigars? cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum...
Kate: Remember there was a laburnum tree in The Family From One End Street? In the village, with golden flowers?
Alice: (striking a pose) Does it look like this? Or like this?
Kate: I don't know. Keep reading.
Alice: ... whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs... (huge yawn)
Kate: Let's just finish this sentence, okay?
Alice: Okay... and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore...
Kate: I have no idea what that is.
Alice: ... tussore-silk... Is this still the same sentence?... curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of moment...momentary Japanese... When is this sentence going to end? (suddenly suspicious) Is this an elaborate plan to make me read the whole book?
Kate: Nearly there, I can see a full stop coming up. Keep going!
Alice: ... effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-faced painters of Tokio who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek? to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. Oh my God. Why did he write such long sentences??
(pause) Can you read to me now?

Tooth Traumas

 Alice had ten teeth taken out this week. Some were rotten, some were crowded or crooked baby teeth, and have been removed to allow the adult teeth to come through straight (we hope).

It was a big operation, bigger than we were really prepared for, and the scene in the recovery room was like something out of The Exorcist. I think I've watched too many post-operation scenes from Days of Our Lives; I guess I pictured my little girl waking up quietly, pale and interesting, in a hospital bed, perhaps whispering vaguely, 'Where am I?' while I stroked her forehead reassuringly.

Well, she was definitely pale -- her face was as grey as a plateful of porridge. Interesting? Yes, but not in the way I imagined. Blood-soaked gauze spilled from her swollen lips as she thrashed about in post-pethidine delirium. 'Water!' she croaked. 'I URGENTLY need water!' (At that point I was relieved to note that the anaesthetic hadn't damaged her personality.) I started to feel rather ill myself, and managed to pass her to her father before I keeled over. Luckily for me, I thus avoided the projectile vomit she then sprayed over everyone else in the room (mostly blood she'd swallowed during the procedure). Groggy and drooling, eyes rolling in her head, she lolled in her father's arms while I tried to pull myself together.

Three days on and we are all feeling much better. It's helped a lot that she's become something of a celebrity at school. A crowd of well-wishers has hung over the school fence near our back gate at recess and lunch-time, calling her out into the laneway, and on the second day, our garden was invaded by all her friends, who came spilling over the fence to visit.

So now my main problem is coming up with ideas for soft food. There won't be any chewing for a while.

Enough Stuff?

Lately Alice has started to watch a rather disturbing show called Hoarders. These poor people are in the grip of a compulsion to acquire, and keep, all kinds of junk, to the point where their houses are so crammed with stuff that they become almost uninhabitable. During a long-overdue clean-up, one woman discovered the flattened, mummified remains of two of her pet cats, which had 'disappeared' some years earlier; they had wandered into the maze of junk, become hopelessly lost, and died.

It's desperately sad for those involved, and their families, but I can't help also thinking of this programme as an allegory for Western capitalism. Our urge to consume and acquire huge, unwieldy amounts of useless crap is slowly choking our planet.

I suspect that Alice is fascinated with this show because she has a little bit of the hoarder in her.* She adores garage sales, hard rubbish, and op shops; abandoned objects call to her. She wants to pick them up and love them. We have an attic full of stuff that Alice has 'rescued.' Her favourite walk at the moment takes in a visit to a $2 shop in High St, Preston, swinging by Savers on the way home, where she scours the street for detritus that donors have spilled. Last week she picked up a (rather gorgeous, I must admit) remnant of beaded chiffon, a single high heeled shoe, and a tiny baby's shoe ('But Mummy, it's adorable!') Then she discovered a vacant lot. She peered through a gap in the fence and her eyes gleamed. 'Oh, Mummy, please! It's an absolute treasure trove!' To my jaded eyes, there was nothing particularly appealing about the soggy sofa, the rotting cardboard boxes or the tattered scraps of plastic blowing about among the weeds, but I let her go and have a look around (carefully).

Luckily, she had spent her $2 wisely at the $2 shop. After half an hour of examining every item in the shop, she finally chose -- a rubbish bin.

Maybe there's hope for her yet.


* Or perhaps the collector? She loves Collectors, too.