Today in the park I met a boy named James. He was aged about six and sported a hat like the ones you will see worn by the elves in Santa's grotto in any local department store come Christmas. You know the hats I
mean, green and red with a bell on the end. See, I've even researched a picture on Google for you.
Anyway, young James, in case we should be wondering, explained very matter-of-factly, that he
really was, indeed, one of Santa's elves. What is more, he was at pains to assure us, he was one of Santa's elves all the time but, as he declared, sensibly: "I don't always wear my hat."
a bow, young James! You are a Story-Teller after my own heart. Not many people today tell magnificently, outrageously, ridiculously, fantastically, over-the-top tales. To my mind, there is far too much gritty realism these days.
I, too, used to tell Tall Tales when I was six or seven. I told all my friends that my name was Jacqueline because I was French. I spun stories about the way every weekend I flew to
foreign countries where Amazing Adventures befell me. Usually I went to Turkey because nobody (including me) knew much about that particular country. It was therefore fertile territory for Tall Tales as nobody was likely to contradict me.
I wonder now if anyone believed me. How convincing were my stories of daring? Especially when none of my friends would have recognised the intrepid, dare-devil, adventurer I became in my
stories. Was this really the girl who cried buckets and made a Proper Fuss when she had to go to the Head-teacher's Office to have a splinter removed from her finger?
But, hey, as James the
Elf and I both know very well - never let the facts get in the way of a Good Story. Mr B would say I'm just as bad as I ever was....