The five year old met monsters today. Of the fairy tale sort where giants snore and dream of crunching bones. Ugly sisters and a big bad wolf, Prince Charming and Little Red Riding Hood. He liked it not. Afraid for his bones he fled the local castle, Grandparents in tow, to the safety of the Christmas market where sugared snowman biscuits soothed his rattled nerves.
Frightening - fairytales - for the very young. Trolls and witches and ogres and wolves. The stuff of nightmares and lost in the woods. Bedtime stories not, unless we wish ourselves an upset night.
But I love to be scared by books. Films which chill the spine and camera crews who creep through haunted corridors at 3am. In dark, damp Edinburgh Vaults I listened for Mr Boots, amidst a captive huddle in candlelit rooms. Entertained when afraid - my husband thinks it mad.
Safe then the pair - father and son. From ghosts and monsters and fright. But the baby fears not the dark. Has no knowledge to make her afraid. Awake in the night she gabbles to shadows in her cot. Not those of ghouls but rabbits - soft of fur and long of ear. Favourite grasped in tiny hands, wide eyed and safe in the dark... x