Everyone who works with children’s books dreams of sharing their favourites with their own children. Like most dreams, the reality can be different.
My firstborn seemed to like most of my selections from my own collection. When he was 2 years old and grabbing things from the library’s picture book boxes himself though, I had to read his choices. This was one of them. Undistinguished, I thought, not as good as The Napping House.
A mixture of counting, spelling, and eating : the mayhem that results when you give in to the demands of robbers. He loved it so much that we couldn’t leave the library without it. He laughed out loud when I read it, no matter how many times in a day. I finally managed to buy a new copy and so this is the battered one I am keeping “for his children”, he says.