After decades of writing for work, in recent years I’ve been having a go at writing that’s a bit more creative.

It began with stories for children, the main character of which – Rosie – is shamelessly based on our granddaughter, Aila. Rosie and her dog, Marmoo, are great mates and explorers who get up to all sorts of adventures. You get the idea.

Aila loves books and, though the Rosie stories are pitched at slightly older children and completely without illustration, I thought she might almost be ready for one. So one morning as we snuggled together in bed (bliss I’ve missed), I scratched around on my phone and found a copy of ‘Rosie and Marmoo Go to the Beach’. Aila was delighted at the prospect of a story and happily settled down ready to listen. Let the adventure begin!

And, really, it started quite well. I think the opening scene is kind of exciting – Rosie and Marmoo spy something bright and shiny half-buried in the sand – but the two friends had scarcely uncovered the treasure when I felt movement beside me. A tiny hand reached out and very gently began to turn back the bed covers. I pressed on; by now Rosie and Marmoo were exploring the rock pools. Two small feet emerged and slid ever-so-slowly over the edge of the bed. Was that a star fish at the bottom of the pool? Finally the little body slipped quietly onto the floor and – after a pause to check that her absence hadn’t been noticed – Aila crept (below bed height) out of the room.

Meanwhile Papa and Daddy were drinking coffee in the kitchen.

‘What’s happening here?’ I heard Tom ask (just as a big shore crab latched onto Marmoo’s nose). ‘I thought Nansty was reading you a story?’

‘No,’ came the reply. ‘Nansty’s in there reading a story to herself. She’s fine. Can we make pancakes?’

No ‘happily-ever-after’ ending this time then. Looks like it’s back to the keyboard for me.

♥