Sorry, kids.

Cartoonist Dave Walker has just suggested that one thing we can do following the Brexit vote is 'apologise to a young person'. Most under thirties voted to stay in, and it's their future at stake. So today I told a couple of lads from church - lovely kids whose parents discuss issues with them, so they understood about the pros and cons of the referendum - that I had voted Remain, but nevertheless I was sorry for what my generation had done to their generation.

They were very nice about it. Then the younger one brightly told me that they have Irish passports, because their mum is Irish. Thank goodness for that. The Irish have far more sense that to leave Europe. And Ireland is beautiful. So is the music and the culture. Irish people really get it about books and poetry.

I wonder what the lads would charge to traffic me to Dublin?

Not In My Name

I haven't been around much lately. I've been to York, to Oxford, met some lovely people, and wanted to tell you about it.

But today I woke up to see that a dishonest campaign based on exploiting greed, fear and ignorance has led to a marginal vote in favour of leaving the EU. The fabric of Europe is being ripped apart. The world's egotistical leaders and would-be leaders are crowing. Wise guides weep. I am distressed, I am angry. On behalf of the many friends who share my grief today, let me tell you -

Not In My Name.

The Man Who Couldn't Stop

I came across this book by accident. It's The Man Who Couldn't Stop, by David Adam.

For those who are into Celtic Christianity, this is not the David Adam who used to be Vicar of Lindisfarne and wrote all those excellent books on what we can learn from our forebears. This David Adam is a science/medical journalist who found his life turned inside out and upside down by Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

It's not just people with OCD who need to read this. If you live with someone with OCD, if their obsessions and compulsions infringe on your life, please read this. This will tell you exactly what your friend/relation can't begin to explain, but longs to. It explains how an obsessive thought can completely take over a life. People with OCD behave in ways which everybody finds ridiculous and annoying. But if you're there, in that position, it seems that if you don't check this/clean that/make sure of this, the consequences for everyone will be catastrophic.

And David Adam, eventually, came through.

Why did...?

We've just had a few days away, firstly at a wedding in Yorkshire and then a few days in the sun - honestly, the timing couldn't have been better - in North Wales. We were driving home today when a sheep shambled across the road in front of us. Fortunately we weren't moving much faster than the sheep, so no harm was done. But it got me thinking.

Everybody asks about why the chicken crossed the road. Nobody asks about the sheep. Or the cow, the cat, or anything else, but today I'm thinking about the sheep. (There is a joke about why the hedgehog crossed the road, but it's not suitable for repeating in front of Mistmantle animals, and besides, they wouldn't get it.)

I was telling Fingal about this. First I had to explain what a chicken is. The idea of a bird that clucks, scratches about in the ground, and can't fly is so funny to a Mistmantle otter - well, Fingal anyway - that he ended up getting underwater hiccups and very nearly caused a high tide, not to mention capsizing Corr. Then, 'road'.

"What's a road?"

"It's like a path. But bigger, harder, and sometimes they have lines drawn down the middle - yes, Fingal, I suppose it's hilarious."

At this point I gave up and left Fingal doing chicken impressions, then rolling over in the sand laughing. And suddenly all the tower animals are telling variations on 'why did the squirrel fall out of the tree?'. Why indeed?

Much and Fairies

We've 'ad a few days of good weather and 'er's been tripping down the garden. Er's been away a lot lately on account of The 'obbits and their new little Frodo, and meanwhile the weeds have been growing like they're on blooming steroids. Now 'er's 'home, 'er comes out in the sunshine, flitting about with 'a trowel in 'er 'and. Bless. About time, too. It's all very well, 'er going on about the lovely blue drifts of cornflowers, but I can't see over the top of 'em. Swamped, I am. Off she goes, exclaiming about 'er beautiful garden as if there were fairies at the bottom of it. It's nonsense, that. There's a compost 'eap at the bottom of the garden, and you never see a compost heap fairy these days. They all work for blooming John Innes.

Any fairies in this garden come to the rockery. Why, you ask? Why do they so love the rockery? Well, since you ask, there's nothing fairies like better than a chat, and though I say it as shouldn't I can do sparkling and witty conversation as well as the next grey stone gnome from Yorkshire. 'ad a most entertaining 'arf hour with the Cuckoo Spit Fairy and the Missing Tools Fairy today. But if anyone's seen the How To Do In Greenfly Without Using Chemicals Fairy, get 'er to give me a call, will yer?

Crackle of the Cakes

It's all completely silly round here. Ever since Frodo arrived, She of the Stories has had baby brain and can't concentrate on anything. As usual she is trying to do too many things at once, and she hasn't said anything on here for over a week. In the tower there are new pages to be trained, so Urchin and Padra are very busy with that. Fingal is always sailing about, teaching Tide and Swanfeather how to manage a boat. Then of course there are crops of delicious things growing all over the island, so they have to be tended. Very soon it will be the start of berry season and all those little animals will have blackcurrant stains around their mouths. She asked me to think of something to tell you, so -

I happen to know a very busy young squirrel - a friend of She of the Stories - who is the most amazing baker. I could do with her on the island just now. I wonder if I could make her shortbread with hazelnut flour, and her gateau with ground almonds. She might even learn one day to make Kingsmantle Cake, the one dear Brother Fir was so fond of. And I do wonder if she has any clever ideas with gooseberries, as we may have a glut of them this year. But shall I tell you the best way to eat the fresh soft fruit? Sit in the sunshine and eat it with your fingers, fresh from the bush.

BIG ANNOUNCEMENT

I have been away from The House Of Stories for some time now. I've been in Wales with The Hobbits (that's Daughter and Daughter's Chap). I was there for a new little Hobbit coming into the world, to be known on the blog as Frodo. He is, of course, gorgeous. Golden-haired and gorgeous. Not quite the most beautiful baby boy ever - LOS and LYS share the honours there - but he's a very close runner-up. Bright as a button and doing all the right things. In no time at all he'll be finding the wonderful world of books.

His parents already have Fifteen Things Not To Do With A Baby so they know not to hang him from washing lines or plant him in the garden. Soon there will be Fifteen Things Not To Do With A Granny, only I won't be Granny, I'll be Nan, and I don't mind if he hides an elephant in my bed. In fact, I'd be delighted. I'm going out today to get him Holly Sterling's new book, Hiccups, and of course he'll have The Very Hungry Caterpillar and some of those lovely Ahlberg books. In time, he'll get Thomas The Tank Engine. There are some lovely baby books from Lion, one of my publishers.

Any more? Any favourite baby books?