Childhood stories

I read this lovely post by Chelle McCann yesterday:  Memories  and it reminded me of a rhyme that mum made up for me.

A rhyme just for me.

That my mum used to recite whilst tracing circles on my upturned palm and then she would tickle me under the armpit.

I loved that I had my very own rhyme.   It was special.  It was mine and my mum’s.

Nobody elses.

Until

One day.

I heard Mr B sing it.    My head shot round like an owl who has heard a mouse.

“Where did you get that from?”  I shouted at him.   “Only my mum and I know that story”.

“Don’t be ridiculous” he said.   “It’s Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.   Everybody knows it”

Oh

I was 41.

 

 

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