These are my new neighbours, Mr William Wagtail and his lovely wife. They are singers by profession but have decided to settle down and raise a family. I like to listen to them rehearsing while I brush my teeth.

I think some of us are very fragile people, pretending to be big and strong and some of us are very brave people, pretending to be small and helpless. Only I’m not sure which one I am.

She has style. Of course I love Lavender too and we can’t forget Miss Honey (except if I was her I would have stayed in the pretty little cottage with the honeysuckle.)

I’m sorry I have been away so long. Work has been swallowing up my hours like a tigershark. I miss taking photos, but I am still writing. I’m writing a story about a boy, I hope I will finish this one.

It is four sleeps until my birthday.

I want to bottle the scent of freesias and give it to you, all my childhood picnics in an amber vial. That you may never be lonely in winter or forget the honeysuckle spring. I know it’s a big bad world out there but there is a paradise as well, a patch of blue sky between branches that appears as I swing-wing on my rainbow hammock in the garden green. Don’t cry, Ladybird, lift your little wing-cases and fly.

Everything is slow this morning, making me wait. Even the keys of the keyboard can’t keep up with my fingers. I want them to go faster, tick tock, like the clock. Honey on my fingertips from little bear’s porridge makes them stick, all covered in dust.

Sleep in the corner of my eyes forms wax tears as I struggle to light the lamp inside. I should be drawing, or writing, I know this, but time slips away like magic beans through my fingertips. Tomorrow she says. Late, Late, for a very important date.

The Circus Master told me when we answer this question we must leave Neverland. Curiousity killed the Cheshire Cat. What do you want to be when you grow up? Don’t answer it, don’t grow up. Throw that pocket-watch in the lake.

She doesn’t care enough and yet she cares too much, about the wrong things. Fickle fascination, winter hibernation, what is she so afraid of that she must shapeshift like this. Is it so hard to be one thing, just one thing for all of your days. She is scared of moths, she who hides in her cocoon for fear of learning to fly.

The Narcissus are blooming. Little gold faced saints gazing at their own reflections. They are cruel to their lovers who pine away unto Echoes on the wind. Most beautiful things are a little sad really.

Sorry Harry, but Mildred and Ethel won my heart first. Cold nights and bats and tapioca pudding. I’d rather go to Miss Cackle’s all the same.