Literacy and Tulips

Eddie and I went for a walk this morning.  I'd like to say that it was a meandering purposeless walk; walking for the sake of it, but no - we were in a hurry to get to his holy communion class and steaming down the road at a hundred miles an hour running slightly late, but not late enough to take the car for the short distance.

To make up for the relentlessness of the pace, (and in an attempt at 'good' parenting) I tried to point out a few things along the way. 'Look at those budding tulips,' I urged.

At which point we made an interesting discovery.

'Tulip is one of my favourite words,' he enthused. 'You can really taste it.'

Really, I thought. And what exactly does it taste of? Masticated flesh, perhaps? But of course I didn't say that.

'It tastes of air,' he explained. 'But air in a tube.'

Oh, right.

Turns out that we may have a little synesthete on our hands. Later on we were talking about whether he preferred Maths or Literacy at school.

He physically shuddered at the word 'Literacy' - though it is one of his favourite things.

'I am probably better at literacy,' he explained, but I hear and sort of feel the whoosh of the paper-cutting thing when you say it.'

'The guillotine?' (Not to brag, but I have quite an impressive one in the study: it was one of my favourite Christmas presents last year.)

'Yes, that.'

At bedtime I did another little check. What colour is 'A', I wanted to know.

'Orange,' came the reply. Without any hesitation. C is blue, and S is red, apparently.

OK. So my friend Google tells me that apparently four percent of the population experience this phenomenon of experiencing a cognitive intertwining of sensory perception. But common amongst writers and artists.

Ergo, he'll probably grow up to be a poet or a novelist. Obvs.  Except that 'literacy' and a guillotine is a slightly unfortunate association...



Currently reading: Bookworm by Lucy Mangan

Gilby Dolittle

Gilby is fascinated by The Gruffalo. He would happily have that same story read to him every night, even though he knows it word for word and has fallen asleep on more than one occasion reciting the words aloud. For my own sanity I have to vary the choice of bedtime reading material. The Gruffalo's Child is second choice, not because he loves that story in the same way, but simply for the mention of the hallowed gruffalo itself.

Out walking the dog with me, or accompanying me in the car whilst driving down country lanes, Gilby will insist on searching for snake's log-pile house, fox's underground house and owl's tree-top house, because that way we might come across the gruffalo itself. These will be solemn, whispered, often urgent searches. See, I truly think he thinks that the gruffalo is real.

He definitely has something of the naturalist about him, even at two-and-a-half: he will always pick me flowers (will he still be doing that at fifteen, I wonder?), and can spend an inordinate amount of time appreciating a blade of grass. Today, for example, whilst we were at a birthday party and all the other children were busy on the treasure hunt, his 'treasure' was collecting dozens of sycamore leaves.

But I started to worry when he told me that the owls were 'talking to him' in the night. Was this a dream? I needed to get to the bottom of it. He was quite insistent about it, but wouldn't tell me what they were saying because they were talking to him. He even made the noises for me, which in fairness, were quite owl-like. It was only later when I saw collared doves fly off from roosting beneath his window that I realised it must have been their cooing he meant (not unlike the twit-twoo attributed to an owl.

So he doesn't talk to the animals, (yet), but is certainly convinced that they are communicating with him.

I wonder what that gruffalo will say, if he ever finds it.