A book memory: I am seven years old and I go to the post office with my dad – Daddy. I’m allowed to choose a book but there’s so much choice I just don’t know which one to have. I eventually pick The Three Little Pigs. I’m so excited I read the book on our way home. By the time I get to the front door, I’ve finished and know the fate of the characters.
Fast forward a couple of decades: I’m baby sitting my nephew who’s about three years old. I appease him with my rendition of the Three Little Pigs. I take the role of the Big Bad Wolf to the nth degree: actions, voice and all. Each time I read the book my actions get more elaborate.
Some time later, I call my sister for a chat. My nephew’s dad answers the phone: Lynda, please don’t read that book again. We’ve had to read it again and again and again – just like Aunty Lynda does – with the actions and voices!
Fast forward a few more decades: I remind my nephew, the actor, of this incident. He has no memory.
No matter, I’ve already visualised myself pushing past him to tell this story before he has chance to collect his Oscar.