I was having A Bit Of A Sort Out the other day. This involved my sitting on the floor surrounded by miscellaneous memorabilia which mean nothing to anybody but me.
Here’s something I found. Back in the days when my children were losing their milk teeth on a regular basis, they expected to be visited in the night by the Tooth Fairy, who’d extract the little tooth from under their pillow and leave money in exchange.
This was a problem in itself. Some Tooth Fairies left £1.00. Others left 50 pence. Our tight-fisted old besom left 10 pence. This wasn’t surprising. My goodness she was tetchy. Every time she visited, she left a note written on some scrap of paper little larger than a postage stamp. She was always moaning. Either she had to come too often, or the tooth hadn’t been left handy enough, or the bedroom door was shut, or something. Nothing was ever good enough.
Underneath her crusty exterior however, she was good-hearted. The expected payment was always delivered.
Thirty years later, Daughter of Tooth Fairy started to visit my grandsons. The first time Ben received a cantankerous note from her, he burst into tears. Daughter of Tooth Fairy was summarily sacked. Will an ill-tempered sprite visit William one day, I wonder, or are fractious fairies no longer part of the Tooth Fairy Team?