I’m a father of two little ones, and reading is part of our daily bedtime routine. Every night ends the same way — one of us pulling a book from the shelf, and we have dozens to choose from. They are wonderful, every one of them, and they all have their place.
Last Christmas, my mum told me a story I’d never heard. She told me how she and my dad got engaged: on Christmas Eve, in Trafalgar Square. He’d brought bacon sandwiches and a small bottle of champagne. By the fountains he got down on one knee, she said yes, and they sat and toasted the news with sandwiches still in their hands.
For all the magical books on our shelves, not one of them was about us. And this one — a real story, about the people my children love — felt like one we had to tell. So I set about making it into a book of its own. That book became the very first Circletime.
The shop-bought books all have their place. But the best story in the house was the one going untold.