In my day, it was the elderly reading to the young, not the other way round.
There were stories of giants and kings, dragons and fairies, trolls and heroes, there was even a few about cats.
Dick Whittington had a cat, though in his time, he never admitted it because it wasn’t exactly manly to have a cat. Most guys then had dogs, and they were BIG dogs, chasing the poor feline for fun, cheered on by their owners.
My ancestors changed all that. They took magic potions, became familiars to witches, rode pillion on broomsticks, and never aged. The truth about nine lives? We live through nine cycles, and are then reborn. Nobody sees that, or appreciates us, but we miss nothing.
Now I sit close by the food basket in the hope that a tiny morsel will come my way as the young lad reads from his silver box. The old lady is mesmerised by its magic.
It won’t be so magical when the batteries die.
Image credit; Sasint @ Pixabay
For the visually challenged reader, the image shows an old lady sitting with a young boy in a rural setting. The boy had a laptop open and is showing her something.