Not yet seven of the clock, yet a brisk, knuckle rap upon the door.
I slipper-shuffle, hair a-tousled and sleepy-eyed to its beckoning.
Chirpy Postie, tanned arms full length, greets me with a perfectly formed, light as goose down brown, paper parcel.
'Tis empty, I think,' he quips.
A skip of a heart beat, a lighter step and I grapple for something sharp in the drawer that holds all. Scissors poised in hand I cautiously nibble away at the threads of tape woven around its edges; afeared of the damage the blades might wield on the unsuspecting inhabitant.
With child-like excitement and savouring the moment, I gently ease back the ribbed flaps to reveal a cloud of snow white, gold-spotted tissue, it's expensive crispness sharp against the ears. And, nestling deep inside its folds, a wee white mouse lies still and slumbering.
A mouse of enchanting childhood stories, a magical Bagpuss mouse, if there ever was.
Painstakingly, lovingly created by skilful hands, nimble fingers and an eye for detail.
A labour of love, if there ever was one.
This utterly charming little character that has stories yet to be told or thought up, for that matter. Bedtime stories of wee mice that travel in brown paper parcels.
Each perfect item exquisitely made and beautifully presented.
Though she has been christened, I feel the need to change it to Madeleine.
She of the Bagpuss stories, who narrated and sang her way through the innocent, captivating stories of the shop that held everything but sold nothing.
Link to video Bagpuss song - We will Wash it.
I have high hopes for Jan.