COMPETITION

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12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

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W: 12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Cute Kids Dept

Jaspistos

to provide a sickening example of arch or sentimental talk in fiction, either between children and adults or among children themselves. The first entry I opened read, rather delphically, `Gigi bough hakka moo', W, h‘lch translated from Babyese is apparent- 'Y Virginia's bowels have to move.' There are several memorably mushy moments in Little Lord Fauntleroy in which the old ,-arl's eyes mist and his voice quavers, but ar a really reliable emetic I recommend Marwick Deeping's best-selling novel of the '20s, Sorrell and Son, an account of a blissfully intimate father-and-son rela- tionship. I remember a passage in which Sorrell Junior begs to be allowed the privilege of cleaning his old man's shoes. Warwick Deeping used to come to our house in Weybridge to make up a four at tennis. I also recall his crablike backhand, his shyness, which prevented him from ever addressing a word to me, and his wife, a graphologist dressed in elfin green, who, the first time she met my mother (whose handwriting was American-trained), cor- rectly predicted that she would suffer from cramp in her toes. The Deepings, had, of course, no children.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £18 each, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky is Chris Tingley's.

`Mummy,' Jason said, still clutching the battered old teddy-bear, 'we learned today how Tiny Tim sat with his family at Christmas and said, "God bless us every one". Wasn't that just a weeny bit selfish, only asking God to bless them? Didn't lots of other poor people need blessing too?'

`Well, you see, darling,' his mother said,

smiling into the grave, upturned face, 'they were: having their Christmas drink together. Families always asked God to bless them then.'

The button nose wrinkled in thought, and the stubborn curl, for the hundredth time that day, tumbled over his forehead. 'I don't understand that very well,' he said at last. 'I only know that when I think of all the children who don't have teddies, I feel the way I did when Spot went to live with Jesus. I think, when I pray tonight, I shall say, "God bless them every one." '

(Chris Tingley) 'Mother dear,' said little Jason, his face whiter than the pillow on which he lay, 'is having a hole in your heart the same as having a broken heart?'

'Yes, dearest.' The good woman stifled a sob; her hand soothed the brow of her little man. 'Hush! The Minister will be here soon.'

'Will it be the minister called Wargraves? Will he bring the money so the doctors can cure me?' 'No, dear. He won't bring the money.'

'Will it be the one called Lament who'll bring the money, or the Sex-Crime Minister?'

`No, dear. It'll be a Church Minister who will help you speak to the angels.'

`Mother, why can't the other Ministers bring the money? I can speak to them instead of the angels.'

For a moment, grief rendered her dumb. `Why can't they? . . . Mother?' little Jason whispered. 'Are their hearts too full of holes?'

`Yes, precious. . . (M.E. Ault) 'Daddy's going to sell Dappledown,' Fiona sobbed.

'But she's only three legs now and he bought her for us when Mummy died giving birth to poor Toby,' said Trevor.

`His shares in the Trans-Atlantic Tunnel are worthless and the mortgage is months in arrears.'

Toby, burdened with guilt, crawled between them.

'I'll sell myself into slavery, that's all I'm good for.'

'Nonsense, Toby. We love you in spite of your killing Mummy.'

'We'll have to consult Old Mog,' Fiona argued.

'But, he's lying on his death-bed in his garden shed.'

`He'll not let us down,' Fiona answered.

They entered the dimly lit hut.. Old Mog tried to stand but fell back onto the ragged bed, feebly touching his forelock. The children ex- plained their predicament.

'Well,' he croaked, 'you can sell my Victoria Cross after I'm gone.'

The children tearfully protested but they knew at heart it was best. (R.J. Pickles) `Mummikins, why are we a one-parent family?' 'Because, blissygirl, Daddy was taken away from poor little you and me.'

'Why, Mummikins?'

'I don't know, lovebird. Someone special does.'

'Is Daddy doing something special?' 'I wouldn't be surprised. He was lovely at doing good things.'

The Social Worker said he was an angel.'

'I expect she's right.'

'His name is Michael. Perhaps he's an archangel.'

'Perhaps, lovebird.'

'Perhaps he looks at us when we are asleep and pinches our noses like the fairies do.'

'I expect he does. I haven't seen him.'

'Will we ever see him again, Mummy?'

'Someday, if we are awfully good.' I wonder if he looks after Santa Claus's reindeeer.'

'Maybe he does. All animals used to love him.'

'I wish I could give him a great big hug and he would hug me back.'

'Let's pretend he is hugging us both now.'

(Brian Coates)