Someone wrote a post, somewhere,
Where it was, I do not care.
I wasn’t in my underwear,
(Because I do not wear it)
The post was asking everyone
The favorite line they’d writ, bar none,
But I was lazy; I said “Screw it.”
(“I’d much rather talk ’bout Pooh lit.)
There. Now that it’s perfectly obvious that a poet I shall never be… How about that Winnie the Pooh? Huh? Am I right? After all these years, I’m still lovin’ the Pooh, which rhymes with Who, which reminds me that Doctor Who just turned 50 (the special’s tonight!) — but like The Doctor himself, that’s neither here nor there.
So, here’s the thing I‘m gonna ask in a post somewhere:
“What’s your comfort book?”
Makes sense, right? Books for every occasion…
Feeling happy? (Any book for you)
Feeling grievous? (Harry Potter, read two)
Feeling angry? (Catch-22)
Feeling anxious? (Only Pooh will do)
Need convincing? Read this, from The House at Pooh Corner, wherein Piglet asks:
“Supposing a tree fell down, Pooh, when we were underneath it?”
“Supposing it didn’t,” said Pooh after careful thought.
Anyone out there unfamiliar with the real Pooh? If your experience is limited to Disney, or indeed any cartoon version, I pity you. (Take one Pooh, and call me in the morning.)
I, myself, have two tattered volumes from my childhood: The House at Pooh Corner and When We Were Very Young. I borrowed them from my folks’ house and never took them back. Like Pooh with a honey pot, I was greedy and couldn’t bear to share. Not sure why I didn’t grab the lot. Maybe I couldn’t find the others. Maybe my greed would only take me so far down the path of petty criminality. Maybe I just got stuck in the door on the way out.
Oh, bother! Why did I tell you that? (I’ll chalk it up to Pooh Confessions.)
Well, if we’re talking Pooh confessions:
If you’re feeling fretful, too,
Cuz you can’t go to the loo,
Do what I do, read some Pooh,
(Yup, just grin and bear it.)