Lily and the Carnivorous Carpet

That’s me in the orange Y-fronts and the entirely superfluous pom-pom hat, squirming about on my father’s knee. The hat was unnecessary because it was Christmas, 1972 in Canberra, and undoubtedly a very hot day. I had probably received the hat for a present, and the little knitted teddy-bear was certainly a gift from my maternal grandmother. The bear’s name was ‘Lily’, and she was destined for all sorts of adventures.

 

In the background is my father’s armchair. I used to sit on it with him for stories and nursery rhymes. My favourite was ‘The Ballad of the Fox’, because he used to bounce me up and down on his knee as though I was on horseback:

 

Old Mother Slipper-Slopper jumped out of bed

And out of the window she popped her head,

“John! John! The grey goose has gone

And the fox is off to his den-o.

 

I particularly liked the bit where the fox and his wife had their supper (not too good for the goose, I fear), because “they did very well without fork or knife”, which seemed to me to be eminently sensible.

 

At times, I was quite afraid of the carpet. I had taken it into my head that it was made of child-eating seaweed: a sort of carnivorous Sargasso, and I would always challenge myself to get onto the settee without touching it. But perhaps that particular phobia came a little later than this picture.

 

I remember some of the other gifts. There was a Rupert book (there was always one of those), some dried figs, and a cake of Pear’s Soap which I wanted to smell and never use. I suspect that there were bigger and more costly presents than these, but those are the ones I remember.

 

My mother is behind the camera. She is wearing a very short yellow dress with an orange pattern, and she is telling my dad to stop trying to instruct her on how to use the camera.

 

She did quite well, don’t you think?

 

Done