Recently, to see off a dark mood after an almost sleepless night, I walked through the woods in Hampstead Heath, heading towards Kenwood House through patches of dappled sunlight and the scent of lime blossom. I took a wrong turning and began to feel a bit uneasy. The twisting paths were deserted although occasionally I thought I’d glimpsed little dark shapes darting through the thick undergrowth. Birds? Forest creatures? I couldn’t tell, they were too fast.
The evening before, whilst rummaging through a cupboard for something else entirely, I came across a cardboard file of notes about a trip to Iceland I’d made in 2000, a newspaper commission to investigate elf belief in Reykjavik. An exchange of several months’ emails with the Headmaster of the Elf School there had eventually resulted in my briefly attending his School. Maybe that’s what was on my sleep-starved mind as I walked through the woods.
At last I gave up my walk and headed home via Hampstead, calling in at a little children’s bookshop, part of the Well Walk Theatre. Amongst the books, old puppets and miniature theatre scenery were a couple of magic wands for sale. ‘Are they guaranteed to work?’ I asked the assistant. She smiled and said ‘Oh yes, guaranteed magic. And it’s mostly grown-ups who buy them, not children.’
