The best moment in my life ever (apart, obviously, from the birth of my first
child, and ,er, the second) occurred at a quarter past four on Christmas
morning, 1981. I opened my eyes and saw Father Christmas sneaking out of my
bedroom. He looked a little bit like Dad with some cotton wool tied to his
chin. But I didn’t dwell on that, because I also noticed that my bed was
surrounded by an enormous train set. One of Santa’s elves had clearly spent
most of the year painting hedges, little lead railway workers, a field of
cows and a bridge. Chuffing its way around the homemade landscape was the
Flying Scotsman, the bestest steam train in the whole wide world. This is
magic, I said to myself, as if I’d just walked through one of CS Lewis’s
wardrobes.
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