Said Mrs Phelps to Matilda.
“Matilda” by Roald Dahl
I got a package! Receiving post is best part about living away from home. I don’t know why, it just is.
Anyway, this is off my mum, she must be feeling guilty about going on holiday without me because this is the second batch of chocolate she’s sent me in the post. The first one, which was a stack from M&S made it all the way here unbroken. However with this package, the egg in this box was a little battered when I opened it… Not that that had any impact upon the taste, or my enthusiasm.
As a child, I was obsessed with Roald Dahl. I had all his books and all the film adaptations on video. Some of them like the Witches were quite scary .. well, in parts, for a young child they were.
I’m not exactly sure what particular part of the books appealed to me, but from what I can remember, whether I was reading them or if I was being read to, the soft tone and easy flow of writing was similar to my idea of an ideal story. Tales such as George’s Marvellous Medicine, and The BFG always sounded epic, yet completely plausible at the same time. The only thing I can liken this idea to is my other childhood obsession, which was listening to Steven Fry narrate the Harry Potter books on cassette.
The films were also quite sensational, if thats the right word for what I am thinking of. If you can remember that scene from James and the Giant Peach when James and his insect friends start throwing, smushing with their feet, and eating bits of the peach, then maybe you’ll understand what I mean. In Charlie and The Chocolate Factory (original and new version), the same kind of thing happens when Willie Wonka sets his guests loose in the garden of sweets. The characters literally frolic and visibly enjoy consuming the fantastical foodstuffs; never mind my experience as a child, even now those scenes could still make my mouth water.
So as you can see, as well as providing ample procrastination material, this chocolate has transported me back to my childhood. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go hide under the covers of my bed until this essay starts to write itself.
Gene Wilder, Pure Imagination
–Because sometimes reality is boring
The Wonka Bar in question