The Witches

It doesn't matter who you are or what you look like, so long as somebody loves you.

She might even be your lovely school-teacher who is reading these words to you at this very moment. Look carefully at that teacher. Perhaps she is smiling at the absurdity of such a suggestion. Don't let that put you off. It could be part of cleverness. I am not, of course, telling you for one second that your teacher actually is a witch. All I am saying is that she might be one. It is most unlikely. But--here comes the big "but"--not impossible.

My darling," she said at last, are you sure you don't mind being a mouse for the rest of your life?" "I don't mind at all" I said. It doesn't matter who you are or what you look like as long as somebody loves you.

It is most unlikely. But--here comes the big "but"--not impossible.

You can write about anything for children as long as you've got humour.

Mice, I felt pretty certain, all like each other. People don't.

You are still yourself in everything except your appearance. You've still got your own mind and your own brain and your own voice, and thank goodness for that.

An idiotic vitch like you Must rrroast upon the barbecue!

How long does a mouse live?" "Ah," she said. "I've been waiting for you to ask me that." There was a silence. She sat there smoking away and gazing at the fire. "Well," I said. "How long do we live, us mice?" "I have been reading about mice," she said. "I have been trying to find out everything I can about them." "Go on then, Grandmamma. Why don't you tell me?" "If you really want to know," she said, "I'm afraid a mouse doesn't live for a very long time." "How long?" I asked. "Well, an ordinary mouse only lives for about three years," she said. "But you are not an ordinary mouse. You are a mouse-person, and that is a very different matter." "How different?" I asked. "How long does a mouse-person live, Grandmamma?" "Longer," she said. "Much longer." "A mouse-person will almost certainly live for three times as long as an ordinary mouse," my grandmother said. "About nine years." "Good!" I cried. "That's great! It's the best news I've ever had!" "Why do you say that?" she asked, surprised. "Because I would never want to live longer than you," I said. "I couldn't stand being looked after by anybody else." There was a short silence. She had a way of fondling me behind the ears with the tip of one finger. It felt lovely. "How old are you, Grandmamma?" I asked. "I'm eighty-six," she said. "Will you live another eight or nine years?" "I might," she said. "With a bit of luck." "You've got to," I said. "Because by then I'll be a very old mouse and you'll be a very old grandmother and soon after that we'll both die together." "That would be perfect," she said.

In fairy-tales, witches always wear silly black hats and black cloaks, and they ride on broomsticks. But this is not a fairy-tale. This is about REAL WITCHES. The most important thing you should know about REAL WITCHES is this. Listen very carefully. Never forget what is coming next.

Aren't I going back to England?" "No," she said. "I Could never do that. Heaven shall take my soul, but Norway shall keep my bones".

It doesn't matter who you are or what you like so long as somebody loves you

She sat there majestic in her armchair, filling every inch of it. Not even a mouse could have squeezed in to sit beside her.

It doesn't matter who you are or what you look like as long as somebody loves you.

Children should never have baths,’ my grandmother said. ‘It's a dangerous habit.’ ‘I agree, Grandmamma.

Down vith children! Do them in! Boil their bones and fry their skin! Bish them, sqvish them, bash them, mash them! Brrreak them, shake them, slash them, smash them! Offer chocs vith magic powder! Say “Eat up!” then say it louder. Crrram them full of sticky eats, Send them home still guzzling sveets. And in the morning little fools Go marching off to separate schools. A girl feels sick and goes all pale. She yells, “Hey look! I've grrrown a tail!” A boy who's standing next to her Screams, “Help! I think I'm grrrowing fur!” Another shouts, “Vee look like frrreaks! There's viskers growing on our cheeks!” A boy who vos extremely tall Cries out, “Vot's wrong? I'm grrrowing small!” Four tiny legs begin to sprrrout From everybody rrround about. And all at vunce, all in a trrrice, There are no children! Only MICE!

My darling,’ she said at last, ‘are you sure you don’t mind being a mouse for the rest of your life?’ ‘I don’t mind at all,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like so long as somebody loves you.

- I am a mouse! You wait till my father hears about this! - He may think it's an improvement.

black suit arrived at the house carrying a brief-case, and he held a long conversation with my grandmother in the

REAL WITCHES dress in ordinary clothes and look very much like ordinary women. They live in ordinary houses and they work in ORDINARY JOBS. That

It doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like so long as somebody loves you.

It doesn't matter who are are or what you look like so long as somebody loves you.

doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like so long as somebody loves you.

But this is not a fairy-tale. This is about REAL WITCHES.