...from Never-Never-Land.

Once upon a time in the land of bluebells, daffodils and butterflies, where the green fields of Wales and England touch their borders, a fairy wood sprite was born to a mortal man and woman, whom she learned to call Mummy and Daddy. Her Mummy had wanted to call her Jane, “just plain Jane and no Nonsense!” But an nursing attendant with a little bit of the fae in her own spirit, and altogether very wise, said she couldn’t call the pretty little thing Jane, and that Valerie would be her name. It was a time of strife upon the land, in the year of nineteen hundred and forty-one, and her Daddy was a soldier in the army and for the longest time he was sent off to other lands to fight the wicked foe.  The mother fled with the little girl to London Towne, where bombs fell in the night, buildings crumbled to the ground, and food was in short supply.  Sometimes when Daddy did come home from the war, they would all go off to dine in the biggest restaurant on Oxford Street, Selfridges they called it, where she would eat the most delectable of ices, served in a frozen silver dish, and she was allowed an orange juice, the sight of which she had never seen before, poured at the table by waiters with highly polished slicked back hair, the juice falling like molten sunshine into a glass of sparkling crystal.  There were many other grown-ups at the time, all chattering and laughing, and it was there she met an ancient teller of tales, who himself was not of mortal birth.  This storyteller had three names, George, Bernard and Shaw, and he charmed the little sprite, who danced for him, clapped her hands in glee, and sat upon his knee, and told the grown-ups it was rude to put your elbows on the table.

In springtime, even in time of war, there were peaceful places in London Towne.  There were walks along the Serpentine, amongst the weeping willows, whose flowing branches swept upon the ground, and majestic white swans with their shiny blackened faces swam effortlessly to and fro, followed by a trail of fluffy cygnets. The swans would hiss and scream to warn away anyone who ventured too close.  The little wood sprite had a nanny who was most clever for a human, and on their afternoon excursions, would make a ball disappear like magic, and only later was the sprite to find out the clever lass had stuffed it up her knickers.  

There was a large round pond in Regent's park where little boys in short-legged pants, with their scabby knobby knees exposed for all to see, sailed their shiny yachts on tethers of long string, tied off so they couldn’t get away.  Children played on swings and roundabouts, while matrons primly did their knitting; knit one, pearl two; compared their juicy stories, while many tiny tots dangled their feet into the shining dappled ring of water.