Tuesday 13 January 2015


When I spied a movie poster for Paddington Bear about a month ago, and then spotted a copy of the book on holiday recently, I felt a great deal of nostalgia. But after opening the pages and reading it to my son, I realised that I didn't recall the story at all. Perhaps as a child I had watched the BBC television series instead. It didn't matter though, I was immediately transported back to a more innocent time. 

The book itself is quite short. A handful of chapters with Paddington's misadventures in each one. It was suitable for my six-year-old son, but he wasn't ready to read it alone yet (whereas he is quite comfortable reading other books such as The Fantastic Mr Fox by Roald Dahl and The 13-storey treehouse series on his own). I wouldn't say he was as captivated with the storyline as these previous titles, but he was interested to know more.

The film is still a fresh experience. Our son laughed and watched attentively, and said he enjoyed it afterwards. (Although I find that how long it stays in his mind over the weeks that follow a better indication of his enjoyment.) It didn't hold the interest of our three-year-old, though. Certainly, it had high production values with beautiful sets and costumes, and the bear itself was endearing and as real as you could hope. There were moments of sadness and suspense, and overall it had a warm fuzzy glow.

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