Every Friday when I was a child, my Nanna would come to stay the night. She slept in my bottom bunk. At bedtime, I would beg her to tell me a Noz story – Noz was a fairy who lived at the bottom of our garden in Mum’s white rose bush. He had a wife called Tinkerbell and a child called “Little Rebecca” (my name is Rebecca). Nanna was drawing on what she knew, wildly plagiarising Disney, Enid Blyton and what had happened earlier that day. I don’t remember any details other than Nanna’s consistent indulgence of my demands for narrative. I don’t know where the name Noz comes from, maybe a bastardisation of Oz? (Both Nanna’s native Australia and the Judy Garland property) I don’t know. My Nanna was excellent.
By Rebecca Wigmore