For the last 22 years at least it has been my favourite story. Since those days when my father used to read it out aloud to me. I could not read then. I just lay in bed on my stomach, alternately folding and stretching my knees, mother on my right, father cuddling me with his right arm and modulating his voice to talk like Hansel, Gretel, their father, step-mother and the witch.
Even now I occasionally dream of a chocolate house. And I still wish I had a sister as motherly and clever as Gretel. She would have thrown the witch in the oven when I got tired of handing the witch a chicken finger.
Long live that nostalgia.
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