After driving Helen to Brooklyn and Vito to the Post Office, I settled into my sofa this afternoon and talked to the boys about Christmas' imminent arrival. Gripped by yuletide spirit I took out my Dickens (hey, watch that) and told the boys I'd read them a ghost story.

Ghost stories are the lingua franca these days -- Cookie and Mojo have developed a sudden but deep liking for Scooby Doo. Even our night-time little lion and little elephant stories must involve haunted houses and zombies.

Zoiks!

So I started into the first chapter of "A Christmas Carol." It was rough sledding: the language is flowery at best and archaic at worst. Translating it on-the-fly into the vernacular of the thoroughly modern 4-year-old was a bit of a challenge.

In fact, I thought I had blown it -- they fidgeted, they climbed on my back, they picked their feet. I stopped at the end of the first chapter, wondering if they'd ask me later to hear more.

But Alane now tells me that Cookie has already related to her all the details of what I'd read -- Scrooge at the office, Scrooge going home, Marley's face appearing on the door-knocker, his ghost appearing in the locked bedroom.

Okay, I suppose I'll be reading them the rest of the book.

Oh, and for the record: when I'm a ghost, I want my face on a knocker.