Having heard the stories as often as I have, these days, to keep up my interest while I listen, I try to work out what kind of person Willy Wonka is. Grandpa Joe says he's amazing, and a genius, and the greatest candy-maker who ever lived, but that sounds to me like my Grandpa Joe is star-struck.

I think my Grandpa George agrees with that. He snorts a lot during these stories, and not in a nice way, although, I can't go by what he does, either, because most of the time he sees the dark side of things, because, most of the time, that's what he looks for. My Grandma Josephine encourages my Grandpa Joe to tell another story when he finishes the one he's been telling, but I think she does that to keep him talking, because otherwise she mostly stays out of it. My Grandma Georgina…

I can't decide about my Grandma Georgina. She listens to the stories, but she doesn't go along with the others. When Grandpa Joe said he used to work for Mr. Wonka, the others agreed, but when it was her turn she said: 'I love grapes!'

I don't know what a fresh grape tastes like. I'm glad she does, and I'm glad she can remember that she loves that taste, but I don't see what that has to do with working for Mr. Wonka. Does he love grapes? Maybe my Grandma Georgina brought up grapes because she didn't want to beat a dead horse by adding one more agreement. Maybe she did it because she doesn't like to follow the crowd.

Sometimes I think my family thinks my Grandma Georgina has lost her marbles. I'd ask, but that's another question that it's best not to ask in this family. I don't want to have to disagree with them, so I keep my thoughts to myself. I don't believe she has lost her marbles. She waited for her turn before she talked about grapes. She laughs in the right places in the stories, and she anticipates. Grandpa Joe started the story about the Indian Prince who wanted a palace all made out of chocolate, and she closed her eyes, and tilted her head back, and laughed softly in a way that meant: What a fool! And Prince Pondicherry was a fool.

At night, when I say goodnight to them, I leave my Grandma Georgina for last. She always says something encouraging, that makes perfect sense. She tells me: 'Nothing is impossible, Charlie'. I don't know if I believe that, but I do know I want to, and I know she knows what she's saying. She whispers it to me, so the others won't hear.

I've decided Mr. Wonka is like my Grandma Georgina. In our house, what she says makes her standout. Mr. Wonka likes to standout. He makes the people who work for him wear uniforms, while Grandpa Joe says he wears velvets, and silks, and a top hat, and carries a cane, all in a style from a different century. He's guaranteed to standout doing that. And, if his clothes say anything about him, he doesn't care about following the crowd.

He can't be very practical. Wearing velvets and silks around drippy candy can't be a good idea, and yet he does it. And he doesn't get messy. Or so my Grandpa Joe says. Mr. Wonka must be awfully well co-ordinated to get away with that. He gets away with other things, too. When Grandpa Joe told him 'we need more chocolate birds', he put a little speckled, chocolate egg on my Grandpa Joe's tongue. Isn't that unsanitary? They couldn't sell the bird that Grandpa Joe says hatched on his tongue, could they? Did they? I shudder to ask, so I never have. Wouldn't it have been better to sell the eggs? Shouldn't Grandpa Joe have said 'we need more chocolate bird eggs'? Wouldn't it be more fun to let everyone hatch their own chocolate bird on their tongue? I've never asked those questions, either.

Mr. Wonka has to be adventurous, though, and brave. It takes bravery to start a business, and build a big factory like the one he has, and a person would have to be adventurous to want to go to India to build a palace with one hundred rooms that won't last a month. I know he's not afraid of a challenges, because building a palace like that would be a challenge.

Grandpa Joe insists Mr. Wonka finished the palace, so I've decided he used the ingredient that makes the ice cream not melt, and I've decided that after a month or two, the ice cream would melt, just like the palace did. It's the palace story that makes me think the ice cream story might be real, but I've never seen that ice cream for sale anywhere, by anyone, so I wouldn't swear to it.

The saddest story Grandpa Joe tells is the story about the opening of Mr. Wonka's factory. That's the story I think about when I get up to my room, and stare at what I can see of Mr. Wonka's great factory. It sits at the top of our hill. It's shiny and white and new in the story, but that's long gone. I've never seen it like that. Now it's dull, and grey, and old. But it's huge in the story my Grandpa Joe tells, and it's still huge. On moonless nights I can't see it. It's just a black hole up there. There's never any lights on. I wonder that Mr. Wonka doesn't worry that a low flying airplane will hit it. He doesn't have any of those red flashing lights that mark the tops of towers on it, or even any of those white strobe lights that you see. There should be lights, however grumpy Mr. Wonka is, because those towers are dangerous to the airplanes. The people who run this town must be afraid of Mr. Wonka to let him get away with that. Is Mr. Wonka scary?

Grandpa Joe says he was nice enough.

Nice enough for what? Nice enough to have friends? Because when Grandpa Joe tells the story about Mr. Wonka opening his factory, no one is with Mr. Wonka. He cuts the ribbon by himself; he walks to the gates by himself; he crosses the courtyard by himself; he holds out his arms like a conquering hero by himself, with the scissors still in his hand, their blades shining in the sun, like two shrunken swords, or so I imagine. Grandpa Joe says there was no one to take the scissors from him … No one joins him. Where were his friends? Where was his family? Did he mind being by himself? Did he like being by himself? My Grandpa Joe was with my Grandma Josephine that day, and they were so happy they kissed! Gross! Didn't Mr. Wonka have anyone who wanted to give him a kiss? Didn't he have anyone he wanted to give a kiss to?

I don't ask. I don't want to know. It's too sad to think on such a special day Mr. Wonka had no one to share it with.

It's cold in my loft. When I go to bed, I don't get out of my clothes either, just like my grandparents. Even though heat is supposed to rise, the fire doesn't reach up here at all … but I don't mind. My clothes and my covers do an okay job of keeping me warm, and I'm used to the cold. There's a hole in the roof, you see, and I like it. That hole gives me a vantage point. I cover it when the weather is bad with a tarp, and sleep downstairs on the floor, because the tarp doesn't do a very good job of being watertight, but that's the way it is. When the weather is good, I can see everything I need to see. I can look up and see the stars and dream; I can look up less and see Mr. Wonka's factory and wonder; and I can look down and see my family, snug, if not warm, because we're together, and that's a warmth for our insides that cold on the outside can't touch.

And that's why the Opening Day story makes me feel so sad. If Mr. Wonka is all alone up there in that huge, grey, factory of his, he doesn't have what we have, and I feel sorry for him.

Is it Roald Dahl's birthday today? It is. Happy Birthday, Mr. Dahl!
Are these my characters? They are not. Is this purely for entertainment? It is.
Thanks for reading.
Have my reviewers made my day? They have, and I thank them, one and all.
As it ever is in my stories, direct quotes from the 2005 movie are in italics.