With my father re-publishing his older poetry, I have come to the realization that those reading it may read passages that refer to me. Those persons might know me, or know of me. Opinions about me are being formed by the written word at this VERY MOMENT. After the Second World War, Christopher Robin Milne grew to loathe his father and all his works, embittered by his portrayal as a young boy. I have no such feelings of vitriol, but I am left wondering: my childhood is set in print, it should last for eons, given the right conditions. If that is all that is left of my name and house in history, how am I to feel about it?