Friday, April 17, 2009
When I was as little as eight, the only thing I ever bought with my pocket money was an Enid Blyton book. Given this happened approximately 47 times* and I have hung on to every one of them for very nearly (gulp) thirty years, I'm calling it a collection. Now my kidlets are working their own way through the Adventures of the Wishing Chair and befriending The Folk of the Faraway Tree. And as I overhear Mr Myrtleandeunice reading these bedtime stories, my own memory of those same words, the same calamities and rightful endings, the same mirth at the mischief and edge-of-seat anticipation: it all comes flooding back. Just like that thirty years was a minute ago.
* I have a suspicion that a small number of these books were acquired through birthdays and Christmases. In which case I undoubtedly frittered my pocket money on sweets and treats.
See who else is collecting stuff and playing along with Pip