One Enid Blyton book was all it took to set me off on a life-time of reading. I’ve mentioned before about the box of books left ‘for the little girl’ in a pub we were moving into. The little girl was me, aged seven and the pub was The Boar’s Head in Blackpool. This was my introduction to The Broons and Oor Wullie, which enabled me to master a Scottish accent on paper. My teacher was not impressed, bless her. It was also my introduction to a love of Enid Blyton stories, with the donated hard-backs of The Secret Seven, The Ring o’ Bells Mystery and The Rilloby Fair Mystery. I was hooked. I read them over and over again. I remember finishing The Rilloby Fair Mystery and going straight back to the beginning. I loved it so much. A nearby newsagents sold toys and books. My parents knew exactly what to bring home for me. I still have most of the books. My children preferred Roald Dahl and J.K.Rowling. My grandchildren prefer activities on screens – a sign of the times – but Michael Rosen is loved by a grandson and Jacqueline Wilson is loved by a granddaughter. I was born in the ‘50s, thank goodness.
Another thing got me hooked, literally. My grandmother
taught me to knit. My mother did, as well, but it was mainly Nanna. She
crocheted a lot, making herself lacy tops that were like works of art. She had
the patience of a saint trying to teach me. Watching her, deliberately going
slow to show me, I would be confident that ‘I’d got it’. She would start me off
by making a chain then handing me the hook and yarn to carry on. We were making
a scarf. I was making a mess.
“Oh, give it here!” Another exasperated grumble as she
grabbed the tangle of wool from my hands.
This went on into my teens and I failed to crochet anything
except the foundation chain.
My grandmother passed away when I was nineteen. Something
must have clicked because shortly after, I discovered I could crochet, after
all, and I still do. I crocheted a fancy bedspread. That was the first thing I
made. I have lots of blankets I’ve made from crocheted granny squares and I’ve
managed to crochet teddy bears for charity. Yes, I’m crochet hooked.
Enid Blyton, known as a story writer, but less known as a
poet. This is one of hers,
Yesterday, the sky was white,
For one big cloud was spread
From east to west and north to south
Above my head.
But in the night the fairy-folk
Began to wonder why
They saw no moon nor little stars
About the sky.
They didn’t like that big white cloud,
So up they softly flew
And tore it all to tiny bits
The whole night through.
And one by one the bits fell down,
Like feathers soft and white,
Until the ground was overspread
With dazzling white.
And now today that big white cloud
Beneath my feet is spread,
And all the sky is blue again
Above my head.
Enid Blyton 1897-1968
