A Comfy Kind Of Restless

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Quiet  Sky  Range  Soothe  Ossified  Floor  Mute  Demonic  Disturbed

Today I looked to the quiet sky

Watched puffy white messengers

Range across its expanse

At a pace set to soothe my mind.

I read to cuddly children –

On a bed adorned with yellow men –

Of adults so ossified in their views

That it would floor the gentler parents among us.

In this old book of mine

There are passions, bade to stay mute;

Lest demonic, ingrained ‘truths’

Broke forth and disturbed newspaper reading, and tea…

We made the unfortunate discovery today that we do not appear to have the twelfth or thirteenth Famous Five installment in easy reach ☹ I was so sure I had the complete set?  I will have to get hubby at some point soon to check the garage for other book boxes, or again steel myself to putter about in the sliding wardrobe in Eldest’s room to see if they have been intermingled with the glut of other kid-tomes in there.  (That is always dangerous, because I keep discovering old favourites that need their covers stroked and illustrations flicked through…)

The boys were briefly bereft, but soon perked up when they realised just how many other Enid Blyton stories were hiding in the book box on top of Eldest’s ‘white wardrobe’! I began reading The Rat-a-tat Mystery to them, but it referred to an earlier book which we had also unearthed, so I read the first chapter of The Rub-a-dub Mystery  instead 😉

I felt instantly protective of poor Snubby: to think these guardians are his favourite ones to stay with…!  The way they speak of, and to, him – I cringe imagining how his other aunts and uncles must behave towards this orphaned boy!  No wonder he takes Loony with him everywhere, at least the dog loves him…

I decided to have a wee tap about, and discover how many books Blyton had actually written. I came across this page.  Can we say WOW?! The woman only lived for 71 years!  If we said she wrote for 50 of those years in total, that is still more than a book a month.  It’s the kind of statistic that makes writers want to quit before they start.

I’ve been writing for almost 34 years, and have only managed 2 books as a kid, and two-thirds of one as an adult… 😉

I then looked here, and it is staggering to see how much she contributed to other publications; and to learn that she also produced whole magazines of her own work…over 900 of them!!

With her being that prolific, it is easy to see why her family were torn over her image versus her reality.  It harkens back to what I was pondering yesterday (and explains why I am again going to have to backdate this post, as I sit still tapping it out after 1am; and can hear Youngest becoming unsettled in his room…!)

It was interesting to read this article, an interview with Blyton’s granddaughter, who has written a Noddy book.  It says she is guarded about her Grandmother, but is proud of her mother (Blyton’s younger daughter, Imogen) for writing A Childhood At Green Hedges challenging the cosy persona the books paint of Blyton.

The article asserts that the children of famous writers for young readers are seldom happy.  Thank goodness I’m not going down that road then, eh…?!

What’s your favourite Blyton novel or story?

I think I enjoyed the Wishing Chair collections best, but I loved the Malory Towers and St Clare’s books growing up, too – and I’m definitely not regretting going back through the Famous Five adventures with the kids…

I did have a lot of time on my hands at one point in life, it seems!

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