Dear Enid Blyton

As a child the adults in one's life had a firm non-censorship of reading material policy. That is to say if one was curled up with a book they never thought to ask what it was one was actually reading. And it was probably just as well 'cos most of it was not age appropriate. Let's be honest where is the fun in that?

Now most books came to one in round about ways. Mother always had books; well she was a school teacher, so the house was always full of them. Auntie always provided comics... with cash liberally inserted so one could afford to eat... meals were often in rather short supply with mother. Grandma would just buy books that one fancied (again regardless of intended age) and everyone had massive book cases jammed full of more... inappropriate reading material. 

That was how one ended up reading the Marquis De Sade at about 10 and living on a steady diet of Denis Wheatly and Mills and Boon (courtesy of auntie). Uncle's book taste ran to massive gardening tombs and historically inaccurate adventure... yes let's call them that... stories. Collectively their reading tastes were often sexual and somewhat lurid thinking about it. But that is not what this is about...

This is about a book that grandma bought one when we were out and about somewhere. It was age appropriate and sat on one's book shelf quietly forgotten about for quite some time before one got around to actually reading it.  It was the first of the Famous Five books and frankly one was most enamoured with them. Oddly enough one wasn't quite so enamoured with most of the characters.

In fact one thought Julian was an insufferable know-it-all, Dick was largely forgettable, poor long suffering, submissive Anne... well let's just say she was a contributing reason to why one never wanted to be a mother. Well her and the other rather dodgy role models one had. Honestly one used to read about her rather disturbing need to wash dishes and tidy up after everyone and feel an overwhelming urge to push her face in a cream bun.

George on the other hand was a character one could relate to. She was unrepentantly boyish, free and smart enough to not want to do housework voluntarily. Now she was worthy role model. More importantly she was one who wore the same rather boyish taste in clothes. Well dresses were never any use when climbing trees and eeling in the local creek or cycling or horse riding...

In fact George gave one hope that ending up like sweetly submissive Anne wasn't inevitable...

And you know thinking about it...

Much of the trouble that one small slave finds herself in can be attributed to that hope...

So really much of this is Enid Blyton's fault...

Sighs yeah thanks for that...