The enduring magic of Enid Blyton

Back to school, back to blog. The holidays flashed by without a moment to write. I was too busy playing Guess Who with my children. It was great fun; the old games are the best - as are the old books. A good example is The Faraway Tree series by Enid Blyton, one of my childhood favourites. I remember spending hours reading and loving those books so, before Christmas, I went on line to Amazon to buy new copies. I was horrified to discover, courtesy of the wonderfully scathing Amazon reader reviews, that versions published today have been edited by politically correct idiots. Jo, Bessie and Fannie are now Joe, Beth and Frannie. WHY? Many chapters have been completely removed. Its original innocence has been modified: it’s not considered appropriate for the girls to help Mother with the ironing while Jo digs the garden with Father.

As one Amazon reviewer puts it, it’s pathetic. Enid Blyton is a piece of social history, why do we have to insult our children by hiding the true style of these books from them? Even my five year old can understand they were written years ago when words and lifestyles were different. Rather than being problematic for modern children, I think the characters serve as good role models – Jo, Bessie and Fannie are helpful, respectful, able to entertain themselves and wonderfully grateful – Jo makes terribly appreciative noises when his mother promises them jacket potatoes with butter for supper!

It's very sad that publishers feel they have to tamper with these books. Many modern readers may hanker after this seemingly golden era when children had freedom – Mother doesn’t flinch when three children under 10 creep in at midnight after wandering around in a wood. And in contrast, why should we be ashamed of the “bad” characters who do things no longer socially acceptable? My son can cope with stories about Dame Slap, a rogue teacher who slaps naughty pupils and locks them in cupboards. She’s a character, in a book, why does she have to be edited as if to assuage some shame about the way things were done in the past?

I am loving watching my children enjoying these books. They are completely absorbed and, like I was, wrapped up in the stories, transported, so that they talk about the characters, wonder what might happen, discuss scenarios or what should have been done, pretend to be Saucepan Man and play at visiting different lands.

My copies have pages falling out where I’ve read them so much. In respect to Enid Blyton and her imagination, and in protest of the absurd abuse of these precious books, I will be buying my children second hand copies of original versions on Ebay.

Toys R Us

Toys R Us, I’ve decided, is an odious place. You go in there with a list and rational intentions but once inside get sucked into a panic that your child needs one of everything in the shop for a fulfilled life. I think it’s the noise that disturbs your mind. In every aisle a different jingle is playing. It’s hard to make a sensible decision about playmobil when “Baby Born Baby Born” is ringing in one ear and Dora the Explorer chatting in the other.

My husband says I’m miserable and it’s fun but no-one else there looked like they were having fun. They all had gloomy faces, wandering aimlessly round and round the shop looking for what they really came for while wondering how they were going to afford the huge boxes which seemed to have found the way into their trolleys.

I finally lost all hope when trying to chose a puzzle and went instead to some alternative toy outlets – charity shops. There I bought four puzzles for the cost of about three pieces of a puzzle in Toys R Us. Charity shops and nearly new sales are wonderful places for children’s toys. Why pay a premium for something new when your little dears will break or bend or scratch or lose bits of the toy within minutes. Second hand toys are economic and the ultimate in recycling. Sorry Toys R Us, I’m doing my Christmas shopping with The Heart Foundation.

Beware TERRIBLE service at The Pheasant Inn, Hungerford

Today I met some family for lunch at The Pheasant Inn, Shefford Woodlands, near Hungerford, RG17. Well, I tried to.

I had booked ahead and explained we were four adults, two children and a baby but when we arrived we were shown two small tables which they then begrudgingly pushed together. As I tried to get the children into their seats the waitress stood over us saying "drinks, drinks, what do you want to drink" and stalked off in a huff when I asked if we could have five minutes to get ourselves sitting down.

The real trouble started when we tried to order. Two of the party apologetically explained that they were allergic to dairy and wheat and asked if the fish for fish and chips was pre-battered, could the chef just fry it plain. The waitress stared at them rudely, went to the kitchen and returned saying the chef would not do that. When they asked for other dishes to be served with chips rather than things they could not eat they were told it was not possible. A more senior waitress said extremely curtly that the chef would not do anything different. We replied that if we couldn't eat anything we'd have to leave.
"Fine," she said and turned and walked off.

We were gobsmacked by their complete inflexibility and rudeness. Allergies are annoying, yes, but not unusual. There was no apology and no consideration for the fact we'd set three very young children up at a table and now had to go back out into the freezing rain.

No business which treats its customers like this deserves to survive so if you are reading this blog having searched the name of the pub to make a booking, please GO ELSEWHERE!

Great New Bonus Credit Crunch Diet!

I remember once reading an article about cheat ways to diet. One suggestion was to turn the central heating down a few degress so that the body would have to work harder to keep warm and so burn more calories.

I can confirm it works. Due to a "catastrophic" leak in our plumbing I've had no central heating for ten days. Yes, it's cold but the bonus is I seem to have lost three kilos without trying - depsite eating an excess of bourbons to cheer myself up!

Have a go, save some money, burn the calories. I've heard there's an even colder spell coming next week so I'm looking forward to a few more bourbons and a few less kilos.

Tough life?

There are days when you feel life is tough. I think I've been having a tough time lately. My husband is working away for three weeks so I'm at home alone with the three children. The boys seem to be permanently antagonistic and aggressive, there's always one shouting, crying, pushing, thumping, hurt. Neither the carrot or stick methods of dealing with them are working and I don't quite know what to do next.

There is a "catastrophic"* leak in our plumbing so I've not had any central heating or hot water for ten days. Various experts have been through to help me but so far all they've achieved is pulling up the wooden floor in the sitting room leaving me with a shelving unit in the middle of the room and lots of books, toys and bottles piled up on the floor. I get up in the night to keep our wood burner stoked for warmth and have been relying on the immersion heater for hot water.

Tonight the immersion heater stopped working. The two boys were in bed yelling and crying. I sat at the kitchen table and felt numb and light headed. I didn't quite know what to do. So I phoned my husband. It's 2am where he is but I stubbornly kept pressing redial because I wasn't sure what else to do. He's talked me through re-wiring the switch for the immersion heater. I felt overwhelmed and tearful, scared by the rainbow of wires and little holes I had to wedge them into.

It's working again now, the socket hanging precariously off the wall. Like me it just has to limp through the week, to literally hang in there until Matthew is back on Friday, for practical, if not moral support.

But I feel ashamed for my distress. Am I a weak person or are these extraordinary circumstances? In the DRC people are fleeing for their lives. What hardship is my faulty plumbing compared to that? We don't really know what a tough life is in this country, all we really suffer are inconveniences to the standard of life we consider a right. When I start to feel sorry for myself I try to remember this and think of those who really have it tough.


*plumber's word not mine

Don't Panic

I've not collapsed in a pile of empty bottles. I've just had a soak in the bath and am now eating comfort food (muesli) in front of the fire watching TV (unheard of for me) while my husband does the ironing (unusual for him)! I feel like a new woman.

Cry for help?

Is this the beginning of the end?

I'm having a bit of a crap time at the moment - I won't write why as it will probably sound bleatingly pathetic in print. However, feeling a bit fed up this lunchtime I opened the fridge to get something innocuous like cheese and spied an open bottle of wine. I must confess, I've had a glass! Drinking at lunchtime, help! But I do feel much better.

Don't worry, I've resisted more, so far. Rather than calling the AA, anyone who would like to help is welcome to come round and do the ironing which is leaning like the Tower of Pisa in a corner of the sitting room.