And if you live in another land, who was YOUR "Enid" when you were a child?
Enid Mary Blyton 1897-1968
"There is one rule about pretending which must never be broken—you must be absolutely serious about it. If you break this rule you can neither pretend yourself, nor will the children pretend in front of you.
Last week was quite a red-letter week. I had in the garden, at 11.15 every morning, 2 or 3 policemen, a frightfully bold and audacious burgler, one Indian, a Canadian express train, a goods train, two motor-buses who had the exciting gift of changing into their own conductor and driver at will, and last, but not least, a galloping horse, who said ‘Gee-up’ and smacked himself at short intervals. He invited me for a ride, but (fortunately) I happened to be a stern Bedouin of the desert at the moment and therefore preferred camels for riding. The horse, before my eyes, began to change into a suitable camel, but the school-bell rang before the metamorphosis was complete.” —February 27, 1924
Enid Blyton wrote as many as 10 books a year for over 40 years.
I have no idea what you are talking about. Whatever it is, I can assure you it is certainly not funny. Is this Enid Blighton - who Wikipedia tells me was a popular and prolific British children's writer. If so, then my 'Enid' is almost certainly Dr. Suess.
ReplyDeleteCheck him out - he's good times!
Will you succeed? Yes, you will indeed. (98 3/4% guaranteed.)
@Canucklehead-Yes. But then you are from another land. This post is directed at the subject of my blog. Sorry. Check my header sometime.
ReplyDelete(Hope you're havin' a good day, L.--Love Greeks, btw.)
And, yes, Dr. Suess is popular in your sponsor nation as well. Tip O' the Cat in Da Hat to ya! :)
Max, you darling. You obeyed!
ReplyDeleteMore laterz, lest I get fired.
@Grumpus (((((((((Grumpus)))))))))
ReplyDeleteOf course I obeyed! It just took awhile for them to be found and mailed to me. How could I have resisted your overpoweringly superior brainwaves?
And thanks for splashing a little sunlight on my wretched little blog this morning! :)
I'll have to think about that, I'll come back later after some ginger beer.
ReplyDelete@Alison-Don't toy with Maxy castle lady.
ReplyDeleteNever mind. Toy with me. :)
Let me guess: The Pantomime Cat?
Give me a few days. You have the advantage.
So. You finally figured it out! Did you enjoy and even more important do you feel the connection?
ReplyDelete@ettarose-Oh! My heart's aflutter at your insinuations, diminutive Blonde one! Whatever might you mean? I completely forgot that today is the day they let you out to roam free in the sun. Are you with the dummy? I mean, "with dummy"? Are you up the creek?
ReplyDeleteTry not to just come in here and start throwing the furniture around like that, ok? ettarose?
Enid Blyton? Was there another children's author in my childhood? Only perhaps Arthur Ransome. I suppose I came to her rather late, having been in Africa when I would have been at the Noddy age, so I started on the Famous Five and read everything from that point on. I remember starting to read down the age groups, but that wasn't a great success.
ReplyDeleteI suppose I reached some sort of maturity when I baulked at reading about the good girl who always put her gloves on correctly first time. Even at that age I thought it unfair. Mind you, I was the little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead .... My sister was the angelic one. I bet she got her gloves on straight first go.
@A.-Yes, but your sister only LOOKED angelic on the outside, remember? Is she the same today? Did she boss you today? Sounds very bitter, my dear. And you are never too old to read Noddy. Don't be so elitist.
ReplyDeleteDid you, by the way, remember to curtsy when you entered the blog today? Please don't forget. :)
Max dahlink, I am ever so glad you ducked. You were almost beheaded by the Chippendale.
ReplyDeleteOh my! I was bought up on Enid Blyton's books. By that I mean I read a lot of them as a kid, not that I was fed them or anything.
ReplyDeleteThe Famous Five, The Secret Seven, The Nudist Nine...all great.
(I may have made the last one up, there).
I do remember there was an 'Aunt Fanny' in the Famous Five, which used to make me giggle like a naughty schoolboy.
Hee-hee - FANNY!
(Of course, over here 'fanny' refers to a lady's intimate area, and not the backside).
Good times, good times.
@Fanton-You seem to be talking pretty normal. You sure you're ok? So you can read and everything? How cool. My admiration just jumped a couple of notches. :)
ReplyDeleteI'm from another land, and I've read many, MANY books by her. I devoured anything, and by the time I actually got to Cornwall as an adult, I knew all about pirates and dangerous cliffs and caves, thanks to her and her "Famous Five".
ReplyDeleteMust seek out the Nudist Nine - I may have missed those...
Look who's up at 2:42 am. Oh. Probably not 2:42 am where you are.
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure you're allowed to read Enid, are you? Me neither. I gave a fake address and had the books forwarded to me.
I simply have to learn more about you, Stine. You drop little tidbits here and there, but nothing substantial. Maybe this would be a good time to torture it out of you once and for all.
(Are you writing me a story, btw? I've been seeing some really beautiful photos on your blog. Write about one of those trips you take to those gorgeous places. Then we'll all get together and make it sound all British-y. Or--you're keeping tabs on 6 kids. There HAS to be a story there. Not where they came from, what kind of trouble they got into today. Or would your rather help Claire write about the hen party? You probably don't even know what a hen party is...) :)
I was obsessed with the Famous Five as a child. Fact: I wanted to be George Kirren, who was indulged whenever she had a "fit" and took off (with Timmy) to camp overnight on the beach or on nearby Kirren island - an island she gotdam owned, by the way.
ReplyDeleteHowever, I would even have been stupid Anne, if it meant I could go rowing and beach combing and cycling and fighting smugglers all day in "England", instead of living in stupid Canada which was apparently totally backwards because we didn't have servants, cold lunches, or scientific laboratories in the house.
One lingering question I do have is: what sort of neglectful-ass gadabouts were Dick, Julian, and Anne's parents?? Every single time the "hols" rolled around they'd come up with some reason they had to dump the kids with Fanny and Quentin. No wonder Quentin had such a foul temper. In the 300th installment of the "Five" series he probably killed them all in their beds with an axe. That one never saw the light of day, but it's the natural progression.
A few words learned from the Five that qualify as Britishspeak:
Brambles: prickle bushes
Torch: flashlight
Rug: blanket. WTF!
Larder: the pantry, I guess. The Five were always raiding the larder.
Dick: a name, apparently, and not an insult.
Quarrelling: bitching at each other. And Anne would always say, "Oh don't let's quarrel." (I love it when the Brits say "don't let's.")
To my most esteemed friend Grumpus (of the wealthy Vancouver Grumpusi), greetings, O Chambered One:
ReplyDeleteDon't let's be criticizing the incredible writings of a legendary English icon. You are, as you yourself just mentioned, only a lowly Canadian. (So you claim--I myself have the theory you may be from a completely different solar system altogether.) If you truly are Canadian, and not just saying you are, as the Coneheads claimed to be from France, then your job, and that of your countrymen, is to simply remain quiet and send tribute from time to time.
Anyone who reads your blog on any regular basis will attest to your incisive wit and superior intellect (which also at times smacks of an extraterrestrial heritage, by the way) will be more than a little embarrassed to note their heroine (you) stooping to berate and analyze some beloved children's story books written perhaps fifty or more years ago. You are surely above that sort of thing, Grumpus. Much more lofty to simply take photographs of the first dandelion and coyly show us the shadow of your backpack. How deep indeed must have been your childhood cuts at the hands of this verbose Brit, for such bitterness to surface after all these years.
However, as always, we are in awe that you have somehow lost your way and accidentally graced our humble piece of American shit. Don't forget to wipe your hiking boots off on the grass as you flitter away, sweet muse.
Translation: "Stop yer whingein'"
Much love.