There was a rerun tonight of a television programme about the children's author Enid Blyton. I used to love her books - The Famous Five, The Secret Seven, Malory Towers, Noddy of course - and there certainly were plenty of her books to keep a child endlessly occupied.
I had heard some years ago on a radio programme that Enid Blyton wasn't such a good mother - all she cared about was writing, writing, writing. For which she needed peace and quiet with No Disturbances. Which meant of course, No Children.
But the television programme absolutely pulled no punches and showed us a woman completely blinkered to the needs of her two daughters, and to the needs of any other person in her life; completely selfish in her desperation to satisfy her own inner demons.
Presumably in an effort to show a little balance and compassion, the programme also told us something about the disrupted childhood that brought Enid Blyton's demons into being.
And maybe drove her into her makebelieve world where children enjoyed endless sunny picnics and every adventure ended happily back at home.
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