When I was just 10, I became obsessed with a series of books called Malory Towers by Enid Blyton.
The books are about a girl called Darrell and the six years she spends at boarding school.
Of course it is all very jolly hockey sticks and jelly and ice cream, and I’m pretty sure boarding school isn’t quite as much fun as it makes out in the book, but I loved them and read them over and over again.
I have always hoped my daughter will get into them too – just as I hope she one day appreciates the masterpiece of Little House on the Prairie – but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
After all, Malory Towers isn’t Moshi Monsters or My Little Pony, so I didn’t feel it could compete.
However, a few weeks ago she was looking around for a bedtime story and so I pulled out my well-worn copy of Malory Towers.
She frowned and I could tell she would rather read the phone book, but anyway I assured her we would just read it for a few minutes, and she agreed.
When I got reading, however, not only did my daughter tolerate Malory Towers, but she actually loved it.
The next night she asked for it again and the night after that too; and since then she has been reading 30 minutes with me, then lying down to read another hour of it in bed.
Book one has been thoroughly digested, and now she is on to book two, which she is insisting on reading, even though it has literally fallen to pieces and is held together with tape from 1980.
So my plan to introduce her to Malory Towers has gone much better than expected, and she will be finished all six books by the end of the summer.
I hope to get her into Animals of Farthing Wood and the Famous Five soon because – in all honesty – I could do with revisiting those myself!