Metropolitan Melbourne is back in lockdown. We’re used to it, so is some parts of the known world. This is nothing new. Covid is called the leveller, by some and for a very good reason. For me, the pandemic has been mixed as anything, bittersweet. But worst of all was the nostalgia. Unforgiving memories. Memories of a land left behind: Sri Lanka, grandparents (long gone), childhood, tree houses, beaches, kites and softball cricket among many things.  Enid Blyton is one of those offenders. I grew up with her, well, her books. She inspired my desire to read and write. Definitely one of the sources of my fascination with the written word.

‘Ring O’Bells Mystery’, I have read it a countless times. It’s one of Enid Blyton’s mystery series of adventures, featuring Barney, Snubby, Roger among the main characters. Another one of her rollicking adventure mysteries, that ends well, as always. The book is fraying at the edges with a half-torn page. That missing piece lost forever, lost to time, I have mourned its passing on an uncomfortably regular basis.  It’s more than fifty years old, even before my time. Used by my uncles before me and my brother. My wife has promised to restore it, at some point. Soon I hope.

The Famous Five, Secret Seven, The Mystery series, The Five Find Outers, Children of the Green Meadows, coloured our literary bent and infected our imagination. Studying at one of the hallowed academic institutions in Colombo, Sri Lanka, and a proud Catholic bastion: Saint Joseph’s College, and long before the advent of the digital booking system, we had several mild run-ins with the librarian when we missed out our turn with the Enid Blyton books. It wasn’t her fault, she maintained a manual booking system where things could easily go wrong.

We traded and swapped our own Enid Blyton classics with each other. Misty moors, ghostly lights at night, camping, kidnappers, smugglers; how could a child resist. We read them on school buses, at bus stands and in between school periods. She wrote in a simple style and used narrative that had a gentle flow. But I don’t see them being publicly read anymore; at least, nowhere near as much as I would have liked.

‘The Boy Who Lived’ did start a revolution. I’ve got nothing against this kid or his legendary creator. They’re both brilliant. But, if only, the kids of today discovered the heroes of yore, created by the prolific Enid Blyton, I’m sure they might fall in love with them. It’s a hope and a whisper. But first I might have to start with my own kids.

But, I did thank her in my own way. I wrote my first novel ‘The Beast’ as a tribute to the spirit of adventure and innocence that Enid Byton passed on to me and generations of kids the world over.