If children are built, in part, by the books they’re raised on, then I was all Roald Dahl. From my small bedroom in suburban Essex, his stories allowed me to try on new and distinctly more exciting lives for size.
There was James aboard his giant peach, George with his marvellous granny vanquishing medicine and of course, Charlie, who wins a trip to a chocolate factory and a lifetime’s supply of sweets — for the grandchild of a dentist, an impossible dream.
And Dahl was my dream maker, a fairy godfather, a living wizard. So much so that when I, the adoring fan, eventually met him at a Puffin Club convention I was rendered mute under his spell.
