Ten years ago, I took my eight year old
daughter and her best friend to see a talk by Jacqueline Wilson. There,
Jacqueline revealed she liked olives and that every time she had a book
published, she would buy herself a ring. Interesting facts eh?
At the end of the talk, we dashed into
the queue for Jacqueline to sign our books. I did the dutiful thing and took
photos of the girls while she chatted to them. At this point, I realised my
eight year old daughter was of similar height to Jacqueline.
As we walked back to the car with the
girls rosy cheeked and clutching their signed books, we talked about how nice Jacqueline
was in person. I joked that due to her small stature, I could’ve slipped Jacqueline
into my handbag and stashed her under my daughter’s bed; if we fed her
sandwiches all day, perhaps she would read us a bedtime story – Jacqueline
Wilson on tap for your biggest fans.
Ten years later and a prompt from my writing group, ignited
this memory and led me to the scribblings of a Stan-inspired poem: Jacqueline
Wilson Lives Under My Bed (appreciatively published by Spilling
Cocoa Over Martin Amis.)
And if people tell you your poems are
weird … ignore them. Someone, somewhere, will love your stuff.
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