The venue: Bristol Central Library.

I was in Bristol on Friday evening/Saturday morning to appear at MORE THAN WORDS, ‘a listening festival’ where the majority of events were recorded for future broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and some even went out live on air.

I appeared (heavily bearded, of course) in Bristol Central Library for a recording of WORD OF MOUTH dedicated to nonsense in general, and Edward Lear in particular.

Hosted, as always, by Michael Rosen, the three other guests were James Williams from Oxford University, Anna Barton from Sheffield University and actor Paul Nicholson. We met the previous evening to discuss the programme with producer, Chris Legard…

Anna (who -- sorry -- doesn't really look like this) and Michael (who does).

Chris, Paul and James (who, apparently, looks this blurry after 9pm).

Me, on the other hand? Lookin' gooood.

The audience included children who’d come armed with their own limericks, tongue-twisters and nonsensical announcements; and adults who’d come equipped with (regulation Radio 4 standard audience-issue) coughs, snuffles and bleeping electronic equipment…

…I look forward to hearing the — heavily edited! — broadcast later today.

The 'Ardagh Entrance' to the Mitchell Library. Glasgow. Home to the festival.

Karen Thingummy went on to try to spoil it all by saying that this wasn’t actually true but — as the old adage says — one should never let the facts get in the way of a good story. (And yes, the festival director’s surname really is Thingummy. It’s not that it’s completely slipped my mind and that I’m hoping to substitute her real name for ‘Thingummy’ later on.*)

Metaphrog, with their book 'LOUIS Red letter Day'. Photo (c) Dotty Hendrix

I love the “Aye Write!” festival and managed to perform in front of just under 1,000 children in two days. All the books sold out on the first day, which on one level is great, but left my beard caked with salt from the tears shed at the thought of all those disappointed fans on day two.

Programme director, Andrew Kelly, having just received the blackmail photos on his phone.

Scarred for life, they’ll be. Scarred for life.

As well as the audiences, it was also great to catch up with the oh-so-lovely festival organisers and fellow authors, including the likes of Ali Sparkes, Tony Bradman, Jonathan Meres, plus a whole host of others who I won’t list here because they’ll never read this blog anyway.

A little moist after one of my two theatre performances...

I was, however, delighted to finally, finally meet one of the UK’s very best poets, Jackie Kaye, and to have supper with her one evening, along with the likes of Pauline Black, fomer lead singer of The Selector.

There’s something VERY special about this festival, and I’m delighted to have been back many times since the children’s programme (officially) began seven years ago. Here are a few pictures to take your mind off things.

A bunch of fellow authors.... Photo (c) Dotty Hendrix

The author experiencing a local delicacy. Photo (c) Ali Sparkes

(*The director of the festival is actually called Karen Cunningham, and the only reason there aren’t any pictures of her is that she had them seized at Glasgow Airport before my flight home.)

Thursday March 1st was World Book Day and, just two days before that (28th February), I found that my original plans for the day had gone horribly wrong — please don’t ask, just imagine an elephant sitting on a tuba — and I couldn’t imagine a World Book Day without my doing a World Book Day event (I owed it to the nation)… so I put out an emergency “Does Anyone Want Me For The Day?” appeal on Facebook and Twitter that evening.

I’m delighted to say that a number of schools, libraries and bookshops got in touch — thanks, all! — but I needed to make a quick decision, because there was only one full day of preparation on the 29th (it’s a leap year, remember) before the day itself.

One such invite came from Hereward Corbett of the Yellow-Lighted Bookshops in Tetbury and Nailsworth (and the literary festival of the same name). I’ve been to both of his shops and even done events for the lovely Louise at the Nailsworth branch, but had never worked with Hereward…

… Then, just a few weeks back, I ran into Mr. Corbett (a brother of the poet Pie Corbett) for the first time in Bexhill-on-Sea, by a large mocked-up tin of Campbell’s tomato soup, of all places. It was fate.

So that’s how I found myself doing an eight-hour round trip to Gloucestershire — involving just about every mode of transport except for penny-farthing and hot-air balloon — to do an event and signing at Miserden Primary School in the morning, followed by an event and signing at Chalford Hill Primary in the afternoon.

The skies were blue, the scenery stunning, and the welcome couldn’t have been warmer. So a huge “THANK YOU!” to all involved.

Hereward Corbett seen here employing just one of his many attempts at bribery during the course of the day.

The very-ugly-on-the-outside Queen Elizabeth Hall, named after Elizabeth Hall, inventor of large rooms for public gatherings.

On Sunday, I was on stage in The Queen Elizabeth Hall (on London’s Southbank) for the closing event at this year’s Imagine Children’s Festival. I was sharing the stage with two other Roald Dahl Funny Prize winners, Louise Rennison (2010, Wuthering Tights) and Liz Pichon (2011, The Brilliant World of Tom Gates), so anyone who thinks women ain’t funny should think again. (I won in 2009 with the first Grubtown Tale, Stinking Rich & Just Plain Stinky.)

There was one other person up there with us, and that was the prize’s founder (another tall, bearded, chap) by the name of Michael Rosen. We certainly enjoyed ourselves, and by the sounds coming from the 500+ audience, are pretty sure at least some of them did too.

Backstage at The Queen Elizabeth Hall. Louise Rennison, Michael Rosen, Philip Ardagh (me!) and Liz Pichon. (c) Dotty Hendrix

Roald Dahl Funny Prize winner, Philip Ardagh

My highlight of the day? Too many to choose from, but I was delighted to learn that Michael Rosen’s son had been looking forward to seeing “Philip Aardvark”!

It was a ‘black tie’ affair, which meant that men wore dinner jackets and the women wore smart dresses (rather than bin-liners).

The menu was devised by Jamie Oliver who has, famously “never read a book”. He reiterated this during his during-dinner speech. All the speeches were during-dinner rather than after-dinner speeches, because dinner was still going when I had to leave at 11.15pm.

The start time was 7.00pm, but people had to check-in their coats, hats and chrome-handled umbrellas; be given their designated colour-coded wristband (corresponding to the table they’d been allocated); photographed; then held in a windowless basement for an hour or so whilst being plied with drinks and nibbles. (I suspect some people were bundled into the backs of vans at this stage, and forcibly repatriated… )

But what makes such events is, of course, the company. There were some noticeable absences, but it was a great opportunity to hook up with familiar writing/illustrating colleagues and meet some new ones. I was delighted to finally get to have a handful of words with Judith Kerr of tiger and pink-bunny fame.

Other memorable moments include Michael Morpurgo singing at the end of his speech. I’m not saying it’s a good thing. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’m just saying… and there was an excellent speech from Anthony Horowitz.

Here then are a few photos during the dinner. Dotty took many more, but she’d been drinking from other people’s glasses all evening, so some were rather blurred or of her knees and elbows.

Annabel Pitcher, author of the superlative 'My Sister Lives On The Mantelpiece'. (c) Dotty Hendrix

Phil Earle wasn't wearing a bowtie, but was kind enough to sweat profusely in the holding pen, so that I didn't 'glow' alone. (c) Dotty Hendrix

Birthday girl, Francesca Simon (right) and an equally sparkling Nosy Crow (aka Kate Wilson) (c) Dotty Hendrix

Me explaining to Jacqueline Wilson just who the dotty woman in the funny hat taking the pictures is. (c) Dotty Hendrix

Jacqueline Wilson and the wonderful Morris Gleitzman. (c) Dotty Hendrix

Our beefy main course. (Dotty brought sandwiches.) (c) Dotty Hendrix

Three chocolate puddings. Say no more... (c) Dotty Hendrix

Michael Foreman and Judith Kerr. Yippee!!! (c) Dotty Hendrix

And many thanks to Harriet Castor for accompanying me as my guest. It was her job to drag me to the station by my beard, at the end of the evening, if all else failed…

I will be posting more photos, but not today.

Tonight there’s a big gala dinner ‘celebrating children’s books’ in the Clore Ballroom in the Southbank Centre in London. As part of the celebration, guests are asked to bring a copy of their favourite children’s book with a note on a postcard to explain why they love it. Both the note and the book will then go to either a child in care or an under-privileged child… which is rather a splendid idea.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I chose Comet in Moominland by the Finnish writer, artist and illustrator, Tove Jansson. There suddenly seems to be a rash of Moomin merchandice and, lovely though much of it is, nothing beats the original books. I absolutely loved them as a child — and still do today — so was delighted when my Eddie Dickens books were published in Finland by her Finnish publisher.

It was easy enough getting my hands on a Puffin edition of Comet in Moominland but — yerch! — the cover. At the bottom of this entry, there’s a photo of the Finnish edition (full of action and excitement), the Puffin cover from when I was a child (dark and mysterious), and the current edition… with its dreadful girly, Heaven-knows-what look.

There’s nothing wrong with girly covers. Of course there ain’t. But might I suggest they be used for books specifically aimed at girls? I feel sure that my copy of Comment in Moominland will be given to a girl — and I very much hope that she enjoys it — but I’m saddened to think that this cover may well put off most boys, who won’t know what they’re missing. Moomins rock!

That aside, I’d be interested to know what book you might give/are giving as a favourite… and which, if any, books you feel are REALLY let down by their covers (and why).

Now I must go and dig out my bowtie for this dinner…

On more than one occasion, my passionate opinions have solicited the response: “Well, you would want to save libraries, wouldn’t you? It’s in your interest, isn’t it?”

The first time this was said to me, I was at a loss for words. Momentarily, I’ll admit, but lost for words. (And those of you who know me will understand what a rare occurrence that is.) But I do have a response.

Before I go any further, let me flag up to the three most (seemingly) obvious ways I, as an author, benefit FINANCIALLY from libraries:

1.Some libraries stock some of my books.
2. Because a library book can be read by more than one person - which may effect sales of my books in shops - I am eligible for Public Lending Rights (pennies for each time a books is taken out). Because of the sheer beauty of my prose, I am fortunate enough to regularly receive the maximum allocation of £6,600 a year, which is a substantial sum. (For many authors, PLR is a significant proportion of their writing income.)
3. Some people who read my books from a library may then go out and buy them.

Can you see that crazed, Midas-like glint in my eyes?

But my selfishness when it comes to libraries runs far, far deeper than that.

I first visited libraries as a child for pleasure and to find things out. I continue to do this as an adult. If my library were to close, I’d be losing out. So I selfishly want them to stay open.

I now visit libraries as a parent. I like the wide variety books they have on offer, some of which I might never have known about or ever thought to pick out. I like the storytime; the make-and-do; the community groups and information; the exhibitions…and all those other things libraries have to offer, and I haven’t even made it over to the computers or the photocopier. And I’m selfish enough to want these to continue too.

I’m selfish enough to want children from homes where there are few if any books to have the chance to discover the world of reading, giving them opportunities they might not otherwise have… so that they can achieve their potential and become the doctors and nurses and shopkeepers and all the people I’ll need to keep society running smoothly when I’m old and dribbling and (selfishly) need looking after.

For the same reason, I want those children who find homelife too distracting, unnerving or (sometimes) downright dangerous to have somewhere to do their homework where they feel happier or safer. A contented child is more likely to become a contented adult who will be more likely to carry my shopping for me, selfish old g*t that I am.

I could go on, but you get the picture. We complain about the not-in-my-backyard culture and I’m just as bad. I’m one of those ‘yes-in-my-backyard’ people. Yes, I want libraries to remain in our communities, for the selfish reasons already outlined and the million-and-one other reasons other people may selfishly have.

There’s a rally and lobbying of parliament on 13th March, in London (and you can find out more about it here http://www.speakupforlibraries.org/). I’ll be there of course, along with people from all walks of life, no doubt including other self-interested authors, and the most self-interested of all: those disgraceful librarians.

“UNESCO (The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) says reading for pleasure is more important than social class in determining economic and academic success.” — Alan Gibbons Campaign For The Book

On Monday — St Valentine’s Day — I went up to London to be interviewed for a ‘talking head’ segment of an up-coming documentary on Roald Dahl’s writing, to be broadcast on ITV later this year. One of the things I wanted to touch upon was what other funny children’s writing — the writing being funny and not necessarily the children — was out there when Dahl was creating the likes of Charlie and The Chocolate Factory , so I turned to my trusted back issues of PUFFIN POST (and the annuals).

Today (as an adult), I’m an honorary member of the Puffin Club for life, which is what the red badge on the annual represents. The puffin badge with the white background — my first — was for a standard member. The one with the black ground is my long-serving member’s badge! I’m so pleased that I still have them, along with my shocking pink folders to keep my Puffin Posts in and, of course, the very posh-looking bookplates. I’ve temporarily mislaid my membership book (which also contains the code and secret Puffin members’ greeting) but I know I’ve put it somewhere safe.

One of the things which really interested me was that the two very different looking spreads which leaped out at me in the first annual were by Quentin Blake and Roald Dahl respectively. No, not together, these were pages apart. The annual was published in 1974 before Blake and Dahl first collaborated… but both their contributions seemed far wackier than anything else in there.

I loved the Puffin Club, and am delighted to have been a member when Kaye Webb was still at the helm, but I’m also delighted that it’s now back in its new incarnation. It’s another great way of putting the FUN into reading.

Are any of you members (very) ancient or current? I’d love you to leave a comment.

In May last year — yup, that’s nine months ago — I wandered into my umbrella shop to buy… (drumroll)… an umbrella. When I say my umbrella shop, I don’t mean that I own it. As you can see from the signs, it’s called James Smith & Sons and I’m none of them. I simply mean that’s where I’ve bought umbrellas and walking sticks in the past. Because I’m tall (as in very) most shops don’t sell walking sticks long enough to be any use for me when I’m hobbling about with a bad leg or four.

But James Smith & Sons does. It has a FANTASTIC variety in all shapes and sizes, and if they don’t have something in stock, they can always order it or have it made up for you. (Not ‘made up’ as in “let’s pretend”. A made-up umbrella in that sense wouldn’t keep you dry now, would it?)

The kind of umbrella I was after that day in May was one with a long frame — so that I could walk along with it in furled (rolled-up) mode without having to bend over like the creeping man in a Sherlock Holmes story of the same name — and a beautiful, shiny chrome handle. They didn’t have one on display, but they did have a chrome handle in stock. So they put the handle aside and said that they’d order me a special frame — of a type they’d never used before — and would let me know when the two pieces had been combined to create the Ardagh Brolly.

The wait began.

Umbrellas like that don’t come cheap, so I thought that I could have my houseboy (Toto), family retainer (Ricketts) and PA (Dotty Hendrix) club together to give it to me for my 50th birthday that September. (I didn’t have to ask them, I’d simply deduct it from their wages, to save them the hassle.)

But September came and went.

No umbrella.

That’s okay, I thought. They can give it to me for Christmas…

But Christmas came and went.

No umbrella.

So, in January, I visited the shop and they checked the handwritten ledger (a huge order book). So much time had passed that they were now over halfway through a new ledger and had to dig out the old one. There were profuse apologies and, a matter of weeks later, came the good news… which is how, yesterday, I came to be the proud owner of my extremely elegant, extremely long, and very beautiful chrome-handled umbrella.

In the end — after nine long months of waiting — I decided to pay for it myself. Why? Because, on St Valentine’s Day, it’s traditional to buy a present for the one you love.

I hope it rains soon.

No photo can do justice to this umbrella of mouth-watering loveliness.

The soup can? Fun. Hereward? A real pleasure.