Clap your hands if you believe in fairies.

I was taken to the theatre to see Peter Pan when I was a child. I must have been about six, because I remember my two front teeth were missing, and when Captain Hook became too scary I sucked my thumb through the convenient gap. I thought Peter Pan utterly magical and was entranced throughout. There was just one disappointment. I totally accepted that a man on all fours was a St Bernard dog in a pinafore, acting as the children’s nanny. I believed that the little boy Peter was a generously endowed woman swash-buckling around in natty tunic and tights. I was sure that Peter and Wendy and John and Michael were truly flying away to Never Land, though I could see the wires supporting them. I suppose I had my doubts about the fake crocodile who was pushed out from the wings at appropriate moments, ticking loudly. However, I simply couldn’t believe in Tinker Bell.

I tried to make out this tiny mischievous fairy on the stage, but all I could see was a little light that flashed intermittently. Surely they could have invented a more exciting representation? My fading belief in fairies vanished entirely.

When Peter Pan begged the audience to save Tinker Bell’s life by clapping our hands if we believed in fairies I didn’t join in. It just felt too silly. Of course I didn’t believe in a flashing light. Plus I’d been let down by the so-called real fairies. My friends at school said the Tooth Fairy would leave sixpence under my pillow when my teeth fell out – but she failed to make an appearance. My mother thought the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and even Father Christmas were pointless whimsy. I was given a chocolate egg at Easter and a big Christmas box of gifts on the 25th, but Mum made sure I knew that they were down to her own generosity.

Goodness knows how she stomached that most quintessentially whimsical children’s play Peter Pan. She was a woman of contradictions. Though she sniffed at the idea of fairies, there were often books about fairies in my Christmas box. I adored reading about Silky the Fairy in The Magic Faraway Tree books, and I cherished Cicely Mary Barker’s little Flower Fairy books. I pored over every beautiful full-colour illustration, and now I live in the country I know celandine from cat’s ear, red campion from rosebay willowherb, all because of looking at Flower Fairies of the Wayside long ago.

I grew out of these lovely children’s books in due course but had a brief flutter with fairies again when I had to study A Midsummer Night’s Dream for my O-level Literature. I’d sometimes stop my tuneless rendering of Cathy’s Clown and It’s Now or Never and sing in a hopefully mystical way about wild thyme and oxlips and nodding violets and sweet musk roses.

When I had my own small daughter I made sure the Tooth Fairy visited her (her rates had gone up considerably by this time) and gave her a fairy dress for dressing up too, though I shuddered at the very idea of bright pink net and sparkly wings. I was going through an overly-long gothic phase of wearing stark black.

Then I went to the Victorian Fairy Painting exhibition at the Royal Academy twenty five years ago. I’ve always been fascinated by anything Victorian so I felt I could just about stomach the fairy theme.

I saw representations of evil fairies, lewd fairies, cruel fairies, ghoulish fairies, monstrous fairies – and adored them so much that I even became enthusiastic about the sweetly pretty sort. I admired mad Richard Dadd’s paintings the most, especially The Fairy Feller’s Master Stroke. I must have already passed it several times at the Tate without focussing on it – but even standing right in front of it focussing seemed impossible. It’s a dark painting spattered with white daisies, white robes, white legs. I hadn’t realised there are at least thirty distorted little people gossiping, peeping, frowning, observing, blowing complicated instruments and taking a swing at a nut with an axe – and that isn’t counting the barely visible procession parading Queen Mab along the brim of the Magician’s hat.

It’s as if we’re lying flat on our stomachs, peering at them through strands of grass. It’s how I imagine fairyland would be, with no sense of perspective or logic. It couldn’t be further away from the anodyne commercialised representation of fairies still so popular. I wondered what the sort of person who collects pewter fairy trinkets and mock toadstools would think of it.

I had the germ of an idea for a children’s book there and then, but it stayed at the back of my mind for a very long time. It only resurfaced when a pressed flower fell out of a newly purchased second-hand book. With a little imagination it could be mistaken for a squashed fairy…

I shall be giving talks about my new book Project Fairy this month and next. Perhaps all good-natured children will clap their hands for me.

This week I have been…

Reading… The Golden Mole And Other Living Treasure by Katherine Rundell.

Whenever I’m asked to recommend another children’s author I always pick Katherine Rundell.  She writes fantastic exciting children’s books and recently published a much-praised erudite biography of John Donne. She’s also a Fellow of All Souls College, roof walks in heart-stopping fashion, and has impressive circus skills!  Now she’s beguiling us with an exquisitely written bestiary of the world’s most astonishing animals. I shall be jealously guarding my own copy and buying several more for Christmas presents.

Singing… All my favourite ABBA songs.

I’ve been an ABBA fan since they won that long-ago Eurovision Song Contest.  I’ve been to the Avatar show ABBA Voyage at the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park in London.  I wasn’t quite sure how it would work, but thought it would be fun – and it was actually amazing, a really fantastic experience.  It’s such an entertaining exciting show, utterly convincing but a little tongue in cheek too.  The seated audience sang, laughed, and swayed their arms, while those in the dancing area jumped about joyfully.  The specially built venue is beautifully designed to minimise queuing – even for the Ladies loos.  I wish I had an Avatar of myself. That Jacqueline Wilson could go and do all my events while I stay at home and read and write.

Knitting… with the help of Tom Daley’s book Made With Love.

Well, I hope I’m knitting!  I’ve been a fan of Tom Daley for many years, obviously for his brilliant diving.  I was very impressed when I saw him knitting by the poolside at the Tokyo Olympics and then modelling his own designs.  They’ve all got great flair and originality. There are many varied knitting patterns in this book, plus tips for “the most tentative beginners”.  I count myself in this description.  I’ve only ever made half a matinee jacket and a long droopy Dr Who scarf, understandably never worn by the recipient. The only stitches I can do so far are plain and pearl –  but now I am inspired!

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