Earlier this year my Dad told me that my baby sister had been instructed to read Goodnight Mister Tom by Michelle Magorian for school.
“You liked that book, didn’t you? Tell her how good it is!” He pleaded.
“I loved it. It was my favourite book!” With perfect derision my 11 year old sister gave us both a deadpan stare and then rolled her eyes at our feeble attempt to get her excited about homework. But I wasn’t lying! I loved that book. I went home and found my own copy, creased and dog-eared with ‘Kitty year 6’ written inside the front cover. See? Proof! I only wrote my name inside books that I wanted returned if stolen (or, more likely, borrowed). Books that I loved.
As a 10 year old I was obsessed with stories about tragic orphans and melancholy loners so Goodnight Mister Tom ticked all the boxes (along with A Little Princess and Kit’s Wilderness). It’s still up there with my favourite children’s books, although I’m not sure that my enthusiasm entirely convinced my baby sister. But she recently messaged me to say that she’s halfway through Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and loving the series, so that’s enough for me.
