My parents had form when it came to missing the point. Like a bad fairy princess bullying her court musician, I made Grandma play on and on until the moment when it seemed that we might both spin ourselves into a cloud of coloured chalk dust of the kind that Bert the pavement artist uses to sketch his magical alternative worlds.īut the moment I unwrapped my present I knew something had gone horribly wrong.
And, at home, I sternly presented my grandmother with the sheet music of the Sherman Brothers' score. I did, though, definitely win the competition for who could say "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" backwards. At school I won the unofficial prize for the person who had seen the film the most times (I said eight, although it was actually only six: but in the Disney universe, believing something hard enough is the key to making it come true). A thrill, because for the last five years I had lived and breathed the Disney version, which had come out in a blaze of glory in 1964. B eing given a copy of Mary Poppins by PL Travers for my eighth birthday was both a thrill and, as it turned out, one of the greatest disappointments of my young life.
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