Spit Spot – Mary Poppins – P L Travers

London is abuzz with the Olympics and tuning into the opening ceremony on Friday night was a must. I was thrilled that English literature was included, but when Mary Poppins flew in to the stadium to save the children from some story book villains, I turned to my son and said, “Mary Poppins was written by an Australian.”

Pamela Lyndon Travers, (Helen Lyndon Goff) was born on the 9^th of August 1899 in Maryborough, a town in Queensland, Australia. Travers’ father was a failed banker and following his death the family moved to Bowral in New South Wales. Goff left the sunny shores of Australia and relocated to England in 1926. She wrote the first of the Poppins books in 1933 under the name of P L Travers.

Alright, so she wrote the books in the UK, and even though she was awarded an OBE, there is no monument to this writer in London.  There is a plaque on the Sydney Writers Walk and a statue of the fictional British nanny in Maryborough Queensland. I guess what I would like to see is a blue plaque on the house where she lived in Chelsea - at the very least.

The stories of the Banks family and their nanny are somewhat different than what we see portrayed on the screen. The Mary Poppins literary nanny is slightly darker and sterner and of course, in the books there were more than two children in the family. However, the movie did set Travers up financially, even though she didn’t approve of cartoon characters interacting with the actors. As a result, she never agreed to a Poppins/Disney film again although she was approached on numerous occasions. The movie, Saving Mr Banks starts filming in September this year and centres on the life of Travers and the ‘negotiations’ with Walt Disney and the making of the 1960’s film.

P L Travers never married, but adopted an Irish boy, separating him from his twin as she refused to take both children. The boys were reunited later in life.

From what I can gather, it seems that Travers fashioned the nanny after herself. However, her personal life is somewhat elusive as she invented stories for the tabloids as a camouflage so a lot of secrets went to the grave with her in 1996.

Really and truly, where she was born doesn’t matter, what matters is the brilliant literature that Pamela Lyndon Travers presented to the world, and a character that Once upon a time in London, created magic that was embraced by the world in a most delightful way.

“I don’t like people….I only like horses.” National Velvet – Enid Bagnold

To be honest, I never went looking for Enid Bagnold.  I just happened to stumble upon a house that she lived in when I was looking for someone else.  It’s funny how writers seemed to congregate in the same areas.

Enid Bagnold lived in the same street as Sir Winston Churchill and Virginia Woolf

Enid Algerine Bagnold was born on the 27^th October 1889 in Rochester Kent. Although born in the UK, she was brought up mostly in Jamaica; however Enid did attend school in London.

During World War I, Enid was a nurse but was dismissed from work after writing critically about the hospital’s administration. The rest of the war was spent in France as a driver. These experiences were portrayed in written form as A Diary Without Dates and The Happy Foreigner.

Enid married Roderick Jones in 1920, but continued to write under her maiden name.  By all accounts, it seems that this woman was strong willed and determined.  Perhaps not a feminist as such, but a rebellious woman who believed ordinary women could do extraordinary things and this comes to light in National Velvet.

Before I even read National Velvet, I watched a television show  about a girl named Velvet Brown and her love for her horse King. Velvet’s constant desire was for King to one day win the Grand National.  The original story is slightly different.  Set in a small English coastal town, it’s the story of a 14 year old girl who rides a horse to victory in the prestigious Grand National in the 1920’s. But more than that, it’s a story of inspiration about an ordinary girl who broke the rules and succeeded.

Enid Bagnold – Lady Jones, passed away in 1981 and is buried in St Mary’s Churchyard in Rottingdean, not far from the home that she shared with her husband. Throughout her life she chose the path of truth and difficulty and received a CBE for her efforts in 1976 which leads me to say that, Once upon a time in England, a self-believer wrote a story that inspires us to do whatever we believe we can.

‘If I cannot inspire love, then I will cause fear!’ - Mary Shelley

Ok, so I know I strayed a little off track last week, but please forgive me my flaws.  This week you might be happy to know, I’m visiting what some refer to as, the horror genre, and getting in touch with my parental instincts at the same time.  If you have a thirst for rich gothic style as I do, then our subject will satisfy.

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin was born on the 30^th of August 1797 in Somers Town London. Of course, we know her as Mary Shelley. There was no formal education for Shelley, she was merely taken on educational outings by her father, and had access to his library and was an avid reader.

Mary fell in love with the already married Percy Bysshe Shelley, and against her father’s wishes, the couple ran off together.  They travelled around Europe, but it was in Geneva that Mary Shelley got the idea for her most famous novel Frankenstein while sitting around a campfire telling ghost stories.

87 Marchmont St London

I must admit that when I was growing up, I thought that Frankenstein was the name of the hideous monster, but after reading the book, I discovered that it was the name of the doctor and not his wretched creature.  But which one is the true fiend? It has been said that Frankenstein’s monster is the result of what might happen when a man tries to have a baby without a woman and of course, a little radical thinking.

A gift from my son Warren

This book is one of my all-time favourites and, unfortunately, the only one of her books I have read to date.  I have a beautiful copy that my son Warren bought for me. When I first read the story of Frankenstein, it didn’t have the same impact that it had all these years later.  Now I have children of my own, I understand the importance and love that goes into choosing a name and it saddens me to think that the character created by Mary Shelley and brought to life by the doctor, never really had that identity to relate to. If I were to rewrite Frankenstein, I would definitely name the creation.


Mary Shelley passed away in 1851 and is buried in Bournemouth at St Peters Church along with her parents. There’s so much more that I could tell you about her tragic life, but everything has to end eventually, contrary to which I say that, Once upon a time in the 1800’s Mary Shelley created a monster that  has been  continuously resurrected to live for ever.

My Mother said, I never should – anonymous

This week while researching for my blog, I came across some rhymes from my childhood and one in particular stood out to me.  It’s a rhyme about playing in the woods with Gypsies and I started researching the origins.  You can imagine my surprise and disappointment when I couldn’t really find what I was looking for. 

I believe this particular rhyme was a clapping song and the author is unknown.  To me the words conjure up something sinister and we all know that parents once said anything to scare children into behaving themselves.  I remember my own mother telling me if I pulled a face and the wind change direction I would stay that way for ever, and guess what – I believed her!

Traditional Gypsy Caravan

Anyway, back to the rhyme and the subject, Gypsies. I’ve always wondered about Gypsies.  I know that they have a bad rep for jumping over peoples back fences and not paying for taxis and the like, but to me, when I think of Gypsies, I think of adventure.  I think of crystal balls and tarot cards and brightly coloured caravans pulled by Clydesdales. I think of barefooted children with snotty noses laughing and playing in fields.  I think of campfires with dogs sniffing around them and dark haired men playing guitars. I think of women with hooped earrings and colourful clothing dancing. But most of all I think of this rhyme from my childhood.  So here it is, the complete version – I hope.

My mother said, I never should
Play with the Gypsies in the wood;
If I did, she would say,
Naughty little girl to disobey.
Your hair shan't curl,
Your shoes shan't shine,
You gypsy girl, you shan't be mine.
And my father said if I did,
he'd rap my head with the teapot lid.

The wood was dark, the grass was green,
In came Sally with a tambourine.
I went to sea - no ship to get across,
I paid ten shillings for a blind white horse,
I up on his back,
and was off in a crack -
Sally, tell my mother I shall never come back.

Nowadays, this type of rhyme just isn’t pc. You wouldn’t be singing a clapping song like this with your friend in school just in case you offended somebody. But I love these old rhymes.  They were written before political correctness was introduced, in a simpler time.  So if you know the origin of this one, please let me know. Hopefully I won’t be saying in the future, Once upon a time in 2012, I asked a question about a rhyme and didn’t get an answer.