Mention of this book is often suffixed by how many copies it has sold, as if sheer weight of numbers obviates all consideration of how rubbish it is. And it’s a bit late to launch into a critique of a work that makes people feel physically sick when they finish it, like a pound of strawberry bonbons, but the question remains — why aren’t they embarrassed? Why aren’t they at least pretending a greater intellectual evolution than this? What are they trying to hide? That they really prefer Enid Blyton?