Turning grass into lawn…

At the Barnes Children's Literature Festival (this Sunday at 10am) I'll read some from my picture book There's A Bug On My Arm That Won't Let Go, and we'll do some drawing and laughing. I want to talk about how memories can give you the start of an idea for a story and how picture books can help you see the invisible. You'll have to book a ticket, but it's downhill from there. Bring your drawing chops.

Henry Miller should have tried mowing hundreds of acres of grass in the blazing hot sun throughout an entire childhood, and then we'll see if he finds a blade of grass so very interesting.

Henry Miller should have tried mowing hundreds of acres of grass in the blazing hot sun throughout an entire childhood, and then we'll see if he finds a blade of grass so very interesting.

The Premier League Writing Stars are GO…

The Premier League Writing Stars programme launched its new book of poems by children (ages 5-11) from schools all over the UK. I added some drawings to the book of poems which were written on the theme of RESILIENCE.

The poems selected by the judges are diverse: humorous, spirited and heart-warming.

One of my favourites (by Eve) is about her grandmother's soup which is hard to stomach: "I must go on, I cannot stop". That is resilience for you.

As you can tell, they're not all about football. Another by Amelie (aged 6), is about the monkey bars in her local playground which are formidable to her: "high off the ground". But she beats them and now her arms "got stronger" and she can face them "without the help of her mamma". I remember how that is.

One of the winning entries, by Sadie aged 10, is about her mum's experience with cancer and is so clever and thoughtful you just have to read it to understand.

They're not all children's poems either because some sporting celebs have their own poems included in the book, recounting some very similar challenging childhood experiences and others in their adult lives too.

There's more than 80 poems in the new book, and the children really put a lot of work into getting their messages across. Writing doesn't always come easy and you can identify people with a knack for it, and others who have tried… and tried again. And that's what this is all about.

Lauren Child , the Children's Laureate, judged the entries with Yannick Bolas, Caleb Femi and Frank Lampard. The National Literacy Trust produced the book with the Premier League.

Premier League Writing Stars

Ducks, ponds and plane shadows…

The Barnes Children's Literature Festival is on in May 12-13. I'll be there on the Sunday at 10am speaking about my picture books and drawing with everyone. If you'd like to join in you can book a ticket here. Bring your thinking caps and a pencil. Otherwise, relax and enjoy the flight.

In glorious black and white…

These old black and white pictures from my ©Filofax remind me of sitting in airports. Airports are places of strict rules and regulations, governed by signs and edicts from authorities about one thing or another. Then – just as you're leaving – as if to make up for all the bossiness and to adjust you to the outside world: duty free. 

My earlike shell…

I found this eroded shell on a stony beach in Greece fifteen ears ago. I'd dearly love to find the matching one for my collection.

The one I have has a fine helix and scaphoid fossa, but the tragus is sadly no longer visible. I believe it to be a left ear.

I picked the shell up and put it in the pocket of my shorts and went swimming.

Possibly an ancient herring aid.

Possibly an ancient herring aid.

The light's on, but nobody's home…

In Waiting for Chicken Smith, there's a lighthouse on the headland near where the boys' holiday cabins are. No one lives in the lighthouse but at one time there was probably someone living there ensuring the light went on and off when required.

From Waiting for Chicken Smith © David Mackintosh.

From Waiting for Chicken Smith © David Mackintosh.

The lighthouse I was thinking of when I wrote the story had an automatic light. There was a heavy wooden door that once opened every day to let the lighthouse keeper into the light and my friend carved his initials in this door. Even after years of fresh paint on the door, the initials were visible (if just barely). The last time I went up there, the initials were just a figment of my memory. The old wooden door had gone – with its initials – and a metal version stood in its place. But the view to the east hadn't changed one iota.

The Fingal Head lighthouse (Photo by H. Cutts).

The Fingal Head lighthouse (Photo by H. Cutts).