"Yes, but aren't you dead?" I ask.
"Haha no no no, only the archaic language and ideas in my books are dead." She replies as she whips off her brown and orange striped jumper and pulls a tennis racket from her thigh-high boots.
"Come on then Blyty," I snarl, poised for action with my tennis racket waving above my head. But before I can serve, fudge demons begin to rain around me.
"It's the gollywogs," cries Enid Blyton her lack of political correctness momentarily stunning me.