Stanley Henderson by Bill Kirton
This was provoked by a recent stay at the birthplace of Stanley Henderson (or, more correctly, the place of his conception). No, don’t Google him. That's him on the left, drawn by my nephew, Joe. I’ll explain. I’ve written some stories about Stanley and, for me, he’s taken on a life of his own. I ought to be treating him as a commercial proposition, and I will, of course, but even as I do so, he’ll be there as a presence, casting a sceptical eye over and shaking his head at my efforts. Regrettably, my grandchildren are growing up faster than I am but I’m talking now about the days when story ideas were generated, with apparent ease, by the early morning arrival of grandchildren in our bed , bright, wide-awake and wanting to be entertained. If I was clever, I could get them to do their own inventing (such as when Tracey the lion took the part of Goldilocks in Tracey the Lion and the Three Giraffes), but sometimes, a riff would start and it would easy for me to pursue it. ...