I heart this book.
Don't worry; this isn't a review or plug of some sort. My alter ego is not Dorothy Edwards. If it was, I wouldn't be here writing to you lot for free.
I spotted this book in our loft recently, when digging about amongst Spirograph, Mr Pop and Fashion Wheel, and all the other stuff I've kept that will one day be suitable for The Poop.
It was bought for me twenty years ago, when I acquired my very own Naughty Little Sister. After having been an only child for the first eight years of my life, I think it was supposed to make me feel less maligned, neglected, ignored and replaced. This book (and Mr Pop) were my only friends.
*cries hysterically for two hours, then returns to writing the blog post*