I remember eleven. Such an awkward age. No longer a young child, not yet an adult. I think at eleven or twelve, you’re unofficially a ‘tweenager’. Even the word is awkward!
Me at eleven? Hmm, it was the early 80s. In the year I turned eleven, I was in Grade 6. The final year of primary school. I had grown tall quite young, and towered over the other eleven year-old girls. Told you – awkward!
What does a self-conscious girl of eleven do? Bury herself in books of course. Sci-fi and fantasy novels (and shows) provided the perfect escape then - and now!
Oh, how I wish I could live at Eleven Privet Drive and be invited to Hogwarts. Or live in Hawkins and have powers like Eleven. Imagine spending eleven minutes in the TARDIS, or eleven light years on the Enterprise (or Galactica).
There is still an awkward girl of eleven inside of me, who likes to dream herself away. If you’re looking for her, try Middle Earth. Or even Narnia.
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