Attention: The Baby-Sitter's Club Members Would Now Be 40
When I was eight, I wrote a short story about my summer holiday in New York. I wrote about all the amazing things we did, all the cool things we saw — like going to the Met, to the Guggenheim, to the Natural History Museum. I shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue and Macy's. I rode on a horse and carriage in Central Park and ate a hot dog bought from a street vendor. It was the best holiday of my life.
Except it never happened.
I made the whole thing up.
But apparently I was pretty convincing, because my teacher — for whom I'd written the story — sidled up to my mum the next day to ask her how she enjoyed the Big Apple. When my mum responded, confused, that she had never been to New York — and indeed, neither had I (we'd actually spent much of that Summer holiday at the Pet Porpoise Pool in Coffs Harbour) my teacher asked how an eight-year-old girl from the western suburbs of Sydney could know so much about a place she'd never been.
The answer was, of course: because I read The Baby-Sitter's Club.