I used to really love the “Mr Meddle” books by Enid Blyton.
Mr Meddle, unless I’ve imagined the whole thing, was a naughty pixie-human who would meddle in other people’s business. I think he was trying to help but it was fairly unfathomable how any of his meddling could be construed as helpful. I recall one story where he went into someone’s house and ate the contents of the fridge in order to be helpful. Crazy, old, misunderstood pixie-man.
This story may not exist (neither may the books) but that’s how I remember them. I’m sure many words could be found to describe the Mr Meddle books but none serve quite so well as “bizarre”.
Perhaps I was a bizarre child then because I really did love Mr Meddle. I recall pleading with my Mum and Dad to get a copy of Mr Meddle’s latest adventures. Lets call it “Mr Meddle Eats Some Swans”, for the sake of argument. The day I got that book is firmly ingrained in my memory. It was purchased from the “round shop” (which wasn’t round at all), there was horse racing on and somebody was parading a dressed monkey along the High Street. Strange and wonderful times, the Seventies.