This could stem from my childhood. My mother, a widely-read intellectual, forbade me to read anything by Enid Blyton (the other thing she banned was bubble gum; otherwise she was pretty relaxed. She even ignored me when, at the age of ten, I lit up a cigarette in front of her), so of course I longed for the Famous Five (I managed to get hold of just one). However, I don't remember longing for Noddy (does anyone? Long for Noddy, I mean?)
My own children were given one Noddy book, but I refused to read it to them. They didn't seem to mind too much.
(Another possible reason is that he reminds me of a garden gnome. 'Nuff said.)
