Chicken Dance by Jacques Couvillion

In the spirit of 'Holes', with splashes of subtle magical realism, Couvillion's debut is a highly compelling and ultimately uplifting 'rise of the underdog' morality tale. On Horse Island, where nearly everyone is a chicken farmer with an alliterative name, the Schmidt family are relative outsiders, bequeathed their house by an uncle on the condition that they continue to care for its chickens.

Ignored and resented by his parents, Don Schmidt spends most of his home life trying not to annoy his neurotic chicken-hating mother. School isn't much better, until one day he wins a chicken-judging contest and becomes suddenly popular, so that even his parents are forced to notice him.

Meanwhile, Don has accidentally discovered that his name used to be Stanley, and is anxiously following a trail of clues about his past, desperate to find out why it was changed and what exactly his family has been hiding from him. As the truth gradually unfolds, with some cleverly plotted twists and turns, the story becomes ever more enthralling. Don/Stanley is a perfectly constructed hero – humble, naïve, kind and courageous - and you can't help but be consumed by his plight.

Accidents of Nature by Harriet McBryde Johnson

A deeply moving and provocative novel that boldly confronts attitudes to disability from the perspective of a sixteen year old with cerebral palsy. Set in a 1960s holiday camp for what would now be called 'special needs' children, it is the antithesis of the politically correct 'issue-based' book.

Jean goes to Camp Courage to please her parents, who have always tried to give her as normal a life as possible, and are keen to foster her independence. During Jean's stay she meets Sara - a veteran of what she herself calls 'Crip Camp' - and an outspoken rebel against the patronising influence of the camp leaders, and other 'normal' people in general.

Refusing to submit to society's expectations of her, Sara opens Jean's eyes to a whole new way of thinking about her disability. Based on the author's own experience of growing up as an invalid in even less liberated times, Accidents of Nature is not always a comfortable read, but all the better for that.

The Roman Mysteries XVII: The Man from Pomegranate Street by Caroline Lawrence

Since the release of The Thieves of Ostia in 2002, Caroline Lawrence’s rip-roaring Roman Mysteries series has taken its readers on a string of heart-stopping and vividly evoked adventures all over the Roman Empire - from the port of Rome to the capital city itself; to Pompeii, Rhodes, Athens, Egypt and even Asia.

Anyone who has followed the series cannot have failed to absorb at least some of the profuse and fascinating historical detail that has been carefully woven into its gripping pages, but most will probably have been more preoccupied with the ever-precarious fate of its four feisty protagonists.

Facing all manner of adversities in the pursuit of the truth, the headstrong heroine of the series, Flavia Gemina has matured from an nosy, naive child to a brave young woman with a talent for solving mysteries. Her loyal friends, Lupus, Nubia and Jonathan have all evolved too, each experiencing their own often heartrending rites of passage.

It hardly seems possible that the final book in the series has arrived so soon, but here it is - volume 17, The Man from Pomegranate Street. The story begins with fifteen year old Flavia being prepared for a marriage ceremony, then goes into flashback as she recounts her final - and most dangerous - mystery. Drawing together loose ends left from the previous books, and putting the four friends in almost constant peril, Lawrence delivers yet another absorbing and illuminating historical whodunit.

The main mystery this time is who killed the Emperor Titus, but as ever, there are many twisty-turny sub-plots that keep things constantly taut and suspenseful. Did Jonathan kill Titus? Will Nubia’s feelings for Aristo be revealed? And who is Flavia marrying? All will be revealed in the captivating conclusion to this epic and hugely engrossing series.

Mr Pusskins by Sam Lloyd

In many ways, this is a classic morality tale that reminds the reader to 'count your blessings' and 'the grass isn't always greener...'. But it is also a witty and compelling story about a cantankerous, ungrateful cat, Mr Pusskins, who, bored of his owner's stories and constant fussing, decides to leave home in search of adventure.

As the honoured guardian of my very own contrary fluffy ginger cat, I was both highly amused and duly impressed at the author's convincing portrayal of feline characteristics. Lloyd succeeds in capturing the fickle, indifferent attitude that most cat-people will instantly recognise.

The illustrations have a slightly manic, almost child-like quality to them, and yet at the same time capture a range of expressions and emotions beautifully. From indifference at Emily's attentions, to glee at his escape and subsequent rebellious antics, to tragic self-pity when he realises that street life is not all it's cracked up to be, to his eventual remorse and contrition, Mr Pusskins' changing demeanour is perfectly delivered.

A happy ending, when Mr Pusskins is reunited with an ecstatic Emily, gives the tale a welcome feel-good factor which reassures the reader that it's never too late to say sorry.

The Flower by John Light, illustrated by Lisa Evans

The illustrations in this minimal-text picture book are very much in the Tim Burton tradition – muted pastel shades of brown and grey, vacant looking expressions on wide, round faces, and a distinctly dystopian eeriness fills its hauntingly mesmerising pages. “Brigg lived in a small room in a big city” begins the story - and so we follow the resigned drudgery of Brigg's soul-less, colour-less urban life - with which anyone who has ever lived or worked in London will immediately identify. One day Brigg steals a forbidden book from the library where he works, and learns about flowers - something he has never seen in the barren metropolis he calls home. Then, seeing the same shapes and colours on a packet of seeds in a shop window, he transforms his dreary accommodation by growing a beautiful plant. But Brigg's delight turns to anguish when the plant is sucked away by the automatic cleaning system in his apartment. All is not lost however, as the plant continues to thrive in a dust heap outside the city, and hope for a more colourful future is restored.

A simple story with a strong message against apathy, reinforcing the notion that it only takes one person to make a difference – a worthy philosophy indeed in the face of current climatological concerns.

I, Coriander by Sally Gardner

Not since I feverishly immersed myself in the fantasy adventures of E. Nesbit and Elizabeth Goudge over twenty years ago have I been so utterly swept away with the fairies. As an adult I’ve enjoyed many ‘magical realism’ stories, and have at times revisited various interpretations of the traditional fairy tales, but Sally Gardner’s I, Coriander refreshed my imagination and enthusiasm for all things magical beyond any of these.

Part fairytale, part historical snapshot, it seamlessly weaves two sharply contrasting worlds – the oppressive, controlling and threatening real world of 1650s pre-Restoration London and a dreamlike fairyland – both seen through the eyes of our spirited heroine, Coriander. All the essential fairytale ingredients are here - a Wicked Stepmother, a Handsome Prince, Magic, Hardship and a Happy Ending - but there is also much originality and freshness about the author’s approach to the genre. Without the use of her paintbrush, Gardner expertly evokes through graceful yet unfussy prose a vivid, theatrical backdrop in which the reader feels almost part of the scenery. Her characters are equally well decorated, each with their own quirky back-story, and with a role to play in the advancement of the storyline.

Coriander’s transition from naïve and rather spoiled child to world-wise young woman is no picnic. She swings between heartbreak and exhilaration during an emotional and physical journey that sees the death of her mother, the prolonged exile of her father and exposure to brutal cruelty, as well as the forging of new friendships and the first flutters of romantic love. The impressively paced narrative comes to a satisfying conclusion without indulging in too many clichés and an uplifting ending suggests the beginnings of further adventures. Whether or not there is a sequel, I am content to entertain many more magical possibilities for the inhabitants of this beautifully imagined enchanted world.