I didn't know so while she lived, but P.L. Travers (1899 -- 1996) and I were soul mates.

At the age of, I think, ten, I read the Dr. Dolittle and Mary Poppins books--feeling that there was deep meaning in them that was an empyrean above the heads of most of my contemporaries; but I was hardly surprised to hear that Walt Disney was turning those odd, metaphysical literary treasures into animated trash, with a full complement of dreadful Hollywood show tunes, and I just did my best pointedly to ignore the young women of my own age who belted out  lustily 'Supercallifragilistic-expee-allidocious!'  Which in Mrs. Travers' opinion, and in mine, was quite, appallingly, "stupid," and  (with however affected a smart-ass little simper) entirely the plodding, half-wit contrary of "precocious."

I have never of course sat through a showing of Disney's Mary Poppins, although one can scarcely avoid the excerpts from it that are thrust upon one (for all one's cold dislike of Dick Van Dyke) at every turn.  And, much as I love Emma Thompson, and thoroughly approve and admire her characterization of P.L. Travers ("A witch" said one of the young composers [now grown old, in interview] then delegated to blandish, mollify and win her over), I can't bring myself to watch the latest movie about Travers and Disney--unless there really is a scene where a vengefully furious P.L. Travers actually does throw the score of 'Supercallifragilistc' out of an upper-story window, in front of the fainting, pleading tachycardiac young composers.  That would indeed be worth watching. Come to think of it, I'm going to have to check it out, see if I can't find it on Hulu or Netflix.