On My Desk

Haribo Tangfastics

These are bad things that shouldn’t be on my desk, but they are as I got suckered in the Sweet Tunnel of Death that is the W.H. Smith’s queue for the till. I only went in for a magazine, and came out carrying half my body weight in discounted chocolate and sugary goo. At some point in the day I will make the bad mistake of reaching for a Haribo ‘tangfastic’, and get a little sweet/sour sugar rush. Ooo, I will think, blood racing, let’s go for another one. And there, my friends, is the moment where my tongue will fizz over and I will retreat, whimpering, until another day.

Tissues

The Spring Cold of Doom is upon me, cried the Jayne of Shalott. Sadly it is so – I have one of those pesky colds which foist upon their host a pathetic cough and the look of a crumpled Kleenex.

Mini muffins

Ah yes. How did they get there? Life, such mysteries.

Mobile (or rather, swooshy photo thing)

My iPhone no longer lives in a white tennis sock. My friend, after laughing quite hard I must admit, said there was no way I could go around fishing my mobile out of a sock so gave me a proper one. It is black with a diamante skull and crossbones design. Much more grown up.

Tatty hair band

To accompany the tatty hair. Oh I am so cruel to myself. It is not tatty really. It is free-range.

Pen

Someone else’s chewed bic. Don’t you just love inheriting pens? Memo to self. Don’t chew.

Work diary

I am a bit lost without a work diary. Important work stuff goes in here (labelled of course Important Work Stuff). Also I try and schedule evenings that are just for writing – this week Thursday and Friday evening, and Saturday (day) are sort of set aside, and I will be redrafting chapter 21. Oh yes.

Coconut Water carton

I read somewhere it is healthy. Not sure that a gallon of it is healthy though, especially if used to swig down mini muffins.

Mug

Mugs go quicker than gold dust around this office, so I will cling onto this one and slowly layer it with coffee.

Pre-Raphaelite postcard (John William Waterhouse, Miranda)

Miranda gazes wistfully off into the middle distance, waiting for her ship to come in. Metaphor, what metaphor?

What is on your desk?

The Sound of Silence

Last night I looked up at the sky and heard the silence. Thanks to the erupting Icelandic volcano, all the aeroplanes have been grounded, and it is a strange thing to look into the sky and see not a single plane. No jumbo jets taking passengers on an exotic holiday, no private planes zipping its wealthy occupants across the counties, no gliders, no helicopters, no nothing. The skies are once again a domain for feathered friends. They must wonder what has happened to the strange metallic objects that usually tear loudly across the blue. Jubilant birds – take back your heritage!

It is strange not to see a plane, but stranger still not to hear them. We’ve become attuned to that distant rumble of displaced air, a sound so commonplace that we barely notice its vibrations anymore (unless you live under a flight path of course). Maybe when air travel starts again the noise will be over-whelming, and people will protest and write to their local newspaper (as that does wonders, Disgruntled of Dorset.)

My first experience of air travel was a holiday to Spanish island Majorca with my parents when I was eight years old. We flew at night, so I’d be shaken awake, blinking, at some yawn-inducing hour, and we’d sing in the car on the way to the airport. It was incredibly exciting to go somewhere ‘exotic’ that wasn’t an English holiday camp, even though the minute we landed (or so it would seem) I’d be shunted off into the children’s prison (the dreaded mini-club for 7 – 11 year olds) and realise that no matter whether we were in England or Spain, my days would be grimly filled with organised 'fun'. I’d still be required to find a pebble with a hole through it, fill a matchbox with a number of objects beginning with ‘s’, make some sort of tutu, and at some point have to wear a slightly sweaty crepe paper fancy dress costume and do a 'turn' on stage.

When was your first aeroplane trip and where did you go?

Picture by danielweir.esq

Book worm: March 2010 - part two

The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
This edition published by Penguin Books, 1974. First published in 1926.

I dashed out of the March rain into a second-hand bookshop down Charing Cross Road (what chance, you say. A bookshop? How extraordinary for you to have been passing!) and decided to buy this book on account that I knew the title but had no idea of the story. So what was so great about The Great Gatsby?

The story is told from the point of view of Nick Carraway, a young man home from the First World War, and who settles in a millionaire neighbourhood with a vague idea of ‘going into Bonds’. His rich friends drift through life with a weary cynicism and only a tenuous grasp on the real world. They party every night at the home of the rich Mr Gatsby, an enigmatic figure, and drink his wine and eat his food with gay abandon. Rumours abound about his background, his wealth… this just adds to the drama. But in reality Gatsby is not great at all, and only interested in his already married lost love, Daisy, and when he tries to win her back everything goes wrong.

The American dream here seems rather sour. I didn’t like the character of Gatsby and had no sympathy for him, so when things unfolded badly I felt no sadness on his behalf. Although the character of Nick is our narrator, because Gatsby is the centre of the book and because I dislike him, then already the book is flawed for me. Even worse, the other characters don’t endear themselves to me either, in the way that memorable characters good and bad stick in the memory. They are almost non-entities but that is how they are drawn – they don’t care much for living, they are shell-shocked, made stupid with wealth, as weighty as a rainbow.

As a portrait of 1920s America, of a rich 1920s America, it is an interesting slice of life to a manner of living that is alien to me. I have not seen the film with Robert Redford and Mia Farrow, but can see how this could transfer to the big screen – all those lovely costumes, the glamorous setting. But I might still be a bit bored. I don’t think I will read this again anytime soon – perhaps I missed the point. Anyone else out there read it? What do you think?


The Doll’s House, by Rumer Godden
This edition published by Mermaid Books (reset), 1955. First published by Michael Joseph Ltd, November 1947

I had been searching for this book for some time, and was delighted to find this edition, one of the first print runs for Mermaid books. It is a curious little hard-cover, with colour illustrations inside by Dana Saintsbury. I actually think I may have got a bargain – as I bought it for a fiver, and a little delve online turns up copies sold for five times that amount. Not that I am selling this beauty any time soon…

We are introduced to Tottie Plantaganet, a small wise Dutch doll that lives in an old-fashioned doll’s house. It has lace curtains, a sofa covered in red velvet, and a lamp with a white china shade that was lit using a birthday cake candle. It is also home to the varied collection of dolls that form her family – her ‘father’ Mr Plantaganet, still suffering from nerves after years forgotten in a dark toy cupboard; ‘mother’ Birdie, who is made of celluloid and is as light as her thoughts; ‘brother’ Apple, a small plush doll who likes causing mischief – chiefly tumbling down the stairs, and dog Darner, who has a backbone made of a darning needle. He also has an unfortunate habit of barking ‘prick’ when he senses danger – something that was probably seen as cute when the books were written, but now… well… doesn’t quite suit the story, shall we say.

So far, so pleasant. But then everything changes – a new doll called Marchpane is brought into the house. She slowly takes over and influences the girls’ that play with the dolls – the Plantaganet’s become Marchpane’s servants and Apple her son. But Birdie doesn’t understand why she has lost her son and Marchpane exploits this, as the candle is so hot, so deadly to small dolls…

I seem to remember being in floods of tears reading this book as a child, and returning to it as an adult there is still something awful and sinister about Marchpane. I swear her name is where my dislike of marzipan came from (when very young I thought the word was one and the same!) As a social commentary this book is very clever - the dynamics between the dolls and their hopes and fears reveal very human frailties. The characters are very compelling, but it is the small throwaway details that make this book really come alive, the little asides in the narrative. Brilliantly done, but be warned – your child will cry!

Book worm: March 2010

In each monthly 'Book worm', I review all the books I have read the previous month, no matter how varied! I am looking forward to discovering what takes my attention in a year. Bit late with this post, and it will be split over two days as the printed word really caught my attention in March!

Every so often I do a grand second-hand bookshop trawl, looking for authors and editions that please me. The following was the result.

The House on the Strand, by Daphne du Maurier.
My Uncle Silas, by H.E. Bates.
The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
The Doll’s House, by Rumer Godden.
Mandy annual, 1982.

REVIEWS

The House on the Strand, by Daphne du Maurier.
This edition published by Penguin Books, 1973.
First published by Victor Gollancz 1969.

I am somewhat ashamed to admit I had never come across Daphne du Maurier’s books before, but someone in blog-land (forgive me, I cannot remember who) mentioned them a while ago and since then it has been ticking in my brain that I had to read something from this author. So I pounced on this book, and scurried home to read with the same enthusiasm I had as a child with an Enid Blyton from the library.

The House on the Strand tells us about Richard Young, the publisher bored of his life with lively American wife Vita, and his two step-sons. He goes to Cornwall to stay in the house of his scientist friend, and experiments with a drug his friend is developing, a drug that takes him back as an unseen wanderer six-hundred years into the history of the house and the surrounding area. The dramas played out over the chilly fields of historic Cornwall embrace Richard, and draw him like a moth to a flame, for how can you fall in love with a time so long dead?

Oh I loved this book. The dualities of the two dramas enfold and overlap one another, and yet the historic tale is very much life as it was, and the modern world is very contemporary for its time. Both stories are equally compelling, and all the characters ring true. There is a love of language, a vividness of description, which makes me long to up sticks and move to Cornwall, to research bygone times, and, worrying, to stride around in a late 60s lounge-suit. I didn’t want it to end.

But sadly it did, abruptly, and I had to check I hadn’t missed a page. I won’t spoil it but it is a very enigmatic ending, and it’s left to the reader to summarise what had happened to the protagonist. I would have preferred a more definite clue as it feels very veiled, but this the beauty of it.

I am thrilled there are lots more books by Daphne du Maurier for me to discover!


My Uncle Silas, by H.E. Bates.
This edition published by Penguin Books, 1958.
First published by Jonathan Cape, 1939

The reason I picked up this book was two-fold. One - I recognised the cover illustration as being by the great illustrator Edward Ardizzone, and two – it tickled me in a way that good friend C would understand. I also had never read anything by H.E. Bates before, and decided that now was as good a time as any to begin.

Reading this book is like the equivalent of sitting with your back to a tree in a meadow, warm sun dappling through the branches, bird song in the air, and a cool glass of lemonade by your side. For some reason you are wearing a wide-brimmed hat but ignore that for now. It is a real comfort read, and even better is split into bite-size short stories, all about the rapscallion Uncle Silas.

Uncle Silas is a scoundrel, a bounder, a rascal in every way – and yet he is charming, with humorous tales that span nearly a century, from the ‘hungry forties’ in the nineteenth century to 1930. He is coaxed to tell his stories to his small great-nephew, and weaves fact and fantasy together in order to beguile and delight the youngster (and us). Although I found this book in a children’s section, I am not convinced it is a child’s book – some of Silas’ tales concern love and courtship, with hints of forbidden romps behind helpful haystacks. But they all delightfully describe the countryside of days past, and the many ways an elderly gentleman can still cause mischief in his twilight years.

o0o

Part two to come tomorrow, and a warm welcome to new followers! I am so excited to see you. Virtual hugs!