A day spent catching up with housework, sleeping, a very small amount of gardening and here I am back at my desk again.
I did visit a new 'Farm shop' which has opened outside Nairn in buildings that really were farm buildings. The fresh fruit and veggie produce is good, the meats, charcuterie and patés good, and I bought some delicious Thai fish cakes from Orkney. It will give some of the other places in the area run for their money as it develops. The cafe does things that lots of people like, home baking, (good coffee) baked potatoes, good plain soups and normal sandwiches without overly fancy fillings. Why am I swithering on about this? Well, it's making me think and giving me ideas I suppose.
Jane came by to pick up books as part of a round trip from Ballater to Lochcarron to Forres to Ballater again. That's a long way. It's always nice to see her but this time her companion made the visit even more charming, a whippet puppy just away from its mother. Jane was given it by the headmaster of her son's school because they had all enjoyed teaching him so much ( possibly also because the HM's bitch had NINE puppies in her last litter.) Jane being Jane couldn't say no. The puppy, as yet unnamed but possible Turpin (masked eyes) is very happy and playful and obviously pleased with its new place in Jane's menagerie. This means she has two dogs (Brigadier Bloodhound Biba and Wing-commander Whippet Turpin) , two cats (one normal and one gremlin) squadrons of chickens, battalions of turkeys, cohorts of guinea-fowl and a goose. The goose is the most difficult, being very fierce and possessive of the territory. It guards the gate, no bad thing IMO as Jane lives in the Back of Beyond. The bloodhound is terrified of it. Even the gremlin gives it a wide berth.
30 Jun 2008
28 Jun 2008
Mince & tatties
Lots of fusty musty dusty books at the mart. The sort that make me sneeze and wheeze as soon as I walk into the hall. A very masculine collection from one man who spent his life mostly in Rhodesia, possibly as an antiques and secondhand book dealer as there were multiple copies of some titles with codes and prices written in them. I saw my first knobkerry. Useful. There was also a morse code buzzer which I would rather have liked but couldn’t think of a good reason for getting it. The only sign that he had any female in his life was a single cut glass scent bottle with a silver top like the one my ma-in-law gave me once. Maybe the females of the family are still alive.There were medals and fishing gear and ‘trench art’ and so on. Nothing fetched big prices, in fact the books did best of all. Plenty of dealers, mostly internet folk I know by name (I had been told by Bryn who met some of them at the viewing) and I spent the in-between times trying to put names to faces. A certain lady who Bryn was told ‘usually gets what she wants’ became recognisable eventually as she got what she wanted. We were, of course, all after the same boxes and it was a question of who had the deepest pocket. I was quite alarmed at the prices reached. How can they make a profit? Not by selling on Amazon where Wilbur Smith, Alistair Maclean and other such manly writers aren’t going to fetch much, not even 1sts, especially in the condition they were in. They weren’t the real catch though. That was the ‘Rhodesiana Library’ books, which the lucky winner will now have to find buyers for. I feel certain she paid too much for these reprints. If Mr. Toad-up-the-road had been allowed to go along with someone else’s cheque book I expect bids would have reached even higher. It would have been fun watching the stand-off!
I got some bits and pieces that pleased me and some for a friend. I also ate the best mince and tatties I’ve had for a long time. Good mince without gristle and hardly any salt. I’m an aficionado of mince and tatties; also of sausage with onion gravy. Both can be ambrosial or filthy. One day I’ll write a guide to good honest freshly cooked pub food.
I got some bits and pieces that pleased me and some for a friend. I also ate the best mince and tatties I’ve had for a long time. Good mince without gristle and hardly any salt. I’m an aficionado of mince and tatties; also of sausage with onion gravy. Both can be ambrosial or filthy. One day I’ll write a guide to good honest freshly cooked pub food.
26 Jun 2008
Clippings
Another frustrating hairdressing experience. It's not the cutting, it's the faffing around with the blow-dryer that tries my patience beyond the limit. That and the inability to get the girl to admit there is a state between frizz and stair-rod.
Some excitment later today when I get a visit from Bryn and Jane on their way back from checking out books to be auctioned in Dingwall tomorrow. I couldn't get to see for myself today but will go tomorrow and bid for everybody. Heavy responsibility! What to do if they have left me instructions to bid on the books I want? Difficult ethical dilemma made less difficult by the lack of funds in my account. It will be a pleasant drive anyway and Tom's happy to sit here.
I think Mr Toad had better emigrate. There is much disgusted buzz going round the north of England book traders about him.
Some excitment later today when I get a visit from Bryn and Jane on their way back from checking out books to be auctioned in Dingwall tomorrow. I couldn't get to see for myself today but will go tomorrow and bid for everybody. Heavy responsibility! What to do if they have left me instructions to bid on the books I want? Difficult ethical dilemma made less difficult by the lack of funds in my account. It will be a pleasant drive anyway and Tom's happy to sit here.
I think Mr Toad had better emigrate. There is much disgusted buzz going round the north of England book traders about him.
25 Jun 2008
24 Jun 2008
White lacy cushions.
A lady comes in with a plastic bag and a folder under her arm; she looks around for a chair. There aren't any because the shop is now too small but there are steps between levels. She takes a white lacy cushion out of the bag and places it carefully on the top step. I wonder what is coming next. The silver teapot? Scones and jam? No, alas, a list of books 'like the ones you've got in the window.' She wants me to buy them from her of course.
The weekly window change brings more sellers than buyers sometimes. The memories are jogged and it's up into the attic with them to dig out a dusty box.
There are more visitors around by now and the shop has been quite busy. Tough on Tom who came in for a quiet time. I high-tailed it up the road to take library books back and raid the Cs's, fruitlessly as it turned out. I also met S and we had coffee together. My second tepid 'iced coffee' in this burgh. Can't someone teach them how to make it??? In cowardly fashion I don't complain, but I don't drink much of it either.
The weekly window change brings more sellers than buyers sometimes. The memories are jogged and it's up into the attic with them to dig out a dusty box.
There are more visitors around by now and the shop has been quite busy. Tough on Tom who came in for a quiet time. I high-tailed it up the road to take library books back and raid the Cs's, fruitlessly as it turned out. I also met S and we had coffee together. My second tepid 'iced coffee' in this burgh. Can't someone teach them how to make it??? In cowardly fashion I don't complain, but I don't drink much of it either.
Too professional.
A man ringing up to find out what he could do to dispose of a large number of paperback novels and get a few pounds back from them, induced a moment of insight into how far I have come down the path of no return in this secondhand bookselling business. Many years ago I started selling at car boot sales the books and bric-a-brac my children and I had collected along the way. I found each occasion enjoyable, even when the wind blew icy cold and the thermos flask was a life-saving part of the equipment. The excitement of exchanging unwanted bits and pieces for cash; counting that cash at the end of the day and seeing it as a kind of gift earned by very little effort made the expedition a fun outing for all the family.
I had lots of tips for the chap like: 'It needs at least two people. One to keep an eye on the stall as you unpack when the traders close in on you, and later to watch the stall whilst the other finds the toilets or buys a venison burger.' 'Don't organise things too much. If you have everything priced and in proper categories they won't come near you. They need to feel you're a bit slow so they might be getting a bargain.'
I heard that particular gem recently from the rueful mole-catcher who has a stall at the Sunday Mart in the nearbye town. One Sunday I found him at a boot sale with his stock all neatly labelled and priced. The next news from him was that he has stopped doing boot sales because he is too well organised and folk shun him completely.
I had lots of tips for the chap like: 'It needs at least two people. One to keep an eye on the stall as you unpack when the traders close in on you, and later to watch the stall whilst the other finds the toilets or buys a venison burger.' 'Don't organise things too much. If you have everything priced and in proper categories they won't come near you. They need to feel you're a bit slow so they might be getting a bargain.'
I heard that particular gem recently from the rueful mole-catcher who has a stall at the Sunday Mart in the nearbye town. One Sunday I found him at a boot sale with his stock all neatly labelled and priced. The next news from him was that he has stopped doing boot sales because he is too well organised and folk shun him completely.
Lots of time left.
Glorious day outside and I have just clocked up another year. Chillside sent me a Fat Lady which is a reminder to practice being as abandoned as the portrayed lady until I too can dance around in my birthday suit.
Maybe not. It might scare the horses.
The Lost Book turned up which was an excellent start to the day, and a chap came back to buy a book he'd looked at yesterday, "The Gay Gordons' ( written before 'gay' changed its connotation) and a thin lady bought a book of Feng Shui. Quite a remarkable sale that last one. Feng Shui has gone out of fashion the way so many of these regurgitated eastern disciplines do once they have been over-exposed and turned into air-head coffee-table books.
Lots of day left. Lots of time left. ?
Getting older is supposed to make one more mellow and that is seen as a Good Thing. I was talking to a customer of about my age who was mourning this mellowing process. She remembers a certain Jungian analyst and workshop-giver who she used to admire for her edginess and challenge. The last time she met the woman she had mellowed - grown less invigorating, less interesting - grown old.
I was telling a friend recently that I am content with my life and rather surprised to find myself so. Perhaps I should try waking myself up and rethinking that position. Rage a bit.
Ach no. Takes too much energy.
Maybe not. It might scare the horses.
The Lost Book turned up which was an excellent start to the day, and a chap came back to buy a book he'd looked at yesterday, "The Gay Gordons' ( written before 'gay' changed its connotation) and a thin lady bought a book of Feng Shui. Quite a remarkable sale that last one. Feng Shui has gone out of fashion the way so many of these regurgitated eastern disciplines do once they have been over-exposed and turned into air-head coffee-table books.
Lots of day left. Lots of time left. ?
Getting older is supposed to make one more mellow and that is seen as a Good Thing. I was talking to a customer of about my age who was mourning this mellowing process. She remembers a certain Jungian analyst and workshop-giver who she used to admire for her edginess and challenge. The last time she met the woman she had mellowed - grown less invigorating, less interesting - grown old.
I was telling a friend recently that I am content with my life and rather surprised to find myself so. Perhaps I should try waking myself up and rethinking that position. Rage a bit.
Ach no. Takes too much energy.
23 Jun 2008
apropos
.... apropos of that last piece... William Joyce (Lord Haw Haw) came to this town in 1939 to talk about Hitler's aims and got what he felt was an appreciative reception... of course they might just have been polite......
Passata
Bad start to the day, an ordered book is not where it should be. This means anyone glancing into the shop will see a wild-eyed, wild-haired book seller rummaging through the shelves. If they open the door they will hear curses - or prayers, both fervent. Not at this moment of course. I had to calm down before my blood pressure caused spontaneous combustion.
I would rather be sitting peacefully inhaling the cooking smells from yesterday. A freshly made tomato passata with lots of garlic and basil. Aromatherapy for the soul.
One day off is not enough. I have lots of reading and sleeping still to do. Less pleasurable but more urgent is the gardening which luckily was impossible yesterday because of downpour.
We watched 'The Nasty Girl' with our wine and cheese biscuits in the afternoon. 'Das Schreckliche Mädchen,' directed by Michael Verhoeven. I think it has to be one of the best films I've ever seen. The fictional potrayal of Sonja (in real life Anna Rosmus) a young girl living in a small German town who wins a national essay competition which takes her to Paris and puts her in contact with other winners from other towns across Europe. This trip widens her outlook and makes her more curious about her own towns' place in the country's history. When prompted to enter a second competition she decides to write about her beloved town under the Third Reich, resisting (as she fondly imagines) the Nazi party. Her researches are baulked at every turn. At first she is puzzled then increasingly enraged by the deception and hypocrisy she is uncovering. She becomes more fiercely determined to discover the truth. The truth is very unpleasant. The town turned out the Jews and their property was confiscated, some of the beneficiaries still present amongst the respected and honoured citizens. The Catholic Church was involved in the eviction of the Jews. There were eight concentration camps in the area that people were quite aware of. Sonja's grandmother, a wonderfully rebellious old bird, is delighted all this is coming into the open and supports her granddaughter loudly in her efforts which continue over several years and are unchecked by the birth of two children. The whole family, Sonia's mother and father included, come under violent physical attack at one point.
It doesn't sound either light or amusing, but the way it was directed made it so, by focusing on Sonja, at first a warm hearted clever child, passionate, initially naive and then idealistic. Her progress is in itself entertaining and Verhoefen made many scenes into pure theatre with painted back-drops and tableaux. The revelations as they come are harsh, inevitable (there is no surprise and none sought after) but there is a sense of triumph that as a result of her indefatigable spirit the truth is uncovered.
If Verhoeven had made it 'straight' and serious it would have been merely another stick to beat the German people with and would not, IMO, have had nearly the same impact. What impressed me as much as anything was the fact that Sonja continues to see the town as her home and remained living there thoughout her struggles to have the truth known, refusing to leave even when her husband left her because he couldn't take the notoriety and pressure.
Sonja's love for and belief in her 'heimat,' the good hearts of some of the townsfolk, the realisation that what could happen in that small quite ordinary place, full of characters to be found on any High Street (!) could happen in any town in any country, in any time, made it quite frightening.
Feisty young woman though.
I would rather be sitting peacefully inhaling the cooking smells from yesterday. A freshly made tomato passata with lots of garlic and basil. Aromatherapy for the soul.
One day off is not enough. I have lots of reading and sleeping still to do. Less pleasurable but more urgent is the gardening which luckily was impossible yesterday because of downpour.
We watched 'The Nasty Girl' with our wine and cheese biscuits in the afternoon. 'Das Schreckliche Mädchen,' directed by Michael Verhoeven. I think it has to be one of the best films I've ever seen. The fictional potrayal of Sonja (in real life Anna Rosmus) a young girl living in a small German town who wins a national essay competition which takes her to Paris and puts her in contact with other winners from other towns across Europe. This trip widens her outlook and makes her more curious about her own towns' place in the country's history. When prompted to enter a second competition she decides to write about her beloved town under the Third Reich, resisting (as she fondly imagines) the Nazi party. Her researches are baulked at every turn. At first she is puzzled then increasingly enraged by the deception and hypocrisy she is uncovering. She becomes more fiercely determined to discover the truth. The truth is very unpleasant. The town turned out the Jews and their property was confiscated, some of the beneficiaries still present amongst the respected and honoured citizens. The Catholic Church was involved in the eviction of the Jews. There were eight concentration camps in the area that people were quite aware of. Sonja's grandmother, a wonderfully rebellious old bird, is delighted all this is coming into the open and supports her granddaughter loudly in her efforts which continue over several years and are unchecked by the birth of two children. The whole family, Sonia's mother and father included, come under violent physical attack at one point.
It doesn't sound either light or amusing, but the way it was directed made it so, by focusing on Sonja, at first a warm hearted clever child, passionate, initially naive and then idealistic. Her progress is in itself entertaining and Verhoefen made many scenes into pure theatre with painted back-drops and tableaux. The revelations as they come are harsh, inevitable (there is no surprise and none sought after) but there is a sense of triumph that as a result of her indefatigable spirit the truth is uncovered.
If Verhoeven had made it 'straight' and serious it would have been merely another stick to beat the German people with and would not, IMO, have had nearly the same impact. What impressed me as much as anything was the fact that Sonja continues to see the town as her home and remained living there thoughout her struggles to have the truth known, refusing to leave even when her husband left her because he couldn't take the notoriety and pressure.
Sonja's love for and belief in her 'heimat,' the good hearts of some of the townsfolk, the realisation that what could happen in that small quite ordinary place, full of characters to be found on any High Street (!) could happen in any town in any country, in any time, made it quite frightening.
Feisty young woman though.
21 Jun 2008
Coffee mornings
Summer Solstice.
Grandson no.1 is buzzing back and forth between the Town Hall and the shop today whilst his mother serves teas and coffees to help raise money for - the Leprosy Mission I believe. Not sure how she got roped into that. He keeps running back with goodies he has persuaded her to buy, so I was able to breakfast on homemade date loaf. Very nice.
I got that all wrong - the coffee morning for the lepers was in the Church Hall but there was also a CM in the TH - it's all go! The Red Cross have a special Midsummer Madness sale on next door...... see what I mean!
There's a coffee morning every Saturday in the T H. It gets booked up over a year in advance now for events of one sort or another, mostly fund raising. They are usually well attended by the same clientele getting a relatively cheap tea and cake as their morning treat. Tom is a connoisseur. 'Back in the day' it would have been used for dances but that doesn't happen now. not dances as I remember them in Maldon every Saturday when we girls wore pretty frocks (pre-mini days) and the 'men' wore jackets & drainpipes (oh god!) to waltz, quick step, fox trot - and jive. Mainly jive, twist, rock n' roll.... but always some smoochy slow stuff at the end.
Trade started well with the sale of a local book. Then it ceased! Too many other attractions. Also the weather is really too nice to be wasted in the High Sreet.
A student about to start her degree course in Eng.Lit. came in with her mother (always a good sign.) They carried out a pile of classics and were very flattering about the selection here, especially because they'd been disppointed by the 'classics' available in a big chain bookshop they visited yesterday.
I purred with pleasure and stroked the cash lovingly after they had gone.
Grandson no.1 is buzzing back and forth between the Town Hall and the shop today whilst his mother serves teas and coffees to help raise money for - the Leprosy Mission I believe. Not sure how she got roped into that. He keeps running back with goodies he has persuaded her to buy, so I was able to breakfast on homemade date loaf. Very nice.
I got that all wrong - the coffee morning for the lepers was in the Church Hall but there was also a CM in the TH - it's all go! The Red Cross have a special Midsummer Madness sale on next door...... see what I mean!
There's a coffee morning every Saturday in the T H. It gets booked up over a year in advance now for events of one sort or another, mostly fund raising. They are usually well attended by the same clientele getting a relatively cheap tea and cake as their morning treat. Tom is a connoisseur. 'Back in the day' it would have been used for dances but that doesn't happen now. not dances as I remember them in Maldon every Saturday when we girls wore pretty frocks (pre-mini days) and the 'men' wore jackets & drainpipes (oh god!) to waltz, quick step, fox trot - and jive. Mainly jive, twist, rock n' roll.... but always some smoochy slow stuff at the end.
Trade started well with the sale of a local book. Then it ceased! Too many other attractions. Also the weather is really too nice to be wasted in the High Sreet.
A student about to start her degree course in Eng.Lit. came in with her mother (always a good sign.) They carried out a pile of classics and were very flattering about the selection here, especially because they'd been disppointed by the 'classics' available in a big chain bookshop they visited yesterday.
I purred with pleasure and stroked the cash lovingly after they had gone.
20 Jun 2008
Youth's wild ride.
My second daughter Sophie is in the presence of one of our idols - Leonard Cohen - this evening in Manchester. She says it will probably be so huge a venue that she will hardly see him, but when you revere someone like we do Len then it's worth it just to say she's done it. I wish I could be there. She went to one of Bob Dylan's concert a year or two back and rang me half way through to hold her mobile up over the heads of the crowd so I could hear him!
It really touches me to be able to share these people with one of my children. I think for both of us their attraction is in the lyrics they write. There aren't too many people, even of my own generation, who are as appreciative. My friend J dismisses both of them as being growlers. But that growl comes right from the heart!
I'm rather proud of Sophie right now. She is going through the Venus Return like a ship tossed in a really bad storm, blown off course occasionally but holding all her timbers together, as it were. Although I'm cynical about astrological stuff this does seem to be an observable phenomenon, and if I remember rightly Steiner also claimed there was a bumpy time of re-evaluation at around 28-30. His theory was that we develop in seven year cycles and 28-30 is the beginning of a repetition of the first four cycles from birth to adulthood. It was certainly my experience. And Chloe's too come to think of it. Sophie is flying off to Barcelona tomorrow just for an overnight stop and back Sunday. This, for someone who doesn't like flying, is quite wild. More adventurous than I was, although I could tell a tale or two....
It has just struck me that according to Steiner I should be starting on a new cycle of cycles - should have last year in fact. I don't feel as if I am rocked by much this time.
Again - something to be grateful for!
It really touches me to be able to share these people with one of my children. I think for both of us their attraction is in the lyrics they write. There aren't too many people, even of my own generation, who are as appreciative. My friend J dismisses both of them as being growlers. But that growl comes right from the heart!
I'm rather proud of Sophie right now. She is going through the Venus Return like a ship tossed in a really bad storm, blown off course occasionally but holding all her timbers together, as it were. Although I'm cynical about astrological stuff this does seem to be an observable phenomenon, and if I remember rightly Steiner also claimed there was a bumpy time of re-evaluation at around 28-30. His theory was that we develop in seven year cycles and 28-30 is the beginning of a repetition of the first four cycles from birth to adulthood. It was certainly my experience. And Chloe's too come to think of it. Sophie is flying off to Barcelona tomorrow just for an overnight stop and back Sunday. This, for someone who doesn't like flying, is quite wild. More adventurous than I was, although I could tell a tale or two....
It has just struck me that according to Steiner I should be starting on a new cycle of cycles - should have last year in fact. I don't feel as if I am rocked by much this time.
Again - something to be grateful for!
The grey pound.
The friend I shared a meal with the other evening has become the - well, I don't know what her actual title is, but her job involves being concierge and receptionist to the newly-built apartment block for 'retired' people. This position is both comfortable for her and fraught with potential snags. One lady in her 80's is in no way 'Waiting for God' and regularly asks my friend to take sherry with her and accompany her to the cinema, invitations which so far she has managed to avoid without giving offence. The apartments are not yet all inhabited but already there are cliques forming and the concomitant prospect of feuds and jealousies looming, so any perceived 'favouritism' has to be avoided at all costs. I await more interesting stories from this source.
Some of these ladies arrived for their evening meal while we were eating. They are all extremely well turned out and it occured to me that their presence is going to be an attribute to the town - to the numerous hairdressers at least. A few have already been in this shop and given it their approval.
Before WWII this area, along with much of Britain, was going through an uncomfortable recession and the coming of the RAF pulled them out of a downward slide that might otherwise have resulted in serious depopulation and an emptying of the streets. The town could have become like so many along the coast, (until the tourist trade took over from the fishing and farming) a collection of run-down buildings, a ghost of its former self. Maybe this time it's the arrival of the grey pound that will save it?
Some of these ladies arrived for their evening meal while we were eating. They are all extremely well turned out and it occured to me that their presence is going to be an attribute to the town - to the numerous hairdressers at least. A few have already been in this shop and given it their approval.
Before WWII this area, along with much of Britain, was going through an uncomfortable recession and the coming of the RAF pulled them out of a downward slide that might otherwise have resulted in serious depopulation and an emptying of the streets. The town could have become like so many along the coast, (until the tourist trade took over from the fishing and farming) a collection of run-down buildings, a ghost of its former self. Maybe this time it's the arrival of the grey pound that will save it?
Time flies.
It's Friday again and I have no idea where the week has gone. Trade is still sluggish so it isn't the rush of customers that has taken the time from under me, it's my new all-absorbing project. Few landmarks of any note along the way, but Miles was by just now to natter and to look for books. He entertained Chloe and I for an enjoyable half hour with tales of his experiences in his butlers' persona. Prince Charles comes out of these tales as a Thoroughly Good Egg.
I've managed to get out and about a bit when Tom comes in to shop-sit, and I had a meal in the closest pub/restaurant with a friend one evening, but it's not the high life exactly. Peaceful would about describe it. Something to be grateful for.
Grudgingly I have to admit the charity shops can sometimes be a fertile field. I found 13 Martha Grimes novels next door for £10.40 which will give me a few evenings of pleasure before I offer them for sale (at a modest profit) again. Also there were some good candidates for the Amazon listings. I've been turning sellers away at the door, but this hand-picking of singles is fun and probably costs me less than buying directly from the owners as I usually feel obliged to give folk at least £1 a book. This isn't a rational policy but it's hard not to meet people's hopes and expectations. With the decline in secondhand bookshops their options for selling their books are shrinking, and the other dealers in the area are as over-supplied with offers as I am, without a doubt, so there is really no need to pay them as much. However I find I am reluctant to put people off in case my meanness becomes an urban legend and I'm not offered the good stuff.
The paranoia demon is standing over me again.
As Britain is now going into a 'difficult time economically' (which careful euphemism must mean a recession) I suppose there will be more and more folk trying to raise a bob or two. Oh dear. The combination of market forces (the internet) and the tightening of belts could be uncomfortable for us tradespeople. The rich will still have money, but not so many of them shop on Forres High Street.
I've managed to get out and about a bit when Tom comes in to shop-sit, and I had a meal in the closest pub/restaurant with a friend one evening, but it's not the high life exactly. Peaceful would about describe it. Something to be grateful for.
Grudgingly I have to admit the charity shops can sometimes be a fertile field. I found 13 Martha Grimes novels next door for £10.40 which will give me a few evenings of pleasure before I offer them for sale (at a modest profit) again. Also there were some good candidates for the Amazon listings. I've been turning sellers away at the door, but this hand-picking of singles is fun and probably costs me less than buying directly from the owners as I usually feel obliged to give folk at least £1 a book. This isn't a rational policy but it's hard not to meet people's hopes and expectations. With the decline in secondhand bookshops their options for selling their books are shrinking, and the other dealers in the area are as over-supplied with offers as I am, without a doubt, so there is really no need to pay them as much. However I find I am reluctant to put people off in case my meanness becomes an urban legend and I'm not offered the good stuff.
The paranoia demon is standing over me again.
As Britain is now going into a 'difficult time economically' (which careful euphemism must mean a recession) I suppose there will be more and more folk trying to raise a bob or two. Oh dear. The combination of market forces (the internet) and the tightening of belts could be uncomfortable for us tradespeople. The rich will still have money, but not so many of them shop on Forres High Street.
17 Jun 2008
Boys and girls
Reading Chillsider's post reminds me that I am to be grandmother to another boy. That will be three grandsons. Wow! Costa, my son, says his father-in-law is chuffed because it proves a theory he has about hairlines and how the hair-line of the preceding child predicts the sex of the next. the sex of the first child is predicted by the mother's hairline - whether it's pointy or straight. I can't remember which means what.
Lending libraries in Scotland.
Innerpeffray - The oldest free lending Library in the country, founded about 1680. The Kirkwall Publick Bibliotheck in Orkney followed in 1683 and the Leighton Library, part of Dunblane Cathedral, was founded in 1684.
I read also that the Public Libraries Act of 1853, decreed that Public Libraries should be funded by local taxation for the benefit of all but that ' there were strong pockets of uproar that taxes should be used in such a way!'
I read also that the Public Libraries Act of 1853, decreed that Public Libraries should be funded by local taxation for the benefit of all but that ' there were strong pockets of uproar that taxes should be used in such a way!'
The good old days?
Not a brilliant start to the day today as I was still awake with my head buzzing like a trapped fly at 3.30 this mornng. It's full moon tomorrow - I blame the tug on my watery soul.
I read ruefully that in 1935 there were two bookshops in Forres High Street. One was also a chemist shop; strange combination of goods, but it must have worked. Rather like an early branch of Boots. Come to think of it Boots the Chemist did publish books .... anyway, this was the shop that sold 'quality fiction.' Those who wanted 'light fiction' went to Kathy Munro's in Tolbooth Street who soon had to extend her premises.
An author popular in those days was Annie S.Swan who wrote as she breathed in an early romantic aga-saga genre which would certainly have suited the local female readership, especially as most of the stories were set in Scottish towns and villages. When she was twenty six she was earning enough from her writing to enable her husband to go to medical school. Amazing. Kathy stocked Annie's novels and also sold Westerns and thrillers.
The more discerning reader would have joined an early version of the Book Club, paying 1 shilling a month which was spent on the latest books to be published. When a copy arrived it would have the names of the club members written on one of its blank endpapers and be circulated to each in turn, the last reader keeping the book. Robert Graves 'Goodbye to All That' was publishd about this time; Seigfried Sassoon's 'Memoirs of a Fox-hunting Man' and Remarques's 'All Quiet on the Western Front.'
I'm not sure when the library arrived here but that must have changed things and perhaps the comradeship involved in sharing a chosen book was lost. The moral of that story is - all advance involves some loss?
I've just done really badly ('not too bad' was the comment I earned) in an on-line 'intelligence test of the tricksy variety. 'Would the law in Scotland allow a man to marry his widow's sister?' 'How many animals of each sex did Moses take on board the ark?' I got both those wrong. Oh dear. Very demoralising. I think I shall go back to bed for the rest of the day.
I read ruefully that in 1935 there were two bookshops in Forres High Street. One was also a chemist shop; strange combination of goods, but it must have worked. Rather like an early branch of Boots. Come to think of it Boots the Chemist did publish books .... anyway, this was the shop that sold 'quality fiction.' Those who wanted 'light fiction' went to Kathy Munro's in Tolbooth Street who soon had to extend her premises.
An author popular in those days was Annie S.Swan who wrote as she breathed in an early romantic aga-saga genre which would certainly have suited the local female readership, especially as most of the stories were set in Scottish towns and villages. When she was twenty six she was earning enough from her writing to enable her husband to go to medical school. Amazing. Kathy stocked Annie's novels and also sold Westerns and thrillers.
The more discerning reader would have joined an early version of the Book Club, paying 1 shilling a month which was spent on the latest books to be published. When a copy arrived it would have the names of the club members written on one of its blank endpapers and be circulated to each in turn, the last reader keeping the book. Robert Graves 'Goodbye to All That' was publishd about this time; Seigfried Sassoon's 'Memoirs of a Fox-hunting Man' and Remarques's 'All Quiet on the Western Front.'
I'm not sure when the library arrived here but that must have changed things and perhaps the comradeship involved in sharing a chosen book was lost. The moral of that story is - all advance involves some loss?
I've just done really badly ('not too bad' was the comment I earned) in an on-line 'intelligence test of the tricksy variety. 'Would the law in Scotland allow a man to marry his widow's sister?' 'How many animals of each sex did Moses take on board the ark?' I got both those wrong. Oh dear. Very demoralising. I think I shall go back to bed for the rest of the day.
16 Jun 2008
Deceptive beauty.
The Mosset Burn that feeds the little lake looks beautiful and well-disciplined today but it has been the source of heavy flooding, distress and dispossession in the not so distant past. It's only a small burn and doesn't have the raw unpredictable splendour of the Findhorn but there is a salmon loch higher up its reaches which burst its banks about ten years ago with disastrous results. Areas of Forres have been flooded several times in the last few decades and some residents have lived in their houses long enough to have been been flooded out each time. They still don't want to leave the family home so go through the drying out process and return. Hopefully new flood prevention measures will stop this happening in the future.
I'm all right Jack. I'm on a hill.
Early bird.
Awake and restless by 5am with bright sunshine through the sky lights and chirpy birds, I got up and went for an early morning walk. Most unlike me. This little lake was looking more beautiful than I have ever seen it, and not a supermarket trolly in sight. (They can sometimes be spotted beneath the surface of the water.) The little pond was created for recreational boating between the wars, two small boats being donated so that an ex-serviceman could earn a lttle renting them out for hire. People must have been smaller in those days! Sandy has often sailed his toy boats here admired by crowds of ducks ever hopeful for donations of bread and cake. The ducks were most displeased when Tesco, once about 100 yards from their nests, closed and moved to larger premises. They had rumbled the source of comestibles and were in the habit of waddling across to the electric doors and thence into the store.
13 Jun 2008
Friday 13th
As Black Fridays go thus far it hasn't been too bad. A young man cleared my shelves of hardback Russian novels, and a local farmer of the well-spoken variety bought a local book of the expensive variety. This sort of thing cheers a bookseller up no end. Lady C came by to invite me to her house - to view some of her books rather than for a pre-prandial drink but still, something to look forward to, and my ex made arrangements for my birthday present, a 26" flat screen TV to be delivered on the day. Hooray! My evening viewing will be much improved and the X-Files will be even scarier.
A package arrived from an author Clio Gray (who lives in Tain, so almost local) containing two of her novels, signed to me with thanks 'for the lost plots that delighted me.' Nice.
J called in with Scottish novels to sell me, altogether not too bad a selection. I learned that she felt 'The Harbour Bar' (the novel about Findhorn we thought would be fun to have reprinted) to be sentimental and poorly written. As J has a degree in Victorian Literature I feel her opinion carries some weight so will take her advice and let it drop; though I still think if someone could be bothered it might make a good film.
Another J called in to exchange news and funny anecdotes, one of which involved Gorilla Glue. She was recently conned into believing it was made from actual boiled-down gorillas and was in danger of getting up a petition. Luckily she told her husband. It was some time before he could speak for mirth .
A couple who talked more than they browsed, told me about the time they lived here in the 60's when there was a William Lowe in the HIgh Street (a general store then I suppose; there was eventually a chain of them, the first Scottish supermarkets.) The couple are here for a quinquenial RAF reunion and very chipper about it.
Then the local journalist came barelling in to ask if I had been inviegled into signing a 'petition' to keep the East End Post Office open. Well, yes, I had although the West End Post office is my preferred destination with my heavy bag of books in the morning as they are only a step or two away. The person bearing this petition made me feel that I would be letting the community down if I didn't sign so - not wanting negative points I signed. There was a Town meeting about the closures at which folk were told NOT to get up petitions. I'm still not totally sure what the excitement is about, and who has trangressed, or why, or if at all...but I shall read all about it in the next issue of the FG no doubt.
So much talking. I am ready to shut the door now and it's pouring with rain, but it's only 4.15 so my work ethic won't let me.
A package arrived from an author Clio Gray (who lives in Tain, so almost local) containing two of her novels, signed to me with thanks 'for the lost plots that delighted me.' Nice.
J called in with Scottish novels to sell me, altogether not too bad a selection. I learned that she felt 'The Harbour Bar' (the novel about Findhorn we thought would be fun to have reprinted) to be sentimental and poorly written. As J has a degree in Victorian Literature I feel her opinion carries some weight so will take her advice and let it drop; though I still think if someone could be bothered it might make a good film.
Another J called in to exchange news and funny anecdotes, one of which involved Gorilla Glue. She was recently conned into believing it was made from actual boiled-down gorillas and was in danger of getting up a petition. Luckily she told her husband. It was some time before he could speak for mirth .
A couple who talked more than they browsed, told me about the time they lived here in the 60's when there was a William Lowe in the HIgh Street (a general store then I suppose; there was eventually a chain of them, the first Scottish supermarkets.) The couple are here for a quinquenial RAF reunion and very chipper about it.
Then the local journalist came barelling in to ask if I had been inviegled into signing a 'petition' to keep the East End Post Office open. Well, yes, I had although the West End Post office is my preferred destination with my heavy bag of books in the morning as they are only a step or two away. The person bearing this petition made me feel that I would be letting the community down if I didn't sign so - not wanting negative points I signed. There was a Town meeting about the closures at which folk were told NOT to get up petitions. I'm still not totally sure what the excitement is about, and who has trangressed, or why, or if at all...but I shall read all about it in the next issue of the FG no doubt.
So much talking. I am ready to shut the door now and it's pouring with rain, but it's only 4.15 so my work ethic won't let me.
12 Jun 2008
Exams, Rescue Remedy & witchcraft.
I have had a late start to the shop-sitting day after taking Sandy, with his teacher Sarah, to his violin exam this morning. If anything Sarah was more nervous than Sandy. We shan't know the results for 6 weeks which always strikes me as being unnecessarily long. They must have decided whilst he was there - mustn't they? Or do they have to juggle with figures so not too many students pass? I am deeply suspicious. Sarah had come armed with a Rescue Remedy spray to calm them both down so they went in smelling of brandy. Bach flower remedies are 'fixed' in brandy.
I had to drop-ship an Amazon order for 'Malleus Maleficarum' (The Hammer of the Witches, originally published in 1487.) The order was from Belgium so hopefully they won't notice when it is a little late. I had a nice long conversation with the seller of the substitute copy who lives in Edinburgh. She used to have a shop in the Royal Mile but now only sells through the net. We exchanged experiences of the secondhand booktrade and the various selling sites. The conversation has caused to me to change certain opinions and resolve to re-open my ebay shop although Amazon is doing just fine for me at present.
The Malleus Maleficarum order counts as another synchronicity. I've been researching local folk tales and many of them centre around the activity of certain witch covens. Last year a Nairn writer based a play on the Auldearn witches, Isabel Goudie being the best known of them. The story going around Nairn at the time this came out in book form was that a customer picked up the book and said jokingly, 'Ach Isobel Goudie you wicked woman. I have you in my hand!' She went home to find a dead crow on the doormat INSIDE the house.
Excellent!
Wikipedia: "The main purpose of the Malleus was to systematically refute arguments claiming that witchcraft does not exist, refute those who expressed skepticism about its reality, to prove that witches were more often women than men, and to educate magistrates on the procedures that could find them out and convict them."
"Misogyny runs rampant in the Malleus Maleficarum. The treatise singled out women as specifically inclined for witchcraft, because they were susceptible to demonic temptations through their manifold weaknesses. It was believed that they were weaker in faith and were more carnal than men."
Huh!
Witchcraft is a subject that both repels and fascinates me. On the one hand I believe some 'witches' to have been simple women in the old fashioned meaning of the term 'simple.' Others were perhaps healers in times when superstition and Christianity were intertwined and healing was perceived by many to happen at the whim of God who must be propitiated as the old gods had had to be. Some were probably quite evil women who did use their reputation to instill fear and thus get power for themselves, although why they would risk doing that once the burning began I can't imagine.
On the other hand as a pagan I believe that there is a foundation of truth in methods used by practitioners of the Craft and the universal laws it employs are as real as the healing properties in plants and as beneficial when applied with benign intent.
I had to drop-ship an Amazon order for 'Malleus Maleficarum' (The Hammer of the Witches, originally published in 1487.) The order was from Belgium so hopefully they won't notice when it is a little late. I had a nice long conversation with the seller of the substitute copy who lives in Edinburgh. She used to have a shop in the Royal Mile but now only sells through the net. We exchanged experiences of the secondhand booktrade and the various selling sites. The conversation has caused to me to change certain opinions and resolve to re-open my ebay shop although Amazon is doing just fine for me at present.
The Malleus Maleficarum order counts as another synchronicity. I've been researching local folk tales and many of them centre around the activity of certain witch covens. Last year a Nairn writer based a play on the Auldearn witches, Isabel Goudie being the best known of them. The story going around Nairn at the time this came out in book form was that a customer picked up the book and said jokingly, 'Ach Isobel Goudie you wicked woman. I have you in my hand!' She went home to find a dead crow on the doormat INSIDE the house.
Excellent!
Wikipedia: "The main purpose of the Malleus was to systematically refute arguments claiming that witchcraft does not exist, refute those who expressed skepticism about its reality, to prove that witches were more often women than men, and to educate magistrates on the procedures that could find them out and convict them."
"Misogyny runs rampant in the Malleus Maleficarum. The treatise singled out women as specifically inclined for witchcraft, because they were susceptible to demonic temptations through their manifold weaknesses. It was believed that they were weaker in faith and were more carnal than men."
Huh!
Witchcraft is a subject that both repels and fascinates me. On the one hand I believe some 'witches' to have been simple women in the old fashioned meaning of the term 'simple.' Others were perhaps healers in times when superstition and Christianity were intertwined and healing was perceived by many to happen at the whim of God who must be propitiated as the old gods had had to be. Some were probably quite evil women who did use their reputation to instill fear and thus get power for themselves, although why they would risk doing that once the burning began I can't imagine.
On the other hand as a pagan I believe that there is a foundation of truth in methods used by practitioners of the Craft and the universal laws it employs are as real as the healing properties in plants and as beneficial when applied with benign intent.
11 Jun 2008
Security messages and chemical spillages.
Tom came in yesterday to have a quiet time putting his books on the net and drinking coffee, but to his shocked surprise he had to deal with several customers! He also a shrieking of fire engines, ambulance and police cars passing up the High Street which was actually blocked off for a while. Lots of rumours came our way (the shop is just about one hundred yards from the centre; a whole world away) but no hard facts until much later when the BBC news told us of a dropped bottle in the chemist shop. Someone's hands slipped when moving a bottle of phosphorous. Red faces all round I imagine. Surprising also as I suspected chemists these days as being mere repositories for Wellcome drugs all wrapped in tinfoil and cardboard not genuine Apothecaries with real chemicals (pestles, mortars, retorts and bunsen burners?) We have four of them in town and they all seem to make a living.
Tom said he would need an hour lying down in a darkened room after so much excitement.
Security alerts daily from the PBFA office too. Books and maps are going missing all the time these days. Mysterious Middle European women or dark skinned gentlemen are often involved. Very interesting. So far I haven't had to send out a nation-wide alert from Forres but who knows - the day may come.
Tom said he would need an hour lying down in a darkened room after so much excitement.
Security alerts daily from the PBFA office too. Books and maps are going missing all the time these days. Mysterious Middle European women or dark skinned gentlemen are often involved. Very interesting. So far I haven't had to send out a nation-wide alert from Forres but who knows - the day may come.
10 Jun 2008
Last years' flowers.
That photo was taken two years ago in fact. We aren't allowed to stand notices on the pavements now in case anyone trips over them and sues the council. At the moment the flower baskets haven't arrived. Forres prides itself (rightly so) on winning 'Scotland in Bloom' from time to time and even when it doesn't win it always does well. Happily for me I have a bracket on the wall that the "Forres In Bloom' committee like to use for the hanging baskets. A watering truck comes round regularly to look after it so the display is there at no effort to myself (I do contribute to the cost.)
The gardening gnomes are a bit late this year (I believe a lot of them are volanteers) most of the effort is still being made in the park where the lamentable wire-armitaged 'sculptures' are under construction. Whose idea was that I wonder? It looks so artificial. We have had teddybear's picnics with plastic bees, and last year there was a plane in plastic and the RAF emblem... I think. I forget rather quickly as they are not my favourite floral arrangements. Often there is a peacock who is rather fine. One year his head was stolen, which brought a bit of excitement to the neighbourhood. (A short skit of this event performed later had the head turning up as the crowning glory on the nwly-unveiled statue of a local worthy.)
These eccentricities are not so bad as the Nairn creations which are of larger-than-life golfers (famous golf course there you see) Over the summer the flowers stuffed into the wire frames to make the golfers' faces, hands, pullovers and trousers go a bit wild, blurring the outlines and making them look more like moth-eaten rotting corpses than manly swingers.
I like the hanging baskets best, and the tubs, most of which miraculously survive the evening carousers.
There's a lovely show of daisies on the lawn in front of the church opposite. I appreciate them far more than the regimented rows of flowering plants that have ben put in along the edges. I want to nip out at night and rearrange them. Shan't of course.
The gardening gnomes are a bit late this year (I believe a lot of them are volanteers) most of the effort is still being made in the park where the lamentable wire-armitaged 'sculptures' are under construction. Whose idea was that I wonder? It looks so artificial. We have had teddybear's picnics with plastic bees, and last year there was a plane in plastic and the RAF emblem... I think. I forget rather quickly as they are not my favourite floral arrangements. Often there is a peacock who is rather fine. One year his head was stolen, which brought a bit of excitement to the neighbourhood. (A short skit of this event performed later had the head turning up as the crowning glory on the nwly-unveiled statue of a local worthy.)
These eccentricities are not so bad as the Nairn creations which are of larger-than-life golfers (famous golf course there you see) Over the summer the flowers stuffed into the wire frames to make the golfers' faces, hands, pullovers and trousers go a bit wild, blurring the outlines and making them look more like moth-eaten rotting corpses than manly swingers.
I like the hanging baskets best, and the tubs, most of which miraculously survive the evening carousers.
There's a lovely show of daisies on the lawn in front of the church opposite. I appreciate them far more than the regimented rows of flowering plants that have ben put in along the edges. I want to nip out at night and rearrange them. Shan't of course.
Synchronicity
Well, I changed the window but it isn't worth taking a photo of as the expected extra volumes haven't arrived from Amazon (Chillsider is right. The free delivery option is MUCH slower!) It is also advertising the Forres Writer's Group and giving bits of blurb about the poets/writers I have managed to display so there are almost more notices than books this week.
But I was going to write about synchronistic happenings. I have long noticed it happens with the type of books that come in and last week provided a good example when two boxes of decorated boards arriving from different directions. Then on Sunday I watched, with my ex, Dirk Bogarde in 'Ill Met By Moonlight,' the Powell-Pressburger production and yesterday I had an order for the book 'Ill Met by Moonlight' by Stanley Moss telling the true story on which the film is loosely based. Yesterday afternoon I had a conversation with someone about automatic writing and today I got an order for a book that has been on the shelves here for 4 years, 'Swan on a Black Sea,' about automatic writing. Chloe gets a week of knees, or necks, or as last week, coccyx's (Is there a more elegant plural? Oh yes - coccyges. There's a thing!)
But I was going to write about synchronistic happenings. I have long noticed it happens with the type of books that come in and last week provided a good example when two boxes of decorated boards arriving from different directions. Then on Sunday I watched, with my ex, Dirk Bogarde in 'Ill Met By Moonlight,' the Powell-Pressburger production and yesterday I had an order for the book 'Ill Met by Moonlight' by Stanley Moss telling the true story on which the film is loosely based. Yesterday afternoon I had a conversation with someone about automatic writing and today I got an order for a book that has been on the shelves here for 4 years, 'Swan on a Black Sea,' about automatic writing. Chloe gets a week of knees, or necks, or as last week, coccyx's (Is there a more elegant plural? Oh yes - coccyges. There's a thing!)
9 Jun 2008
Other people's blogs.
I just came across 'message in a bottle' (bobsalong.blogspot.com) also from Scotland but from the West Coast. Puts me creatively to shame. Made me feel pedestrian and dull. I don't need that - I get that feeling anyway. Obviously this is someone who is very good at the technical stuff. All the clever additions like film slides rather confused my browser otherwise - good marks there. I liked the comment: 'These messages aren't for anyone in particular, just the person who picks them up.' Or words to that effect. That's what a blog is really. A message cast upon the waters. How poetic.
My editing of type etc. has just made it more difficult to read I think. Oh well. It passed a boring morning. I was asked for 'The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists' which sadly I don't have but the person who asked seemed to feel I had let the side dwn not being able to provide it. "I thought you'd be bound to have it" said in a wonderingly reproachful voice. I'm a bit thin skinned about comments like that just now as trade is so bad and the paranoia demon sits nagging on my shoulder. Must find a picture of it..
My editing of type etc. has just made it more difficult to read I think. Oh well. It passed a boring morning. I was asked for 'The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists' which sadly I don't have but the person who asked seemed to feel I had let the side dwn not being able to provide it. "I thought you'd be bound to have it" said in a wonderingly reproachful voice. I'm a bit thin skinned about comments like that just now as trade is so bad and the paranoia demon sits nagging on my shoulder. Must find a picture of it..
Monday again
Well here I am back at my desk after 24 hours away. Not nearly long enough to have done any of the very urgent weeding or the house-cleaning or the laundry, or any other boring stuff only long enough to lounge about watching the X-Files then, at Auchindathin, Dirk Bogarde in 'Ill Met by Moonlight' a b&w film made in 1952 which was really rather good in a Boys Own Adventure sort of way. I can't go into the garden anyway because the pollen from neighbouring laburnum trees (very beautiful) is causing me to have a tough time breathing. Strange really. Other years the pollen has caused itchy eyes and sneezing, this year its causing wheezing. I prefer the former. We have had very little rain so nothing to keep the pollen down.
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Saturday evening was spent pleasantly with Kate eating risotto and working our way down a bottle of wine, my capacity impeded by a lunch-time glass in the local coffee bar whilst Tom used the internet here. (Memo to self - no wine in the middle of the day. I was fighting sleep for the remainder of the afternoon.) I believe our conversation strayed into the 'women without men' area as I reflected with pride upon my daughters who are coming to the conclusion that they like life on their own better than life lived joined at the hip with a man. Maybe in another 100 years this will be a common way to live, men and women having relationships, loving and intimate, but ones that don't include keeping house together. There is still this expectation which, as Chillsider has noted today, is expressed in the most modern Hollywood films like "Sex and the City.'
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I’m putting together a ‘local writer’s’ window in tune with the Nairn Book ‘n Arts Festival, none of which I will attend because nothing that’s on in the evenings interests me enough to persuade me to drag my ass over there after work. I suppose that’s ungrateful as at least they get it together to HAVE a festival whereas Forres doesn’t. If I were a) more community minded or b) had more energy at my disposal, I would do something about that.
The fear in presenting such a window display is that I will offend some folk (if they notice) by the absence of those I have left out. I have my reasons (she says darkly.) Anyway, it’s only a small window!
One person who is going to get pride of place is a nice woman called Clio Gray who actually buys my books. Now that puts her into a very special bracket and definitely worthy of my patronage. I do also think she is a superb writer, this opinion based on my one experience of her work, a book of short stories ‘Types of Everlasting Rest.’ The title alone is - arresting. She also writes crime novels which to my shame I haven’t yet read but I am about to buy one from Amazon and therefore will soon have rectified that omission.
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Plenty of Amazon orders today but one I am concerned about. It is for a book called ‘The Principles of Modern House Construction’ dated 1899. I created the listing for it myself I think and will certainly have added the date but it hasn’t appeared on the Amazon information page. So - is the chap hoping for ‘modern’ to mean modern? I have had to send him an email to check . My fear is he won’t see the email. So many people don’t reply when I ask them questions about dubious addresses that I wonder how they have come to order in the first place. It’s inconceivable to me that anyone can refrain from checking their mail frenetically every half hour or so as I do (when there is nothing better to do.)
And as I have nothing to do I've been playing around with the type face here. I prefer this one but it's so pale.... can't find ones that look like Chillside or Walled Garden - it must be something to do with the server. I can't change the type at all on Safari.
**********
Saturday evening was spent pleasantly with Kate eating risotto and working our way down a bottle of wine, my capacity impeded by a lunch-time glass in the local coffee bar whilst Tom used the internet here. (Memo to self - no wine in the middle of the day. I was fighting sleep for the remainder of the afternoon.) I believe our conversation strayed into the 'women without men' area as I reflected with pride upon my daughters who are coming to the conclusion that they like life on their own better than life lived joined at the hip with a man. Maybe in another 100 years this will be a common way to live, men and women having relationships, loving and intimate, but ones that don't include keeping house together. There is still this expectation which, as Chillsider has noted today, is expressed in the most modern Hollywood films like "Sex and the City.'
************
I’m putting together a ‘local writer’s’ window in tune with the Nairn Book ‘n Arts Festival, none of which I will attend because nothing that’s on in the evenings interests me enough to persuade me to drag my ass over there after work. I suppose that’s ungrateful as at least they get it together to HAVE a festival whereas Forres doesn’t. If I were a) more community minded or b) had more energy at my disposal, I would do something about that.
The fear in presenting such a window display is that I will offend some folk (if they notice) by the absence of those I have left out. I have my reasons (she says darkly.) Anyway, it’s only a small window!
One person who is going to get pride of place is a nice woman called Clio Gray who actually buys my books. Now that puts her into a very special bracket and definitely worthy of my patronage. I do also think she is a superb writer, this opinion based on my one experience of her work, a book of short stories ‘Types of Everlasting Rest.’ The title alone is - arresting. She also writes crime novels which to my shame I haven’t yet read but I am about to buy one from Amazon and therefore will soon have rectified that omission.
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Plenty of Amazon orders today but one I am concerned about. It is for a book called ‘The Principles of Modern House Construction’ dated 1899. I created the listing for it myself I think and will certainly have added the date but it hasn’t appeared on the Amazon information page. So - is the chap hoping for ‘modern’ to mean modern? I have had to send him an email to check . My fear is he won’t see the email. So many people don’t reply when I ask them questions about dubious addresses that I wonder how they have come to order in the first place. It’s inconceivable to me that anyone can refrain from checking their mail frenetically every half hour or so as I do (when there is nothing better to do.)
And as I have nothing to do I've been playing around with the type face here. I prefer this one but it's so pale.... can't find ones that look like Chillside or Walled Garden - it must be something to do with the server. I can't change the type at all on Safari.
6 Jun 2008
Youthful musicians.
Last evening was spent doing Grandmother Duty, listening to all the pupils taught by Sandy's music teacher go through their paces to an kindly audience of family and friends. All twenty of them are learning to play the violin so it was often painful. I once tried to learn to play the piano but found I have no musical aptitude so gave it up. His aunt Sophie plays classical guitar and passed all the exams necessary to take her to music school then chose performance (Devised Art it's called now I believe) but her ability must indicate a music gene or two somewhere. My father was excellent on the cornet! The violin has always seemed a very difficult option to present a child with. On the piano you have a note and when you hit it you get the sound you expect. On a violin it is necessary to make the note. It seems to me there's so much skill involved in this that I am full of admiration for anyone who can, or who tries. Still, given all that background understanding and appreciation of their efforts - it was still a grueling two hours. There was a big surprise for me though. My grandson sounded much better than the rest. This is not - I repeat NOT - listening through specially adjusted loving granny-ears. I used to wince with agony at his efforts in the past. He has been learning since he was four; his perseverance (and his mother's) have finally begun to pay off.
Afterwards we were treated to cake and some dubious pink liquid (heavily diluted fruit juice possibly) The recital was in Newbold House, an off-shoot of the Findhorn Foundation which took over one of the most beautiful of the 19th century houses in Forres with a rhododendron-lined drive-way, a beautiful garden full of specimen trees from around the world planted by Victorian gardeners many over a century old, including Atlantic Cedars, Incense Cedars, Copper Beech, and the inevitable native Scots Pine. Somewhat neglected now, it is still a lovely setting. The children enjoyed getting rid of pent-up energy running (in Sandy's case also rolling) on the lawns.
Afterwards we were treated to cake and some dubious pink liquid (heavily diluted fruit juice possibly) The recital was in Newbold House, an off-shoot of the Findhorn Foundation which took over one of the most beautiful of the 19th century houses in Forres with a rhododendron-lined drive-way, a beautiful garden full of specimen trees from around the world planted by Victorian gardeners many over a century old, including Atlantic Cedars, Incense Cedars, Copper Beech, and the inevitable native Scots Pine. Somewhat neglected now, it is still a lovely setting. The children enjoyed getting rid of pent-up energy running (in Sandy's case also rolling) on the lawns.
5 Jun 2008
Decorated boards.
No sooner had I thought that the shop was lacking in the decorated boards department than two consignments appeared. I wish I was as good at manifesting customers. These are a selection of the arrivals. None of them are especially valuable and they aren't in the fine condition I might have hoped for, but they look nice on the shelves, especially with the front boards facing outwards. Some may actually sell!
4 Jun 2008
More reminiscences.
First impressions of Forres not all rosy
The first time I set foot in Forres was in 1983. I remember little about the town except that on a shiny summer’s day it seemed rather grey and dour and there was nowhere to get a good coffee. I had been living for ten years in Brussels and the standard of food, coffee and cafe culture was such that few towns in Britain could live up to. I seem to remember going into the shoe shop because the children needed sandals (or was it wellingtons?) Anyway, again my continental experience had made me unprepared for the poor quality of goods available.
All in all then not very positive. The rest of our stay in the area was quite different. I fell in love with the trees of Cluny woods, the seashore, Findhorn bay and the river Findhorn itself. Most of all I fell in love with the fresh air and the skies. I had fallen heavily in love with Scotland on a too-brief visit to Skye in the 70’s and always wanted to live in the North of the North. This was my first return since that holiday and it only strengthened my desire.
It took me another three years to finally make the break from city life and move my children to what could be said to be their first true home - certainly their first truly healthy home. The eldest was just eleven, the second nine and the youngest eight. The two younger ones claim their memories only begin when we arrived in Findhorn. We lived in Findhorn village and they could run freely through the lanes visiting their friends. Later my son and his mate could sail across the bay and camp overnight on the Culbin Sands. They were out of sight but sometimes I could hear their clear young voices carrying across the water. A kindly elderly gentleman once sailed across to take them them some extra food for their camp. It was a ‘Swallows and Amazon’ childhood and I am grateful to have been able to give them that freedom and so many good memories.
We lived in four different houses in Findhorn and spent time between those houses in caravans on two different parks. I like caravan living. Even with a dog, cat and three teenagers it can be a restful way of leaving behind the demands of a ‘proper house.’ In a proper house there is a proper kitchen where the mother cooks proper meals. I like cooking but the relentless demands of three growing children was arduous to meet day in and day out. I was glad to have an excuse for picnic food and fish ‘n chips. There was no choice of take-away apart from the chippie when we first arrived. The sign of changing times came when a Chinese take-away of dubious quality opened in Kinloss. Nowadays when I walk into the garden of my house on a summer’s evening I can dine out on the cooking smells; Italian, Thai; Indian; Chinese. Kebabs. There is only one fish and chip shop in the HIgh Street now. Once there were two.
Shopping for food was what I found hardest for the first few years. There had been a wonderful choice of healthy goods in Brussels where not only could I find organic vegetables when they they were still just a joke in the Scottish newspapers, but I could easily source biodynamic vegetables too - the biggest and strongest and most tasty vegetables I have ever experienced, with an energising effect that I have never forgotten. It was said that after Chernobyl, when border checks were made on all food coming into Belgium to test for levels of radioactivity, the biodynamic veggies from Holland registered clear of it all. Their own life-force either absorbed or repelled the potentially harmful fall-out. No-one could quite explain it.
Even the hypermarkets offered good vegetables and beauitful fruit, imported easily by road from the South of France and Italy. I remember the peaches, plump, juicy and dripping, as they should be. I have stopped buying peaches in Scotland because they are such a disappointment, picked too soon and artifically ripened.
That’s a disadvantage of being so far North and must be accepted, but at least the local produce should have been good. I wasn’t impressed. Shopping for me was anyway something of nightmare. I had chronic asthma and frequent bouts of bronchitis which had began very soon after I arrived in the less than wonderful climate of Brussels, and become progressively worse over thirteen years. Little by little I got better in the clean air, but it was hard to walk through Forres on the frighteningly narrow pavements carrying heavy shopping bags sometimes with three jostling youngsters in tow. The greengrocer was especially difficult to negotiate, with a wire basket over one arm, shopping bags full with goods from other shops in the other hand, picking the potatoes, carrots, greens and fruit out singly to put in paper bags was a tricky shoulder-aching, back-breaking excercise. There was a nice fish shop in the town and also a fish van which arrived weekly outside our house but the selection was disappointingly limited. I was longing for some taramasalata which I had been used to making from fresh ingredients frequently. The fishman was surpirised but told me that yes, he could get some cod's roe smoked especially for me. When the grey unappetising lumps arrived tasting revolting and nothing at all like the pink shiny salty roe I had been used to dealing with, it was the first time I realised that Mediterranean cod is very different to North Sea cod and certainly the smoking process is different.
The butchers in Forres were good but my children where going through vegetarian phases (one still is) and anyway I had to readjust to the cuts - different in Scotland to England even, let alone Belgium. Basics where available, but there were none of the delicious cheeses I had become accustomed too (and so had the children.) No tasty fresh sardines in olive oil and herbs. No charcuterie, only ‘ham on the bone’ if one was lucky. A ‘delicatessen’ on a corner, still much regretted by many now, is not regretted by me. The range of cheese was poor and what there was was kept in the fridge - a crime against Brie! It was possible to get a tin of anchovies and olives of uninteresting quality butI remember little else beside Baxter’s soups, stacks of artery-furring shortbread and packets of boudoir biscuits. The big attraction, sending a promising aroma out onto the street, were the freshly roasted coffee beans. They were mightily expensive.
It soon became apparent why the Scots are the most unhealthy nation in Europe with most heart disease and the fatest women (so Chillsider could look for models here and find them everywhere. It might even put her off her theme after a while!) The local baker advertising its water paste pies (filled with baked beans and mashd potaoes, or mince and mash) its Bradies (something like a Cornish Pasty only flat and in fatty puff pastry) and its steak pies with a picture of a little boy biting into one of the delicacies with the slogan: 'Say aye tae a pie) above his cheery face. In their lunch break the Academy students foresake the healthy Jamie Oliver style lunches and wander into the town to partake of these pies. My son in his turn did too. However he had a healthy veggie-rich diet at home to make up for it and lots of physical excercise.
All these details I retain and when the locals grumble about the supermarkets I defend them strongly. With the arrival of William Lowe my day-to-day life brightened. An excellent choice of good foodstuffs, easy parking, a trolley to put everything in so no need for straining shoulders, and no need for burning lungs getting it all back to the car. Not all change is bad!
There is some resistance to ‘incomers’ amongst the older indigenous population but I have seldom felt unwelcome. This area has been home to th RAF since before WW11 (It did morph into a naval base for some years after the war but was taken back by the RAF in the 70's) therefore has learned to accept foriegners. It has also been home to the Findhorn Foundation and although they have not been so easily absorbed as the boys in blue (the military is more normal and acceptable) the locals have had to adjust to their presence and have done so more or less graciously. I’m told (I can’t have personal experience of this obviously, only through my own children have I heard) it is easier for an English child to go to school in Forres than in Nairn. We moved for a short time to Aberlour and my eldest daughter went to the Academy there. She had a VERY hard time with her crisp English voice. She had just managed to make a friend and to overcome the problems when we moved again. Poor child, she was understandably angry with me for that!
The first time I set foot in Forres was in 1983. I remember little about the town except that on a shiny summer’s day it seemed rather grey and dour and there was nowhere to get a good coffee. I had been living for ten years in Brussels and the standard of food, coffee and cafe culture was such that few towns in Britain could live up to. I seem to remember going into the shoe shop because the children needed sandals (or was it wellingtons?) Anyway, again my continental experience had made me unprepared for the poor quality of goods available.
All in all then not very positive. The rest of our stay in the area was quite different. I fell in love with the trees of Cluny woods, the seashore, Findhorn bay and the river Findhorn itself. Most of all I fell in love with the fresh air and the skies. I had fallen heavily in love with Scotland on a too-brief visit to Skye in the 70’s and always wanted to live in the North of the North. This was my first return since that holiday and it only strengthened my desire.
It took me another three years to finally make the break from city life and move my children to what could be said to be their first true home - certainly their first truly healthy home. The eldest was just eleven, the second nine and the youngest eight. The two younger ones claim their memories only begin when we arrived in Findhorn. We lived in Findhorn village and they could run freely through the lanes visiting their friends. Later my son and his mate could sail across the bay and camp overnight on the Culbin Sands. They were out of sight but sometimes I could hear their clear young voices carrying across the water. A kindly elderly gentleman once sailed across to take them them some extra food for their camp. It was a ‘Swallows and Amazon’ childhood and I am grateful to have been able to give them that freedom and so many good memories.
We lived in four different houses in Findhorn and spent time between those houses in caravans on two different parks. I like caravan living. Even with a dog, cat and three teenagers it can be a restful way of leaving behind the demands of a ‘proper house.’ In a proper house there is a proper kitchen where the mother cooks proper meals. I like cooking but the relentless demands of three growing children was arduous to meet day in and day out. I was glad to have an excuse for picnic food and fish ‘n chips. There was no choice of take-away apart from the chippie when we first arrived. The sign of changing times came when a Chinese take-away of dubious quality opened in Kinloss. Nowadays when I walk into the garden of my house on a summer’s evening I can dine out on the cooking smells; Italian, Thai; Indian; Chinese. Kebabs. There is only one fish and chip shop in the HIgh Street now. Once there were two.
Shopping for food was what I found hardest for the first few years. There had been a wonderful choice of healthy goods in Brussels where not only could I find organic vegetables when they they were still just a joke in the Scottish newspapers, but I could easily source biodynamic vegetables too - the biggest and strongest and most tasty vegetables I have ever experienced, with an energising effect that I have never forgotten. It was said that after Chernobyl, when border checks were made on all food coming into Belgium to test for levels of radioactivity, the biodynamic veggies from Holland registered clear of it all. Their own life-force either absorbed or repelled the potentially harmful fall-out. No-one could quite explain it.
Even the hypermarkets offered good vegetables and beauitful fruit, imported easily by road from the South of France and Italy. I remember the peaches, plump, juicy and dripping, as they should be. I have stopped buying peaches in Scotland because they are such a disappointment, picked too soon and artifically ripened.
That’s a disadvantage of being so far North and must be accepted, but at least the local produce should have been good. I wasn’t impressed. Shopping for me was anyway something of nightmare. I had chronic asthma and frequent bouts of bronchitis which had began very soon after I arrived in the less than wonderful climate of Brussels, and become progressively worse over thirteen years. Little by little I got better in the clean air, but it was hard to walk through Forres on the frighteningly narrow pavements carrying heavy shopping bags sometimes with three jostling youngsters in tow. The greengrocer was especially difficult to negotiate, with a wire basket over one arm, shopping bags full with goods from other shops in the other hand, picking the potatoes, carrots, greens and fruit out singly to put in paper bags was a tricky shoulder-aching, back-breaking excercise. There was a nice fish shop in the town and also a fish van which arrived weekly outside our house but the selection was disappointingly limited. I was longing for some taramasalata which I had been used to making from fresh ingredients frequently. The fishman was surpirised but told me that yes, he could get some cod's roe smoked especially for me. When the grey unappetising lumps arrived tasting revolting and nothing at all like the pink shiny salty roe I had been used to dealing with, it was the first time I realised that Mediterranean cod is very different to North Sea cod and certainly the smoking process is different.
The butchers in Forres were good but my children where going through vegetarian phases (one still is) and anyway I had to readjust to the cuts - different in Scotland to England even, let alone Belgium. Basics where available, but there were none of the delicious cheeses I had become accustomed too (and so had the children.) No tasty fresh sardines in olive oil and herbs. No charcuterie, only ‘ham on the bone’ if one was lucky. A ‘delicatessen’ on a corner, still much regretted by many now, is not regretted by me. The range of cheese was poor and what there was was kept in the fridge - a crime against Brie! It was possible to get a tin of anchovies and olives of uninteresting quality butI remember little else beside Baxter’s soups, stacks of artery-furring shortbread and packets of boudoir biscuits. The big attraction, sending a promising aroma out onto the street, were the freshly roasted coffee beans. They were mightily expensive.
It soon became apparent why the Scots are the most unhealthy nation in Europe with most heart disease and the fatest women (so Chillsider could look for models here and find them everywhere. It might even put her off her theme after a while!) The local baker advertising its water paste pies (filled with baked beans and mashd potaoes, or mince and mash) its Bradies (something like a Cornish Pasty only flat and in fatty puff pastry) and its steak pies with a picture of a little boy biting into one of the delicacies with the slogan: 'Say aye tae a pie) above his cheery face. In their lunch break the Academy students foresake the healthy Jamie Oliver style lunches and wander into the town to partake of these pies. My son in his turn did too. However he had a healthy veggie-rich diet at home to make up for it and lots of physical excercise.
All these details I retain and when the locals grumble about the supermarkets I defend them strongly. With the arrival of William Lowe my day-to-day life brightened. An excellent choice of good foodstuffs, easy parking, a trolley to put everything in so no need for straining shoulders, and no need for burning lungs getting it all back to the car. Not all change is bad!
There is some resistance to ‘incomers’ amongst the older indigenous population but I have seldom felt unwelcome. This area has been home to th RAF since before WW11 (It did morph into a naval base for some years after the war but was taken back by the RAF in the 70's) therefore has learned to accept foriegners. It has also been home to the Findhorn Foundation and although they have not been so easily absorbed as the boys in blue (the military is more normal and acceptable) the locals have had to adjust to their presence and have done so more or less graciously. I’m told (I can’t have personal experience of this obviously, only through my own children have I heard) it is easier for an English child to go to school in Forres than in Nairn. We moved for a short time to Aberlour and my eldest daughter went to the Academy there. She had a VERY hard time with her crisp English voice. She had just managed to make a friend and to overcome the problems when we moved again. Poor child, she was understandably angry with me for that!
Renewed energy.
They say nature abhors a vacuum. (Someone said!) It found me vacuous and has provided two projects that I actually feel enthusiasm for. That and an uplift in High Street sales has chirped me up no end.
I had an interesting conversation with a Yorkshire bookseller yesterday about the onward march of Toad the Terrible. The sentence: "He needs diddlin'. Diddlin' from a great height," both amused and confused me. 'To diddle' in my part of the world means to cheat someone out of their money. Well, that might be good too, (although hard when he is penniless) but it seems in Yorkshire it means to jiggle up and down (on the end of a rope.) The toad is to be found amongst the ranks of pleasant looking chaps in the 'Friends over 50' dating matches looking surly and sinister, though I suppose he was going for craggy. There really is no way that round moon face could ever look craggy. The shiny pate has plenty of room for the required government health warning to be stamped on it. There is general hopefulness that the police will catch up with him for traffic offences (how appropriate!)
'Poop Poop!'
In the meantime I have to try to clean a trio of books on Le Corbusier covered in hessian. They must have looked very chic at the time of publication but the coarse grain picks up the dust dreadfully and is hard to clean. With these three came another book on Italian Architecture of the 50's ('Italian Architecture of Today') which proudly shows reinforced concrete multi-story blocks of the most unpleasing aspect. Our current Bonnie Prince Charles would writhe to see them so praised for their clean geometric lines. I wonder if they are still highly regarded. from what I've seen of these excrescences all over Europe they don't mellow with age in the least. It was a terrible time for architecture. There is a 1950's blockhouse at the extreme East End of Forres High Street which was built to house the library and community centre. Unfortunates who get married in Forres in the registry office have to enter this soulless and unforgiving structure to do so. To have added this to a High Street lined predominately with stone buildings pre-1914, the oldest being 18th century, makes one doubt the very existence of soul. The house I live in is one of the few that still have crow step gables (at the rear only) and is dated 1798 (Somewhere. I've never found it, but the previous owner assured me the date is there under the pebble-dash) and the building is mentioned for its crows steps in "The District of Moray: An Architectural Guide." ) It isn't as old as Florries the Florist which weighs in at 1748 a few doors up.
I have grown moderately fond of Forres over the years. Born in the south of England where buildings of warm pink brick are the norm and small towns like Saffron Walden and Lavenham are ravishingly pretty, it has taken me time to become accustomed to the grey stone, dourly utilitarian linear developments of many Scottish towns who appear to have little or no heart to them. Lossiemouth is an example; a long wide chilly road full of rather featureless buildings in the ubiquitous grey stone. The only truly pretty town I can think of at this end of the universe is Cromarty on the Black Isle which is little more than a fishing village, houses huddled together for shelter, now often painted white, with little cobbled lanes between them, nice gardens full of flowers and shrubs, home once to the famous geologist Hugh Miller.
My first impressions of Forres 25 years ago (good grief!) wasn't heartwarming, but I was anti town at the time having lived for too long in cities, first London then Brussels. I was craving countryside, clean air and the smell of the sea. Asked then if I would like to live where I am now the answer would have been an irritable 'NO.' It has changed a lot over those 25 years - or maybe I have put flesh on the bones. The buildings have acquired associations with people and events that have caused it to live for me. I can almost call it home.
I had an interesting conversation with a Yorkshire bookseller yesterday about the onward march of Toad the Terrible. The sentence: "He needs diddlin'. Diddlin' from a great height," both amused and confused me. 'To diddle' in my part of the world means to cheat someone out of their money. Well, that might be good too, (although hard when he is penniless) but it seems in Yorkshire it means to jiggle up and down (on the end of a rope.) The toad is to be found amongst the ranks of pleasant looking chaps in the 'Friends over 50' dating matches looking surly and sinister, though I suppose he was going for craggy. There really is no way that round moon face could ever look craggy. The shiny pate has plenty of room for the required government health warning to be stamped on it. There is general hopefulness that the police will catch up with him for traffic offences (how appropriate!)
'Poop Poop!'
In the meantime I have to try to clean a trio of books on Le Corbusier covered in hessian. They must have looked very chic at the time of publication but the coarse grain picks up the dust dreadfully and is hard to clean. With these three came another book on Italian Architecture of the 50's ('Italian Architecture of Today') which proudly shows reinforced concrete multi-story blocks of the most unpleasing aspect. Our current Bonnie Prince Charles would writhe to see them so praised for their clean geometric lines. I wonder if they are still highly regarded. from what I've seen of these excrescences all over Europe they don't mellow with age in the least. It was a terrible time for architecture. There is a 1950's blockhouse at the extreme East End of Forres High Street which was built to house the library and community centre. Unfortunates who get married in Forres in the registry office have to enter this soulless and unforgiving structure to do so. To have added this to a High Street lined predominately with stone buildings pre-1914, the oldest being 18th century, makes one doubt the very existence of soul. The house I live in is one of the few that still have crow step gables (at the rear only) and is dated 1798 (Somewhere. I've never found it, but the previous owner assured me the date is there under the pebble-dash) and the building is mentioned for its crows steps in "The District of Moray: An Architectural Guide." ) It isn't as old as Florries the Florist which weighs in at 1748 a few doors up.
I have grown moderately fond of Forres over the years. Born in the south of England where buildings of warm pink brick are the norm and small towns like Saffron Walden and Lavenham are ravishingly pretty, it has taken me time to become accustomed to the grey stone, dourly utilitarian linear developments of many Scottish towns who appear to have little or no heart to them. Lossiemouth is an example; a long wide chilly road full of rather featureless buildings in the ubiquitous grey stone. The only truly pretty town I can think of at this end of the universe is Cromarty on the Black Isle which is little more than a fishing village, houses huddled together for shelter, now often painted white, with little cobbled lanes between them, nice gardens full of flowers and shrubs, home once to the famous geologist Hugh Miller.
My first impressions of Forres 25 years ago (good grief!) wasn't heartwarming, but I was anti town at the time having lived for too long in cities, first London then Brussels. I was craving countryside, clean air and the smell of the sea. Asked then if I would like to live where I am now the answer would have been an irritable 'NO.' It has changed a lot over those 25 years - or maybe I have put flesh on the bones. The buildings have acquired associations with people and events that have caused it to live for me. I can almost call it home.
2 Jun 2008
Forres.
Wikipedia on Forres:
"It is also home to an abundance of Charity Shops and Kebab Houses."
Too right.
"It is also home to an abundance of Charity Shops and Kebab Houses."
Too right.
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