"They were, for the first time, the eyes of a man and not of a servant."
I'd like to offer a prize to the one who can name the author of this quote but I'm too broke. It's from Agatha Christie's 'The Listerdale Mystery.'
Autres temps, autres mœurs.
30 Oct 2009
Change in the air.
My days as a bookseller are definitely numbered now. Daughter has the bit between her teeth and is organising stock supplies, new signs, new paintwork, new name... lots of debate on that one, 'Health Foods' just doesn't do it as she plans to stock massage cushions, memory foam cushions, those huge blow-up excercise balls, books (!) Runes stones etc. etc. We're coming down on the side of 'Balanced Living: Forres Health Store.' but questioning the use of 'Forres' because there's already a 'Forres Health Shop.' Varris or Varis is the name Ptolemy gave it 2,000 years ago (though I don't think he ever set eyes on it himself, just relied on Marinos of Tyre and other gazeteers of the Roman Empire. I think he was an armchair traveller.) Whatever the truth, not even many of the locals understand why so many businesses call themselves 'Varis Dubrimakers' so it doesn't seem to be a great choice.
The jury is still sitting.
The jury is still sitting.
29 Oct 2009
Sandy Leylandii
I think he looks like a wood sprite. Shame the hair has to be shorn tomorrow.
This hedge in g'dad's garden is about 9' tall - I don't understand how he came to be on top.
Busy day.
Exciting day for this woman here. Lunch with the Rotary Club (daughter is now a member) in the nice traditional hotel restaurant up the road followed by the yearly 'flu jab in the Town Hall. The notable features of the first experience were the surprising number of toasts (I haven't been to anything that involves formal stand-up-for toasts for about 100 years) and the veritable sea of male faces all in one room, a very pleasant change, albeit a lot of them where liver-spotted. They seem a jolly enough lot, good at doing fun things to make contributions to charity. Last week there was a horse racing evening with filmed races, only sometimes they do it with human beings dressed up and a big floor mat and furry dice. Chloë looks to be the youngest member and gets made a lot of fuss of, which is as it should be! No leather aprons or rolled trouser-legs or slow-handclapping (I went to a Masonic Ladies Night once and was appalled because a slow hand-clap to me meant disapproval. It had to be explained...) There seems to be a constant need for bucket-shakers at charity events and Chloë has been persuaded to dress in a Pudsy costume sometime soon.She chose that over the bucket-shaking because she feels the cold and everyone assured her it's very warm inside Pudsey!
Notable feature of second experience - the sugared tea and biccies afterwards. I never eat biscuits these days because once I start I can't stop. Ate three shortbreads and then waddled home.
Notable feature of second experience - the sugared tea and biccies afterwards. I never eat biscuits these days because once I start I can't stop. Ate three shortbreads and then waddled home.
28 Oct 2009
Personal Hygiene Please.
As a general rule I don't like peple who talk about 'The Great Unwashed' and anyway not many do these days, but I do seem to have had a few of TGUnW in the shop recently. The rain and chill must have brought them in. They aren't the down-and-outs, oh no. They include an elderly and rather leery old chap who takes pains to tell me every time he comes in of his previous career in banking (not something to shout about thse days one would have thought!) He name-drops heavily, names of individuals I'm supposed to recognise and impressive organisations he's had dealings with, but as he now lives on four pensions he can't it seems afford to buy my whole stock to add to his already considerable library although he would like to do so - blah blah ... Oh Yeah? I want to feel sorry for him because he is/was obviously intelligent and probably raised properly and is undoubted lonely, but I would prefer to be sorry for him at a greater distance - my little shop just gets full of that sour smell unwashed clothes have about them, and other body odours I'd rather not have to think about. He also does that thing with his tongue that Nick Griffin did on Question Time, flicking it in and out - it really revolts me. (I noticed that David Tennant did it when he played Bartimious Crouch Junior in 'The Goblet of Fire.' It was a masterstroke - made him very repulsive and I didn't think David T COULD ever be repulsive to me.)
There used to be a sweet old lady visit at least once a fortnight from the neighbouring town. She looked as if she didn't have two halfpennies to rub together but always spent £20 or so on books she 'couldn't resist.' I loved her for that as much as her evident gentleness and, again, intelligence, good manners etc. etc. Unfortunately she too smelled terrible and I used to writhe in embarassment if other customers came in at the same time or soon after her. It shames me to feel this way - I'm not very accepting of folk, but I know I was always friendly toward her whereas I keep my responses to this old man rather curt and distant and my eyes on my crossword and/or novel as much as possble.
The old lady hasn't been in for over a year and Chloe and I often speak about her, wondering where she is. Probably in a dreadful Home where she won't have access to any of her beloved books. Or she could be dead I suppose. I would like to know about her but don't have the first idea where to start.
There used to be a sweet old lady visit at least once a fortnight from the neighbouring town. She looked as if she didn't have two halfpennies to rub together but always spent £20 or so on books she 'couldn't resist.' I loved her for that as much as her evident gentleness and, again, intelligence, good manners etc. etc. Unfortunately she too smelled terrible and I used to writhe in embarassment if other customers came in at the same time or soon after her. It shames me to feel this way - I'm not very accepting of folk, but I know I was always friendly toward her whereas I keep my responses to this old man rather curt and distant and my eyes on my crossword and/or novel as much as possble.
The old lady hasn't been in for over a year and Chloe and I often speak about her, wondering where she is. Probably in a dreadful Home where she won't have access to any of her beloved books. Or she could be dead I suppose. I would like to know about her but don't have the first idea where to start.
Bad grannies
Good grief the Independent ran an article on research 'just out' that shows boys who have lots of contact with paternal grandmothers have a shorter life expectancy and thrive less well!! Can this be true? It's obviously very fortuitous that my son's babes live so far away from me. It doesn't say anything abut maternal Grandma's so hopefully Sanders is OK.
Honestly - who thinks up these research projects? This one, at a wild guess, was dreamed up by someone who hated her mother-in-law.
Honestly - who thinks up these research projects? This one, at a wild guess, was dreamed up by someone who hated her mother-in-law.
Savasana
Here in a room full of strangers
thunder living beyond dark windows,
in trembling silence of air
my body lies its warmth on cold
floor, eyes closed against a tangible
world, each tiny sound a touch.
We are no more than breathing.
Balanced at the top of an inhale
we live; at the base of an exhale
we die for a moment and hold it
close, that emptiness, that earth
scented weightiness, sinking.
I wanted, I wanted, I wanted
to create something perfectly delicate
carved of language, intricate patterns
of syllables. I wanted greater existence,
to know everyone, see everything,
be loved, be touched, to own.
But poised in fragile pausing,
just briefly all wanting has ended.
I search through this space
for a key to lock myself in,
but I built my walls in frailty this time,
they withdraw, withdraw and
the world pushes in.
Copyright Sophia Argyris 2009
Here in a room full of strangers
thunder living beyond dark windows,
in trembling silence of air
my body lies its warmth on cold
floor, eyes closed against a tangible
world, each tiny sound a touch.
We are no more than breathing.
Balanced at the top of an inhale
we live; at the base of an exhale
we die for a moment and hold it
close, that emptiness, that earth
scented weightiness, sinking.
I wanted, I wanted, I wanted
to create something perfectly delicate
carved of language, intricate patterns
of syllables. I wanted greater existence,
to know everyone, see everything,
be loved, be touched, to own.
But poised in fragile pausing,
just briefly all wanting has ended.
I search through this space
for a key to lock myself in,
but I built my walls in frailty this time,
they withdraw, withdraw and
the world pushes in.
Copyright Sophia Argyris 2009
27 Oct 2009
R.I.P Mr McSeed
I can't find a single photo of this stalwart companion in my collection. That's terrible. He has been with Sandy since his parents split up - indeed he was a sort of consolation when his dad moved out because dad would never let him own a hamster. Poor Sanders is taking it very hard and it seems to have pushed him right back into the noisy breathing tic long with the depression that hounded him this time last year.
Maybe it's partially the time of year. It's hard to be cheerful now it's dark both ends of the working day. Not that I always disliked the dark. Once upon a time I saw it as party time and time for romance. Sandy isn't yet in that place and he has what the writer of 'Bringing up Boys' calls a 'sad mind.' There's a lot of deep-rooted grief and loss.
I made buns. It's always my reaction to tragedy - bake something cosy. Not sure how much good it will do.
Maybe it's partially the time of year. It's hard to be cheerful now it's dark both ends of the working day. Not that I always disliked the dark. Once upon a time I saw it as party time and time for romance. Sandy isn't yet in that place and he has what the writer of 'Bringing up Boys' calls a 'sad mind.' There's a lot of deep-rooted grief and loss.
I made buns. It's always my reaction to tragedy - bake something cosy. Not sure how much good it will do.
26 Oct 2009
Well Fin and Theo seem to be coming on nicely (see below.) Fin has changed - looks very like his mum just now and he still has a VERY determined mouth. It's good to see him happy on a bike. He was nervous of riding it, in fact refused to be bought one last Christmas - the only child the man in the bike shop had ever known to scream 'Don't make me have one!" It looks as if things have changed there too. He's a cautious chap; likes to think things out first. Theo is much more gung ho for adventure.
Thank heaven for digital cameras.
Sandy is in a trauma again as Mr MacSeed, now 2 1/2 years old, has had a stroke and is looking a bit lopsided. Sandy is refusing to leave Mr M's side today which won't please a certain father as it's half term for Sandy's school and he's supposed to be getting a visit. Ruffled feathers and some squawking later today I predict.
On a personal note, I wish the clocks did't change. I get all messed about. I was watching 'Cabaret' at 2.30 this morning and it gave me nightmares. Must have been the heavy atmosphere of violence, present and impending, that the film does so damnably well.. or maybe I was tuning in to the vigil over Mr M up the road.
Thank heaven for digital cameras.
Sandy is in a trauma again as Mr MacSeed, now 2 1/2 years old, has had a stroke and is looking a bit lopsided. Sandy is refusing to leave Mr M's side today which won't please a certain father as it's half term for Sandy's school and he's supposed to be getting a visit. Ruffled feathers and some squawking later today I predict.
On a personal note, I wish the clocks did't change. I get all messed about. I was watching 'Cabaret' at 2.30 this morning and it gave me nightmares. Must have been the heavy atmosphere of violence, present and impending, that the film does so damnably well.. or maybe I was tuning in to the vigil over Mr M up the road.
24 Oct 2009
23 Oct 2009
Tales of the North.
There’s a new blog now attached to this it’s purpose being to house some tales I discovered recently in a bundle of newspaper cuttings tucked into a stapled book of poetry. In the 1960’s a poet and storyteller of Brora, by the name of Frank Maclellan, contributed short stories to a local newspaper, the Northern Time. Someone lovingly cut them out and kept them till their books were sold to me and arrived in my garage. Respectfully I’m retelling them here alongside other tales whose heroes and heroines lived closer to home in the countryside of Moray.
I’ve always been hopelessly jealous of the Scottish heritage born as I was in an Essex county town, raised in an Essex village, brought up by two incomers to Essex so always detached from it and never bonding. My mother from Cambridgeshire - not a million miles away but far enough in accent and identity to separate her, and my father was born in Wales though he denied his heritage there too because he was so often teased for his obvious Welshness of stature, short, stocky and dark. His mother once told him their family came from the ‘foot hills of Wales’ by which I guess she meant Monmouthshire, (not always part of Wales) or the borderlands of Breckonshire or Herefordshire, and so she also disowned the Welshness in their breeding.
They were god-fearing parents, my mother Chapel, my father Salvation Army, and would have had no interest in the witches and dragons that once stalked the Essex countryside. Indeed my aunt, my father’s sister, a slightly mad but very gentle spinster who could quote the scriptures extensively, would have disapproved, (or been afraid maybe) of the stories from pagan times. The Devil lay in them.
There is a book published now by Sylvia Kent ‘The Folklore of Essex’ and from the blurb it promises:
“Essex - the witch hunting county - is especially rich in traditions, legends, dialect and stories that have been handed down through the ages. ....... dragons and warriors, literary folk and legendary folk, .... traditional beliefs, stories, events and customs of the common people. .... music, dance and song.”
I saw none of this. Perhaps we were living in different times, so soon after the war when just to be alive and scratching a living was enough to keep most people occupied without worrying about the past. Certainly I have the impression that the local history even here in the North of Scotland was not so well appreciated as it is today and books have been carelessly lost and destroyed that customers mourn for now when they see the prices I have to ask for a replacement!
I hope to persuade a friend to make line drawings to illustrate the tales.
Some time ago I started to put together a history of this town and the neighbourhood. It was interesting work but I came to the conclusion in the end that I would only be re-hashing the old books and records that already exist. I have nothing to add because I am an incomer. A friend has taken over, acting as amanuensis to a local who has many stories and can bring the old history up to date. This amassing of folk tales and legends is more up my street and allows me mre freedom for my own imagination - for after all a folk tale is not an accurate historical account it is a tale told round a log fire at night to entertain and thrill and any embroidering that the teller can put on it is to be welcomed by the listeners. .
I’ve always been hopelessly jealous of the Scottish heritage born as I was in an Essex county town, raised in an Essex village, brought up by two incomers to Essex so always detached from it and never bonding. My mother from Cambridgeshire - not a million miles away but far enough in accent and identity to separate her, and my father was born in Wales though he denied his heritage there too because he was so often teased for his obvious Welshness of stature, short, stocky and dark. His mother once told him their family came from the ‘foot hills of Wales’ by which I guess she meant Monmouthshire, (not always part of Wales) or the borderlands of Breckonshire or Herefordshire, and so she also disowned the Welshness in their breeding.
They were god-fearing parents, my mother Chapel, my father Salvation Army, and would have had no interest in the witches and dragons that once stalked the Essex countryside. Indeed my aunt, my father’s sister, a slightly mad but very gentle spinster who could quote the scriptures extensively, would have disapproved, (or been afraid maybe) of the stories from pagan times. The Devil lay in them.
There is a book published now by Sylvia Kent ‘The Folklore of Essex’ and from the blurb it promises:
“Essex - the witch hunting county - is especially rich in traditions, legends, dialect and stories that have been handed down through the ages. ....... dragons and warriors, literary folk and legendary folk, .... traditional beliefs, stories, events and customs of the common people. .... music, dance and song.”
I saw none of this. Perhaps we were living in different times, so soon after the war when just to be alive and scratching a living was enough to keep most people occupied without worrying about the past. Certainly I have the impression that the local history even here in the North of Scotland was not so well appreciated as it is today and books have been carelessly lost and destroyed that customers mourn for now when they see the prices I have to ask for a replacement!
I hope to persuade a friend to make line drawings to illustrate the tales.
Some time ago I started to put together a history of this town and the neighbourhood. It was interesting work but I came to the conclusion in the end that I would only be re-hashing the old books and records that already exist. I have nothing to add because I am an incomer. A friend has taken over, acting as amanuensis to a local who has many stories and can bring the old history up to date. This amassing of folk tales and legends is more up my street and allows me mre freedom for my own imagination - for after all a folk tale is not an accurate historical account it is a tale told round a log fire at night to entertain and thrill and any embroidering that the teller can put on it is to be welcomed by the listeners. .
19 Oct 2009
No photo opportunities for this blog recently. Shame. I spent most of the weekend eating - at least that's what it felt like. Probably should have taken shots of the dishes. The sticky toffee pudding was wonderful and quite decorative for a moment or two. A fishy theme throughout: Squid in tomato sauce served on a bed of wilted spinach and risotto with Sandy and Chloe Friday. Fish soup (more like a stew really, very thick) served with a heavenly garlicy rouille and shared with Kate on Saturday. Sunday lunch I didn't cook, went instead with Judith to the Ramnee, a comfortably old fashioned hotel with bar and restaurant which does a good carvery only I ate yet more fish being off meat for the time being. That was where I fell upon the sinful STP. All very nice, but I feel a bit bloated and had great trouble saying awake today in the shop. I dread a customer catching me drooling over my crossword.
15 Oct 2009
Some change in the air
First through the door this morning were an Australian couple who have a secondhand bookshop back home and were just curious to see inside a Scottish on. A rather scruffy Diane Gabaldan I have priced at 50p would, they told me, fetch £5 on their shelves.
Last week the Canadian homecomer told me the set of faux leather Dickens I have on offer for £25 would be £200.
Now they may be exaggerating in the excitement of the moment but I do now understand how people make a living shipping loads of books out to those countries. The Australians also said that on an average day in their shop they are so busy with books coming in and going out they can't sit down, still less do a crossword (which is what I was mulling over peacefully when they arrived).
Too late to emigrate.
I shall be moving in the foreseeable future however. Chloë has finally made the decision to take over the shop and, to my surprise, also the house around it. She wants to save her over-worked body which is suffering from the amount of massaging she has to do, and develop, as a second string, a health and whole-foods shop where she can also sell the sort of gadgets people interested in excercise like to have about their houses together with ergonometric back-packs and support cushions etc. etc. It should do well I think. She's put her own house on the market, which in the current climate could take months to sell but when it does - all change! I'm looking forward to it. Mostly because I rather like changing houses. The actual move might be a bit grim but I'm up for it.
It's nice that there will be some change in my life. I'm aware that practically none of the projects I set for myself this year have come to fruition; that doesn't bother me as the time has passed pleasantly enough, but stagnation is never good.
Last week the Canadian homecomer told me the set of faux leather Dickens I have on offer for £25 would be £200.
Now they may be exaggerating in the excitement of the moment but I do now understand how people make a living shipping loads of books out to those countries. The Australians also said that on an average day in their shop they are so busy with books coming in and going out they can't sit down, still less do a crossword (which is what I was mulling over peacefully when they arrived).
Too late to emigrate.
I shall be moving in the foreseeable future however. Chloë has finally made the decision to take over the shop and, to my surprise, also the house around it. She wants to save her over-worked body which is suffering from the amount of massaging she has to do, and develop, as a second string, a health and whole-foods shop where she can also sell the sort of gadgets people interested in excercise like to have about their houses together with ergonometric back-packs and support cushions etc. etc. It should do well I think. She's put her own house on the market, which in the current climate could take months to sell but when it does - all change! I'm looking forward to it. Mostly because I rather like changing houses. The actual move might be a bit grim but I'm up for it.
It's nice that there will be some change in my life. I'm aware that practically none of the projects I set for myself this year have come to fruition; that doesn't bother me as the time has passed pleasantly enough, but stagnation is never good.
14 Oct 2009
Toot Toot!
Mr Toad rides out - again. The first person through my door this morning spent no time looking at books. He asked me straight out if I have anything to do with a certain bookshop up the road because he’s taking them to court. I was very relieved to be able to say ‘None whatsoever!”
Mr Toad went to 'value' some books that this chap's wife left when she died, and which have become part of her estate. Toad took them away to do this (in itself a rather suspicious move by a bookdealer of some years experience who should be able to value books on sight). Some time later Toad made an offer which was accepted . It was agreed that an envelope with the money in it would be at the desk in the bookshop to be picked up. The chap duly turned up to get his money but the woman behind the counter told him Mr Toad had taken the envelope back and gone into the house. Mr T wasn't to be roused with knocking so the man went away very angry. Asking the present bookshop owner to pay up only got the response that it was Toad’s deal and nothing to do with her. That wasn't the way the chap saw it as he had rung the bookshop to get the valuation done and Toad had handed him the bookshop card when he went to the house. As far as he was concerned the deal was made with the bookshop.
He rang the person who owns the buildings in which the Visitors Centre is housed and has two shops of her own in the units so has an interest in the good reputation of the place and was understandably disturbed by this turn of events but obviously could do nothing about it to help. Finally after trying to contact Mr Toad by email and receiving some unsatisfactory (arrogant and rude) replies he has taken it to the small claims court. The bookshop has till October 27th to pay up or it will come in front of the sheriff.
He really has absolutely no conscience whatsoever. Recently he thought to reopen friendship with people he had stung badly in the past (friends until then) and got no joy so drove off disappointed. To have tried at all took gall beyond belief.
Mr Toad went to 'value' some books that this chap's wife left when she died, and which have become part of her estate. Toad took them away to do this (in itself a rather suspicious move by a bookdealer of some years experience who should be able to value books on sight). Some time later Toad made an offer which was accepted . It was agreed that an envelope with the money in it would be at the desk in the bookshop to be picked up. The chap duly turned up to get his money but the woman behind the counter told him Mr Toad had taken the envelope back and gone into the house. Mr T wasn't to be roused with knocking so the man went away very angry. Asking the present bookshop owner to pay up only got the response that it was Toad’s deal and nothing to do with her. That wasn't the way the chap saw it as he had rung the bookshop to get the valuation done and Toad had handed him the bookshop card when he went to the house. As far as he was concerned the deal was made with the bookshop.
He rang the person who owns the buildings in which the Visitors Centre is housed and has two shops of her own in the units so has an interest in the good reputation of the place and was understandably disturbed by this turn of events but obviously could do nothing about it to help. Finally after trying to contact Mr Toad by email and receiving some unsatisfactory (arrogant and rude) replies he has taken it to the small claims court. The bookshop has till October 27th to pay up or it will come in front of the sheriff.
He really has absolutely no conscience whatsoever. Recently he thought to reopen friendship with people he had stung badly in the past (friends until then) and got no joy so drove off disappointed. To have tried at all took gall beyond belief.
12 Oct 2009
Chapbooks
I wrote a cheque last week for some incoming books - a very unusual occurence at the moment. These charmed me and when I had looked them up showed me that I'm probably not alone in my reaction. There are eleven of them out of a set of 16, tiny, thin, fragile, c. 1840 printed in Otley, Yorkshire. It's amazing they have survived in such good, unfoxed un-grimed condition. They're either printed in yellow and black, red, or brown with eight woodcuts in each and tell the traditional children's tales, Old Mother Hubbard, The History of Cinderella, Cock Robin and Jenny Wrenn and so on. They're chapbooks - may as well let Wikki take over here...
"....pocket-sized booklets, popular from the sixteenth through to the later part of the nineteenth century.
The term chap-book was coined by bibliophiles of the 19th century, as a variety of ephemera (disposable printed material). It includes many kinds of printed material, such as pamphlets, political and religious tracts, nursery rhymes, poetry, folk tales, children's literature and almanacs. Where there were illustrations, they would be popular prints. The term is derived from chapmen, a variety of peddler, who circulated such literature as part of their stock.
It's quite a while since I got excited about anything in the book trade but I'm excited about these. I don't want to part with them for a while either.
Head stuck in a book.
It must be the darkening days and the onset of chilliness. All I wanted to do for the last week was read. Curl up in a blanket and read. A couple of Agatha's then I was saved by the arrival of Iain Rankin and Stieg Larsson. After that a prize from the Red Cross shop next door.
Maybe it was coming to oor loon after Agatha that made him seem so bland and lacking in frisson. Not a decent corps, library, lead pipe or mickey finn to goad me on to the need for discovery and retribution. No catharsis. I was full of good will and expectation when I started out, relaxed with enjoyment into his excellent style, but half way through became irritated. I need to relate to one or two characters in a book and although I think his new hero is interesting, there wasn't anyone else I could get excited about, not even his alcoholic sister. I suppose if your chief protagonist is on the wagon there has to be a drunk somewhere fighting with the demon. After all this is Scotland.
It had tension and the general atmosphere of deep distrust but - not enough horror for this girl maybe? I have never done well with spy novels, nor in general with anything that involves using my brain rather than my instnct, especially if it demands I pay full attention to the wink-and-nod nuances of in-house conversations, know somethng about the dirty machinations of business and politics, and so on. Maybe he's just too clever for me. Maybe I'm just not that interested. I haven't seen any crits yet (except Chillsiders 'flat' which I endorse.)
I was relieved to have done my duty by th national treasure and be able to move on to the The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest which had all I needed. It was a totally satisfctory denouement in my opinion. Plenty of characters for me to get interested in and therefore follow through the winding paths of politics and dirty government. Which sort of gives weight to my complaint about Complaints People like me (there must be a few million out there?) like to get to know the cast, find empathy, have more than a name, clothing and a job title to identify them each time they appear on stage.
Now I'm reading 'The Cutting Room' by Louise Welsh and finding it gripping though nasty in a way that would probably put Miss Marple off.
Maybe it was coming to oor loon after Agatha that made him seem so bland and lacking in frisson. Not a decent corps, library, lead pipe or mickey finn to goad me on to the need for discovery and retribution. No catharsis. I was full of good will and expectation when I started out, relaxed with enjoyment into his excellent style, but half way through became irritated. I need to relate to one or two characters in a book and although I think his new hero is interesting, there wasn't anyone else I could get excited about, not even his alcoholic sister. I suppose if your chief protagonist is on the wagon there has to be a drunk somewhere fighting with the demon. After all this is Scotland.
It had tension and the general atmosphere of deep distrust but - not enough horror for this girl maybe? I have never done well with spy novels, nor in general with anything that involves using my brain rather than my instnct, especially if it demands I pay full attention to the wink-and-nod nuances of in-house conversations, know somethng about the dirty machinations of business and politics, and so on. Maybe he's just too clever for me. Maybe I'm just not that interested. I haven't seen any crits yet (except Chillsiders 'flat' which I endorse.)
I was relieved to have done my duty by th national treasure and be able to move on to the The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest which had all I needed. It was a totally satisfctory denouement in my opinion. Plenty of characters for me to get interested in and therefore follow through the winding paths of politics and dirty government. Which sort of gives weight to my complaint about Complaints People like me (there must be a few million out there?) like to get to know the cast, find empathy, have more than a name, clothing and a job title to identify them each time they appear on stage.
Now I'm reading 'The Cutting Room' by Louise Welsh and finding it gripping though nasty in a way that would probably put Miss Marple off.
7 Oct 2009
First frosts and Feein's.
Monday brought the first frost of the winter and a beautiful day. Autumn is the best time of year when it's clear and dry like this.
Monday also brought in a customer with an appallingly wet and sneezy cold who seemed determined to browse intimately every book on the shelves. Perhaps she has been employed by the government as a germ warfare agent to suppress the populace? Believers in conspiracy theories and dystopian futures will understand where I am coming from.
The footfall into the shop increases as the winter grows closer. A book of 'Cornkisters' that I bought from Jane on Sunday sold on Monday. This time of year itinerant agricultural workers would be going to the 'Feein' markets to find work for the next season. It must have been a bit like a slave market in some ways, those wanting to be hired hanging around with their hands in their pockets (or not if they had more self respect) as they were eyed up by the local farmers for signs of strength, stamina and, vitally, 'good character.' Tom tells me that the reliable workers already known to the farmers could sometimes get a special deal to entice them to sign on, like the chap who got the deposit for a motor bike he coveted so he could visit his sweetheart in the next town. He worked off the deposit during the winter months. Those employed by the same farmer would generally live together for the season in a bothy with no entertaiment except what they provided for themselves (and, I suppose, the drink) so the Bothy Ballad, or 'Cornkister' was born. The subject can be anything but is most often sentimental memories of a town or village, or about a girl.
The Feeins in some areas have morphed into annual events on the social calendar as Farmer's Markets and get-together's designed to draw in trade for the shops before the lean times and to raise money for charity.
Monday also brought in a customer with an appallingly wet and sneezy cold who seemed determined to browse intimately every book on the shelves. Perhaps she has been employed by the government as a germ warfare agent to suppress the populace? Believers in conspiracy theories and dystopian futures will understand where I am coming from.
The footfall into the shop increases as the winter grows closer. A book of 'Cornkisters' that I bought from Jane on Sunday sold on Monday. This time of year itinerant agricultural workers would be going to the 'Feein' markets to find work for the next season. It must have been a bit like a slave market in some ways, those wanting to be hired hanging around with their hands in their pockets (or not if they had more self respect) as they were eyed up by the local farmers for signs of strength, stamina and, vitally, 'good character.' Tom tells me that the reliable workers already known to the farmers could sometimes get a special deal to entice them to sign on, like the chap who got the deposit for a motor bike he coveted so he could visit his sweetheart in the next town. He worked off the deposit during the winter months. Those employed by the same farmer would generally live together for the season in a bothy with no entertaiment except what they provided for themselves (and, I suppose, the drink) so the Bothy Ballad, or 'Cornkister' was born. The subject can be anything but is most often sentimental memories of a town or village, or about a girl.
The Feeins in some areas have morphed into annual events on the social calendar as Farmer's Markets and get-together's designed to draw in trade for the shops before the lean times and to raise money for charity.
4 Oct 2009
The Auld Alliance
Yesterday I took a drive over the hills to Ballater and Dinnet again. In The Auld Alliance, Dinnet, I took these photos to tantalise Gillian. I love this shop with its mix of Scottish and French antiques and bric-a-brac and, of course, Jane's books. It's hard not to buy. I'm hoping to return with a fuller purse in a month or so before the gift-giving time is on us.
Jane is expecting a Happy Event. Her bizarre gargoyle-faced, extremely well-bred cat hs proved that breeding alone does not a lady make by getting pregnant to a local Tom and, as Jane says, is looking as if she has swallowed a football.
Sadly I didn't see the mother-to-be in the flesh so couldn't take a picture. Dave was predicting the birth for this weekend as today is the full moon. Certainly I had one of my famous sleepless nights and have a hung-over sort of feeling today. The drive was more tiring than it should have been because the car is still not firing steadily on all cylinders and lost power going up the worst of the hills. Luckily I was the only car on the road so no-one was exasperated by my slow progress. It's like being back 60 years when cars weren't what they are today and groaned their way up hills slipping gears and hiccuping. Must get it fixed.
3 Oct 2009
Into the shop yesterday rolled a large Canadian. I didn't immediately know for sure that's where he came from but could have put money on him being a 'Homecomer' guided by his outfit. The kilt (very fine wool and quite a mini, definitly off the knee) the laced Highlander shirt, the short leather jacket (not to be found on the fancy dress sites on-line) the sgian dubh (which he had trouble with at Customs understandably) and the sporran - hand-crafted and tooled. Larger than most wiry Highlanders he rather filled the shop and once we'd got past the book queries (old Scottish recipe books which sadly I couldn't provide) he exclaimed about the lack of kilted males on the streets of Highland towns. Tourists lusting after plaid have been taking photos of HIM which is certainly a bit ironic. There are a couple of elderly gents who walk these pavements in their kilts habitually and have never been known to wear anything that covers their knees in their life but apart from them, a dying breed I fear, the only kilts to be seen are the effete looking get-ups with their smart woollen 'Prince Charlie' jacket, or the slightly more robust and butch 'Argyle' jackets rented out for weddings.
My visitor proudly tld me that it had taken him a while to leave off the boxers but that he had finally braced himself and was know properly unclad. Oh too much information! I asked him to be careful sitting down (there have been some horrendous photos of ill-placed knees and droopy family jewels on Youtube!) He assured me that his sporran was heavy enough to keep the kilt below the vital line.
It's true that ex-pats are more patriotic than the stay-at-homes. He makes his own haggis and has to go to great lengths to get the right ingredients because offal is still banned from sale in mad-cow sensitive Canada. The first time he boiled the lungs he claims he nearly gave up the project but has hardened himself to the smell and the sight and now makes some real good stuff. His poor wife. I hope he does it in the garage.
As I type Sandy and the rest of the rugby team are bundling onto the school bus to take them to a match, dressed in their kilts and sporrans. Sandy does NOT abide by the dress code. He wears his long protective rugy under-shorts and cotton socks under the woollen because he like me can't stand wool next to his skin. Poor child. They wear them to the other school, change into rugby gear for the match, change again for lunch and to ride back on the bus. Cruel I call it.
My visitor proudly tld me that it had taken him a while to leave off the boxers but that he had finally braced himself and was know properly unclad. Oh too much information! I asked him to be careful sitting down (there have been some horrendous photos of ill-placed knees and droopy family jewels on Youtube!) He assured me that his sporran was heavy enough to keep the kilt below the vital line.
It's true that ex-pats are more patriotic than the stay-at-homes. He makes his own haggis and has to go to great lengths to get the right ingredients because offal is still banned from sale in mad-cow sensitive Canada. The first time he boiled the lungs he claims he nearly gave up the project but has hardened himself to the smell and the sight and now makes some real good stuff. His poor wife. I hope he does it in the garage.
As I type Sandy and the rest of the rugby team are bundling onto the school bus to take them to a match, dressed in their kilts and sporrans. Sandy does NOT abide by the dress code. He wears his long protective rugy under-shorts and cotton socks under the woollen because he like me can't stand wool next to his skin. Poor child. They wear them to the other school, change into rugby gear for the match, change again for lunch and to ride back on the bus. Cruel I call it.
2 Oct 2009
The booksellers day
I found this nice piece at the end of a long rainy day full of chatty customers with lots of questions to ask me and book-related mysteries for me to solve.
".....bookselling is the best possible training in humility. There's nothing like being surrounded by thousands of books that one has not read, and trying to answer impossible questions from customers on every subject under the sun, from fly fishing to physics, to reveal the full extent of one's own ignorance. At the end of the day, I feel both tired and stupid. It's like being young again."
".....bookselling is the best possible training in humility. There's nothing like being surrounded by thousands of books that one has not read, and trying to answer impossible questions from customers on every subject under the sun, from fly fishing to physics, to reveal the full extent of one's own ignorance. At the end of the day, I feel both tired and stupid. It's like being young again."
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