I'm quite cross-eyed from reading my way through Joanne Harris's 'blueeyedboy' with only the briefest of interruptions. It's blasphemous to be indoors on the first day for two weeks that the sun has shone steadily with not a rain-cloud in sight, but blossoming rape fields (bringers of sneezing, runny eyes, feverish shivers,) and an unreliable car make good excuses. 

I didn't enjoy 'beb' at all. It is sinister, disturbing, confusing to small-brained and lazy individuals on their Sunday off,  and there is hardly one sympathetic character to be met in the 500+ pages, but it held me with a horrid fascination. JH's prose is very rewarding:

'And fiction is a tower of glass built from a million tiny truths, grains of sand fused together to make a single gleaming lie….'

 I would really like to have thought of that image myself.

As a reader I prefer it when writers create characters that reappear in a long run of books. Crime writers do that with their detectives, (gum shoes, nosey-but-sharp old ladies etc.) Novelists not so much. I like to be able to rely on these characters to have certain eccentricities, reliable personal traits that eventually make them as real to me as friends and family. I like being admitted regularly to the world that evolves around them.

On the other hand I can make an exception for writers who consistently entertain, like Joanne Harris. She's a story-teller who enjoys her flights of fancy. I heard her say that no-one should set out to become a writer with money in mind. They have to really enjoy the writing for its own sake or they may as well not bother. I've always got the feeling she enjoys her fictions and her enjoyment helps make the results entertaining.

From the 'Acknowledgements' it does sound as if she found this tale rather less easy to tell than some and a bit complicated to unravel, which I can sympathise with. I'm still not sure who dunnit all, or who was about to do it. Humiliating.

The last acknowledgement gave me a bit of a shiver too (now I've read the book): 'to the man in Apartment 7 whose voice was in my mind from the start.'  

I hope I never meet him.

Our brave, but mostly unseen, police covered themselves with glory this week. After a break-in at two  neighbouring shops (small shop spaces, a tiny area for tea-making facilities, toilet etc. they helpfully stood guard whilst the broken windows were boarded over  - with the burglar inside!! He escaped later by breaking through one of the unboarded windows. As one Facebook follower remarked 'You couldn't make it up.'

I've spent two days crouched over my laptop editing 'Folk Tales of the North'  a project far from finished and needing a more interesting title. In between the pedestrian editing and reorganising, I've trawled for publishers who might be interested in putting out a slim volume of stories. This has lead me to a few conclusions. 

A: There are so many thousands (millions?) of writers out there that I have the same instinct as I had once when arriving in Oxford on a bus from the suburbs: 'Too many people on that pavement. No room for me. I'll just stay on this bus and be taken back again.' A friend who was born and bred in New Zealand remarked that Ngaio Marsh, a national treasure in NZ, probably wouldn't even have been published in Britain. As she succinctly put it, 'Over here she would have been killed in the rush.'

Nowadays we wannabe authors are all killed in the rush. Unless we are really, really, determined self-publicists, or have created something the reading public are hungry for, or (and for more on this one see below) the publishing houses THINK the reading public are hungry for). 

B: Most small publishing houses are struggling in these straightened times and therefore aren't going to be interested in what I have to offer which is of purely local interest. Or is it? 90% of the hits on one or two popular stories are from the USA. So there's a strategy, if I have the courage.

C: It's quite energising getting indignant about stuff. Here is a list of facets of publishing that have absolutely nothing to do with me but that get right up my nose.

Here are just a few: 

*  Publishers of children's books who believe children have the attention spans of gnats on amphetamine. (At least that one has been disproved by JKR. If they enjoy a book children will want it to go on and on, just like the rest of us.)

*  Reviewers on Amazon who DO have the attention spans of gnats on amphetamine. (Some reviewers are very good so, once I've discounted the ones I think might be family, friends, editors, or gnats, I do read them.)

* Publishers of children's books who call children 'kids'. It isn't cool. It doesn't convince anyone they are cool publishers, least of all the 'kids.'

*  Publishers of children's books who think 'kids' want 'real life' stuff they can 'relate to'. It should have a girl heroine, preferably black or maybe a Muslim with a non-Muslim as best friend so that being a Muslim, Jew, Hindu, Christian etc. can be explained. The heroine must get raped/pregnant/be in a war zone, have an abortion, be abused. If it's a boy the same sort of thing applies, with bullying as a very popular choice of misery. 

Note to publishers: Children like fantasy and escapism just like the rest of us, especially all those growing up in a dreary inner city location. Why not give them more pleasure instead of rubbing their noses in the drabness of their daily live? The nasty bits can be encapsulated within an adventure without it being the focal point of the adventure. Harry P is 'different' and gets stick for it. Ron Weasley' s family is poor and he has to wear secondhand clothes to the Ball. Hermione is super brainy so isn't popular. None of these disadvantages have anything to do with the story. They give the characters extra humanity, and every day, ordinary, challenges that they have to live with but they don't  get in the way of the action.

* Anyone commenting on articles, letters, or reviews online who mistakes sarcasm for sparkling intelligence and wit.

* Web sites that I wish to contribute to or buy from or ask a question of, which have 'Intelligent Fields' that get me to fill in forms, leading me by the nose until I've nearly crossed the magic portal, then abruptly whisk me back to the beginning to fill in Idiot Fields I have already scrupulously filled.

* Authors who die before I've had enough of them. (Reginald Hill for instance. Great loss.)

* Writer's who feed religion into their novels. To be honest I'm complaining about one specific writer here: Susan Hill. I feel she sees herself as missionary, slipping the religion in sideways along with the gift boxes.  Exception: Phil Rickman for whom the supernatural and belief systems relating to other dimensions are necessarily intertwined. 

*  People who criticise books and poems for not being 'tight' enough. This needs explaining for a start. Does it mean the author should have been more inebriated when s/he wrote the piece? Does it mean the piece was too long? Should some of the adjectives and adverbs be deleted? I understand the need to refine poems, and I dislike too may adjectives and adverbs, so can agree with the latter. A common fault of the novice like myself. On the other hand I do like novels to flow rather than fire rounds of bullets at me. I like sentences of more than six words, and words of more than two syllables, when appropriate. I also like very long novels.

It's just an over-used form of critique that means nothing any longer IMO. As is being, or not being, 'accessible'. 

* Publishers who republish books under a new title. Dastardly. I was caught out with a re-named Agatha Christie once. I've never forgiven myself.

*  Children's publishers who think children need fancy 'interactive' gizmos to get them to read - or, what is more likely, will get the parents to buy on the off-chance that the garish illustrations, pop-outs, pull-ups, wheels and so forth will get their children to suddenly want to read Dickens.

*  Children's publishers who think that naughty words like 'poo' and 'fart' will sell books.

I could go on but that's enough bile for one day. Publishers are having a tough time of it and are doing their best to keep books as a feature of our society so I really dislike grumpy old grannies who moan about them……

Sometimes I wonder if I'm spending more on supplements than on food!

In the not-so-distant past I would have had no truck with these (except perhaps the Aloe Vera which has been a friend for many years.) Now I spend 5 hours a day serving people with supplements and it seems natural to join them. I do feel better for them. I think. Anyway I don't pick up every germ that wafts at me from the other side of the counter - and they are legion.

Begin forwarded message:


GOLFING IN IRELAND

One fine day in Ireland, a bloke is out golfing and gets up to the 16th
hole. He tees up and cranks one.

Unfortunately, it goes into the woods on the side of the fairway. He goes
looking for his ball and comes across this little guy with this huge knot on
his head and the golf ball lying right beside him.

"Goodness," says the golfer, and proceeds to revive the poor little guy.
Upon awakening, the little guy says, "Well, you caught me fair and square; I
am a leprechaun. I will grant you three wishes."

The man says, "I can't take anything from you, I'm just glad I didn't hurt
you too badly," and walks away.

Watching the golfer depart, the leprechaun thinks, "Well, he was a nice
enough guy and he did catch me so I have to do something for him. I'll give him
the three things that I would want -- unlimited money, a great golf game
and a great sex life."

A year passes and the same golfer is out golfing on the same course at the
16th hole. He gets up and hits one into the same woods, goes looking for his
ball and comes across the same leprechaun. He asks the leprechaun how he is
and the leprechaun replies: "I'm fine, and might I ask how your golf game
is?"

The golfer says "It's great! I hit under par every time."

The leprechaun says, "I did that for you. And how is your money holding
out?"

The golfer says, "Well, now that you mention it, every time I put my hand
in my pocket, I pull out a hundred dollar bill."

The leprechaun smiles and says, "I did that for you. too. And how is your
sex life?"

The golfer looks at him shyly and says, "Well, maybe once or twice a week."

The leprechaun is floored and stammers, "Once or twice a week?"

The golfer, a little embarrassed, looks at him and says, "Well, that's not
too bad for a Catholic priest in a small parish."

For once I had a Saturday night out to see 'The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, for the Elderly, and Beautiful.' The cinema was packed with people of a certain age and I wonder how many left contemplating their dull existence and wondering if they too should decamp to India, or elsewhere, to eke out their pensions in a more fun way and a warmer climate. I did - just for a moment or two!


I think I was a little disappointed by it although it was warm, gentle, funny,  touching, colourful, all good ingredients, and the impressive cast of doyennes (there must be a masculine version for that word?)  of stage and screen gave their reliably good value. The script was unadventurous but they did their best with it. I still wonder why Maggie Smith had to change her accent; her gentile Edinburgh burr could have been roughened up a bit and served perfectly well; it was weird hearing her speak a sort of Thames Estuary/Essex. 


We had a curry afterwards because it seemed appropriate but I am regretting it right now.

I get no comments on my other blogs and don't expect any. I keep stuff there because when the desktop iMac died (and I discovered too late that I hadn't been backing up properly) I would have lost everything. What didn't occur to me was that people might be reading them. Just now I noticed that there  have been 557 page view on one local folk tale!

Very pleased with myself now because after years of jibbing at it I've finally made a Simnel cake. Home-made marzipan, ( of course) and a light fruit cake. Eleven little marzipan balls on top to signify the 11 disciples (no Judas!). There is a layer of marzipan in the middle of the cake and I'm excited to find out if it has remained intact through the cooking process. As I'd left it late to make the cake I did what my Dutch friend always does and boiled the fruit with the butter, sugar and some milk then let it stand for 30 minutes. After that the dried fruit was wonderfully plump so I shall adopt this method for ever.

Trawling the net for a recipe I fancied the look of I learned that Simnel cakes were originally made for Mothering Sunday, or even possibly for the Sunday half way through Lent when everyone was given a day off from their Lenten fast and maids sent home to their mothers with a cake made from flour and fat and any other of the ingredients banned for the rest of the 40 days. In the earliest versions of  the fruit mixture was covered in a flour and water paste and boiled. They turned a mahogany brown and were so hard that, as the story goes, a lady gifted with one thought it was a foot stool and put it to use for years.

I do hope mine doesn't turn out to be that solid.

Bringing up boys.

Throw them out into the cold! Frightfully good for the Character.

It cured his headaches (probably brought on by too much TV and internet) but gave me a sleepless night as I worried about him all alone in the middle of a fair-sized field at the mercy of Tommy Brock the badger who, as Beatrice  Potter tells us, is NOT a nice person. He's about 100 yards from his grandfather's house and another 100 from the field in which there are horses he knows well, but even so I'm not sure I could have done that at 13+  Apart from boredom once the batteries in his lantern ran out at about 11pm, he enjoyed himself so much I've just taken him back for a second night.

The horse were cosily in their stable tucked into their winter tog chaskits! They thought he was mad too.

His mother is in London learning where to stick needles into people. This is so ironic as she hates having needles stuck into HER. Predictably the students on this clinical acupuncture course are required to practice on each other so she spent the first morning with her head between her knees until they dug out a set of very fine needles for use on small children! Unfortunately yesterday they were shown the use of much larger-than-average needles and she fainted clean away at the sight. They must be really glad she's in the group.

Knowing my daughter she will overcome and return to us triumphant, with a certificate to put on her wall.

It isn't, in my opinion, REAL acupuncture anyway, doesn't use the meridians known for centuries by the Chinese, but it seems to work for some so it's another feather in her cap, string to her bow or  perhaps arrow in her quiver would be most appropriate.

Addendum: I was wrong about clinical acupuncture not using the meridians - it does, a bit anyway.

Sanders camped out for three nights and had to be forced to come home. He needed a bath. He didn't WANT a bath of course.

He heard the badger (they are heavy beasts) blundering through the hedge to inspect his tent.

I didn't know I could still do a girlish squeal until Timmy Willy (pictured below if the site is playing straight, which it doesn't seem to be at the moment) popped out of my rubbish bin in the kitchen this morning.

It was more than a flurry! The garden looks a bit drunken because I was leaning out of the door and holding the camera out at arm's length, anxious not to put my bare foot into the stuff.

It isn't April 1st today is it?

From 20 degrees to 4 and now flurries of snow. Why are we always surprised?  It's no wonder there is so much talk about the weather in this country. Grandson's plans for sailing days and camping in his grandfather's field will have to be put on hold. As I am in loco parentis this week that is as hard on me as it is on him! Not that he isn't good company, but I am rather used to my own company and hours of selfish me-time. Hey ho. 


We have just watched Hugo. The owners of our magical local shop 'Automata'  were on set during the making of this film to give advice on the finer points of automata. Michael started his working life as a watchmaker but kicked against the limits of horology, set out to find and restore the clever clockworks toys of the 18th and 19th century and eventually became internationally known in this esoteric field. His shop is currently displaying the head of the lifelike clockwork humanoid that plays a big part in the story. They also have the nursery animals that are wound up and set bobbing by ex-Harry Potter in 'The Woman in Black' in an attempt  to summon the ghost. 


I still think the most startling automaton in their collection is a life-sized French lady (she has to be French, judging by her chic, clothes) who sews, crosses and uncrosses her legs, and breathes. Quite disturbing.  


Sandy would like very much to work in the same trade. Not sure how we go about getting him an apprenticeship. In the meantime he is old enough to be left behind the counter in our, more mundane, store today allowing me to slip next door to the charity shop to browse for books. Yesterday I came away with a good haul. Three hardbacks, two of them first editions (I can't help it, I still get a kick out of 'firsts' even though most of them aren't worth much these days thanks to Amazon) I got a Susan Hill I haven't read, strange as it's her first; Mary Wesley's 'Part of the Furniture' which I have but I like to have her books on my shelves to reread; and a  handsome copy of 'Barchester Towers'.


I'm just coming to the end of a run of Phil Rickman novels. His Merrily Watkins tales have been republished in a much nicer format than erstwhile so I'm buying the set gradually. I don't often see first editions of them in a charity shop, in fact I very rarely see any of his novels on their shelves. When they do turn up they are ex-library with strained bindings. His earliest titles like 'December' and 'The Chalice' were long so very fat;  they were also printed on thick (cheap?) paper which picks up grease marks and doesn't wear well. He has found a better publisher now I think.  On earlier posts I have had remarks like 'Can't understand why he isn't better known'. Neither can I except that once I heard he was approached by a TV company who wanted to make a series from the Merrily books. They were proposing (and insisting?) on certain changes which Phil wouldn't allow  them to make so it never happened. Good for him. If he is doing well enough to have the whole series reprinted then he can't be doing too badly.


He is excellent at creating believable characters who I feel I might meet one day if I can be in the right place at the right time. He is equally brilliant at atmosphere, using buildings, landscape and weather  to greater effect than most writers because he also weaves in the ancient history of the landscapes, of the rocks that have seen warring nations and the petty but vicious squabbles of neighbours, the old apple orchard in which local fortunes have been made and lost, old murders and wrongs committed and hidden, the oast houses, the atrocities seen by the deserted wine press.... and that's only in one of the tales! He writes with feeling about the wrongs of the past and present day corruption in local politics as the countryside, the old paths, the old ways, traces of the earliest signs of human connection with the spiritual, are obliterated to line the pockets of the already rich.


It 's so long since I read the earliest ones it was almost like coming to them afresh. I've said a lot about his books already, how much I like them and why, so I won't repeat myself but last week I realised something else, they have quietly changed my attitude to the church and organised religion. Not that I believe all ministers of the church are as humble, questioning and  self-aware as Merrily but I hope some might be and her character has encouraged me to become interested the work of committed and conscientious priests. Merrily hasn't been asked to bless a civil marriage yet but perhaps that will come. I hear from a friend whose daughter is in a civil partnership that the Methodist priest they have in the family and a friend who is an advisor to - someone important in the C of E, shan't name names here - are both sitting firmly on the fence on this one. It must be so uncomfortable for them.