One From 21 Years Ago

Twenty-one years ago, I was working in Mill House, Harryville, which at that time was a hostel for women temporarily without homes. We were in the process of selling number 61 and renovating the house we're living in now.. I still have those shabby paperbacks from 35 years ago, although they have now been cluttering up my bookshelves for 56 years. That is far too long, especially as they would probably fall to pieces in my hands if I were to attempt a re-read.

Those Happy, Happy Days

I’m doing an extra shift this weekend, which I didn’t even have to be persuaded to take on. First I thought – well what else would I be doing? Then I thought – I could catch up on blogging. Finally I thought – extra money! Good oh!

I spend a huge amount of time on my computer. Since it’s been sick I have spent that time house cleaning, packing away, reading and watching Celebrity Big Brother. As this house must be valued, I thought it might be nice for the estate agent to be able to see past all the stuff. So I have been sorting, packing and throwing out. What a ball of crap I’ve gathered up over the years. I still own ancient paperbacks that I bought in Smithfield Market 35 years ago. Looking at those ancient Orwells, Steinbecks, Drabbles and Murdochs reminded me of some of the happiest days of my life, my school days – the days that I was not in attendance.

When school* was dreary I used to play truant, or mitch. One of the dreariest of the dreary classes was Anatomy and Physiology. This class was taken by a local GP called Dr R. It always took place last two periods. Dr R. never bothered to call a roll so our class got into the habit of deciding among ourselves who’d be cutting it that afternoon. There had to be at least half a dozen of us stay for the class or Dr R. would report us to the head.

In good weather we’d head for the Castle grounds, which were much wilder and much more fun than they are today. In damper weather it would be O’Neill’s café if we could scrape up the price of a coffee to be lingered over for hours. How my heart did race when we were joined by some handsome Stanley or Eugene.**

Mitching on my own I started off by going to Belfast Airport and watching the planes take off and land. Then when I got braver I’d hitch to Belfast town. I’d often get a lift with Dan the Coalman and he’d take me round the docks. I think he bought his coal straight off the boats. Another guy who used to give me lifts was Johnny the Gallaher Man. Imagine getting a lift on a wagon carrying (at today’s prices) millions of pounds worth of cigarettes. Nowadays Gallaher's sends Dublin’s cigarettes via Liverpool rather than run the risk of hijacking at the border.

My favourite places in Belfast then were Fresh Garbage (still going) and Smithfield Market (not what it was.) That is where I bought all those second hand books.

And what of Anatomy and Physiology at ‘O’ level? A big fat fail was my deserved reward. But I still know the names of nearly all the bones in the human body and I can tell you the places where you’ll find squamous epithelium. Some of them are a bit rude.

*Antrim Technical College – Pre-Nursing Class 1968-1970
** Any reader familiar with this era or place please note that I do not refer to the publican Mr M. who would have been a child and unknown to me at that time. 

Culture Vulture

I’m writing this while listening to the brilliant fiddler Colm Mac Con Iomaire, who I had the pleasure of hearing perform at Seamus Heaney HomePlace in Bellaghy a few weeks ago.

I went along with Bert and Zoe to hear Colum McCann in conversation with Rami Elhanan and Bassam Aramin — the two bereaved fathers whose friendship and shared loss inspired McCann’s acclaimed novel Apeirogon.

Which, I’m sorry to say, has been on my “to read” list since the last time I saw Colum McCann appear at the HomePlace, just over a year ago.

One of the most sobering things about growing older is realising how much I still haven’t read, and how much I still don’t know. For instance, I hadn’t realised that Colm Mac Con Iomaire was in The Frames with Glen Hansard, even though Glen Hansard also appeared in The Camino Voyage with Kerry Sister’s husband.

Nor did I know that it was Colm Mac Con Iomaire who accompanied the artist and poet Kae Tempest at Other Voices in Dingle - even though I watched a documentary about that venue and thought they were the best part of it. I’d love to see Kae Tempest perform live. It would be handy if he should ever come to Bellaghy.

Reading and Flying

 These days it seems I never have enough time to read. What keeps me from it? At night it is the need to sleep; during the day, everything distracts me. I always bring a book (or two) when travelling, even if it is just to pick up the grandchildren. I do not mind waiting if I have something to read, no matter how long I am kept waiting.

Train journeys are another good opportunity to catch up on my reading. When I was at university, I always carried something entertaining, never anything related to my studies as that would have been far too dry. I was not the only one. Almost everyone travelling alone would be reading something, even if it was only a newspaper or magazine. I would always try to sneak a look at the cover of whatever book a fellow traveller was reading, and of course I would judge them on it. Nowadays, readers on trains are rarer, as most people are glued to their smartphones. If I do see someone with a book, I am impressed, no matter what it is.

On my most recent trip to London, when Zoe and I were travelling for Jonny’s funeral, I brought TransAtlantic by Colum McCann. It was a ridiculously early flight and we had agreed not to chat on the plane journey - there would be time enough for that later. 

Instead, I read. The first part of the novel centred on the pioneering flight taken by Jack Alcock and Arthur Whitten Brown in 1919 when they flew from St Johns, Newfoundland to Clifden, Ireland. That year alone was enough to captivate me, as my father was born in September 1919.

Alcock and Brown’s was the first non-stop transatlantic flight ever completed. They flew in an adapted Vickers Vimy, a former First World War bomber chosen for its ability to carry heavy loads. The plane was flimsy by modern standards and freezing cold. Of course, I knew they were going to make it, but even so I was gripped. The final push towards Ireland, when they hit a fog bank and briefly lost control, was nerve-racking, and the bog landing, rough as it was, felt like a triumph.

It was only a few days later that I realised, as I had been reading this thrilling account of an earlier flight, that I was actually sitting in a plane myself. Although it was nowhere near as precarious and uncomfortable as Alcock and Brown’s Vickers Vimy, the seats weren’t that comfortable and I did have some concerns that my hip might start to cramp. Which it did, but the walk from plane to train soon loosened it up. Compared with Alcock and Brown, we modern folk are softies - most of us, anyway, and I certainly am.  

Jury Service

Monday marks the beginning of my fourth week of tedious, dreary jury service. I don’t like it. I wish I had played the age card and got out of it. 

Why so?

Most of us aren’t needed. They call in about sixty people per group, but only around one in five might end up on a jury panel.

And – even if the panel is chosen and sworn in, a trial might not go ahead.

While we wait – for hours, sometimes – we’re in a grim room, sitting in rows on hard, unforgiving chairs. After about thirty minutes, I start getting cramps. We can be stuck there for three hours or more, doing nothing, waiting for something that may never take place.

Then in comes the Clerk of Court.

‘Thank you for your patience, everyone. You’re not needed today. Don’t forget to check the Juryline at 5 p.m.’

Ah yes, the other major inconvenience. We never know until 5 p.m. whether we’re required the next day, which means we can’t make plans – only tentative ones.

I use the dead time to catch up on my reading. I can’t be bothered chatting with my neighbours. I feel out of place. I’m fairly certain I’m the oldest person in the room – bound to be, really. Any sensible seventy-something would have played the age card and bowed out.

So why didn’t I? Bert says it’s fear of missing out. Maybe he’s right. But believe me, fellow oldies – it’s not worth it.

Crossing the Lagan

I crossed the River Lagan six times today, four times on the train, twice on foot.

The book I brought—because I never travel without one—was Transit by Rachel Cusk. Chosen as much for its weight as its content. I was further along than I had realised and finished it long before the journey’s end. That left me with nothing to do but look at the scenery.

I alighted at Botanic Station as I wanted to peruse the local charity shops. I was looking for an ecru sweater, something loose, to wear over the two forgotten Boden dresses I found in the attic. They had been there long enough to be practically vintage. I did not find a sweater. I bought books instead.

From there, the Asia Supermarket. A wok, some spices. Kimchi for Bert. It was a 35-minute walk via the Ormeau Bridge, or meant to be. Closer to 45 minutes in my case. So many woks, so many spices. I have a wok already, a large one, bought here years ago. It has served me well and will continue to do so. The new one is smaller, and useful when cooking for two.

It was disappointing that the cafe at Asia Supermarket was closed. I had been looking forward to a sit-down and something interesting to eat and drink.

My next destination was Lanyon Place Station, via the Ravenhill Road and Albert Bridge. Roughly 25 minutes. I was tired, thirsty and looking forward to some rest and refreshments at the station. And there it was. And all it had was Starbucks. I got an indifferent cappuccino and a truly bad cheese and ham ciabatta thing. Plastic ham and cheese and bread like sawdust. Never again.

Though I will return to Belfast. I will walk across bridges, along the Ravenhill Road. But I will never eat in Starbucks again. The coffee perhaps, in an emergency.

Having finished Transit (so good) I began another book, one I had bought on Botanic Avenue - I Am, I Am, I Am by Maggie O'Farrell. I have read it before, but a long time ago. It's worth another read. 

One From Ten Years Ago

 

Burning Books

One of my delights is reading to Martha and Evie; that pleasure is greatly increased when I enjoy the story myself. We are all loving the Winnie the Pooh stories by A.A. Milne. A few weeks ago I was given a pile of books by a friend. Most of them were Charlie and Lola books which were new to me but I knew Martha would be pleased with them. There was also a Winnie the Pooh book which was unfamiliar. Martha picked Charlie and Lola for this afternoon's reading session. It was OK. It might grow on me as I become familiar with the characters. Evie chose the new Winnie the Pooh book. As I opened it I saw that it was  a Disney book written by someone called Tammi J. Santa Croce. The children appeared to enjoy it but not me. It jarred. The prose was inelegant, the tone simplistic, the story trite. Croce had endowed Piglet with a stammer which was entirely ignored by me in the reading. The worst of it was the author's treatment of Tigger. She had him saying things like 'li'l buddy', 'where are ya?' and 'tigger-ific'. The most awful part was when he said, 'Hey, buddy boy! Whatcha doin'?' I was appalled and resolved to get rid of the dreadful book at my first opportunity. It's actually burning on the fire right now.

October Reading

 After the shameful amount of books read in September I am pleased to disclose that October was a big improvement. I started slim, as in volume size.

The Sign Of The Sugared Plum by Mary Hooper.

I picked this one up at the Tesco charity bookshelf. At first I thought it might be a children’s book but apparently not. An account of life in London during the Great Plague. Moderately engaging and not recommended but at least it got me reading again. Otherwise avoid.

More Tesco finds – The Finding by Nina Bawden. Underwhelming.

Yet another Tesco find – My Folks Don’t Want Me to Talk About Slavery edited by Belinda Hurmence. A previous owner must have picked this one up at an estate in the Southern States of the USA. It was a quick read, interesting, part of an academic research project. My inbuilt cynicism led to some distrust of the editing process but I still found it interesting.

Ganching led me to Three Hours by Rosamund Lupton. She mentioned it in a blog and described it as something she read in a 24-hour period. I had a copy (Tesco again) and being in the mood for a binge read I found it to be just the job. 24 hours later – enjoyable read to be returned to Tesco charity bookshelves at my earliest convenience.

So that’s me back on track at the reading again. I was longing to read the new Elizabeth Strout, Tell Me Everything. According to the reviews it brings together many beloved Strout personalities including Olive Kitteridge, Lucy Barton and Bob Burgess. My only difficulty was – I hadn’t read The Burgess Boys. Well, I have now and I like it very much. Still haven’t begun Tell Me Everything but it is sitting there, waiting for me – a brand new copy. Long time before it ends up on Tesco’s charity bookshelf.

The last book I finished was Dirty Linen by Martin Doyle. I bought my copy in St George’s Market from yer man who runs Belfast Books. His is not a store I’d normally be in but the book was half-price and I’d wanted to read it. Yer man said it was a ‘tough read’ and I’m not sure what he meant by that. But there is this – I’ve often thought that the accounts of the people who died during the period of our Irish history that is called ‘The Troubles’ has been fairly well documented. What is less well documented are the stories of the injured and the bereaved. Martin Doyle’s book went some way to bring some of those stories to the fore.

I went to an event at Seamus Heaney HomePlace in Bellaghy on Friday evening. The writer Colum McCann in Conversation. It wasn’t quite a full house but it was nearly. Novel readers must be mostly ladies of a certain age. I’d guess the youngest person there was around forty-five. I did not tell the author that I’ve only read one of his books so far and that I picked it up from the Tesco charity bookshelf. Let The Great World Spin. Since then I acquired two more novels and bought another two at HomePlace. It was a good evening.

I’ll be taking Colum McCann on my holiday to Norfolk and London. This Side of Brightness. Already packed.  

Just One Book

Unthinkable! In September I finished reading just one book. The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry. I quite liked it even though the ending wasn't quite the surprise it might have been. I only research books once I've read them so it came as news to me that the novel was made a film. Researching the movie made me realise that I never wanted to see it even though it featured Vanessa Redgrave. Also, it was only loosely based on the book as the unsympathetic Father Gaunt became Hot Priest Theo James. I passed the book on to a friend and told her I didn't want it back.

What kept me from reading? Three things,

Gardening, Duolingo and Snails.

Bert and I have been working in our garden a lot and have made some progress. We make a good team. My back and shoulders aren't amazing so he does all the spadework. His knees are dodgy so I do all the wheel barrowing. Between us, we make one great gardener. For the first time in years, I am looking forward to spring.

Duolingo. Ganching warned me not to get obsessed. At first, I didn't know what she meant. Then, about two weeks in, I realised I was in leagues. I got obsessed. Sundays were fraught as I struggled to get into the top three or, at the very least, the promotion zone. A few days ago I realised I'd spent 24 hours in the previous week on Duolingo. That's like A JOB! I have wised up. 'll still do it a bit but I am going to have to stop caring about leagues and just try and do a bit of French grammar. For fun.

Snails. The Garden variety. I have spent almost my entire life loathing slugs and snails but have, in the past couple of years, become fascinated by them. Most nights I'm out with my torch to see what they are up to. It's the snails I like best but now I'm also getting to like the slugs too. And fellow gardeners, here is something I have discovered. Don't be too tidy in your herbaceous borders for the snails and slugs seem to prefer decaying plant matter. And if you don't leave anything like that for them they will eat the good stuff. It doesn't apply to hostas though - they just cannot resist them.

So - here's to October, more reading, gardening and snail-watching and a lot less Duolingo. 

Making Slow Progress

I will soon be giving an account of my September reading and it will not take long. There will also be a format change. As I have written before I generally keep many books in my reading pile, usually around twelve as this number seems manageable. In September that number hovered around 14-15. 

I won't be photographing the 12 this month or ever again. That is because I feel a little bit disappointed that some books seem never to make their way out of the pile. There is one in there that I bought with last year's birthday book tokens and another that I found in a Sue Ryder in Fakenham when I was on my last visit to the Norfolk branch of the family. Those two are still on the go.

You see where I'm going with this?  The books that languish in my reading pile say far more about me than I want known.

Anyway, here are some of the books that I've been reading this past while. 

Eleven of them are yet to be finished and there is one other that I got fed up with and decided not to finish. Clue: It's on the top row.

The Twelve, September 2024

 

While my actual reading slowed down in August, my book purchasing surged. I may have bought three times more books than those I finished reading.

The three books read were, in order of the pleasure given,

Let The Great World Spin by Colum McCann. I found my copy in the charity bookshelves in Tesco. I enjoyed it immensely, so much so that on the morning I read the last page I went straight online and ordered Apeirogon from World of Books. It arrived on Saturday. Sadly it was a French translation and despite me spending far too many hours on Duolingo* my French isn't up to it. World of Books is sorting it out for me. I will get another copy and get to keep the French one. 

My second favourite was As You Were by Elaine Feeney. While I was reading it I felt less than impressed, yet I've been thinking about it ever since. One to read again.

The third book which I read quickly was Gordon by Edith Templeton. The novel was referred to in a recent Guardian article and I had an unread copy on my shelves. Shall we say it was interesting?  I shall be recommending the Colum McCann to all my family and friends who enjoy reading but not the Templeton. 

Here's hoping for more reading this month. The Percival Everett is yet to be started and I'm really looking forward to it. 

 *I joined just over a month ago. It keeps me off the wine.

The Twelve, August 2024

 

Five books were completed in July.

Remote Sympathy by Catherine Chidgey

This was incredibly good,  and I'd recommend it. I passed it to Bert after I'd read it.

How They Broke Britain by James O'Brien

If you know James, you know James. He was hard on  Jeremy Corbyn who must have found himself in unholy company.

Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver

I enjoyed this less than other books by Kingsolver.  The heroine was more than slightly annoying. Still, I did learn a lot about Mojave culture.

The Story of Lucy Gault by William Trevor

Lucy Gault reminded me, a little, of Elsie Dinsmore with her scrupulousity and pig-headedness. Thankfully William Trevor is a much better writer than Elsie's creator, so I enjoyed Lucy's story very much. Passed it to Hannah.

10 Minutes 38 Seconds In This Strange World by Elif Shafak

At first, I wondered if I could get into a novel that introduced its main character, a prostitute dumped in a trash can, after she had been murdered. It might have been brutal but it was marvellous. It's my first book by Shafak but it won't be the last. Passed on to Hannah.

Incidentally, it was the cover of 10 Minutes that first appealed. Which just goes to show that covers do matter.If it is done right even the blurb can be part of the design.

Books added to The Twelve. 

Let The Great World Spin by Colum McCann

The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry

The Great Fire by Shirley Hazzard

The Emigrants By W.G. Sebald

The Colony by Audrey Magee

Of these, I expect to enjoy McCann, am already irritated by some of the characters in The Colony which may well be the point.

The Twelve, July 2024

 

Another six books have been completed since I last posted.

Two by Tana French, The Secret Place and The Likeness. They were enjoyable although both were far too clever for their own good. As crime fiction should be. I think that itch has been dealt with for a while although I do have a Denise Mina waiting in the wings.

And speaking of crime - I'll Be Gone  In The Dark by Michelle McNamara, a true account of the search for a serial rapist and killer in California. I liked it. Very well written. McNamara died before it was published and I found myself more interested in her than the killer who, like most of his ilk, was mediocre and underwhelming.

I raced through Pet. Five stars. I want to read everything Catherine Chidgey has written and I am grateful to my Irish/Kiwi cousin for the recommendation.

Then I completed reading According to Queeney by Beryl Bainbridge. It didn't grip me as much as some of Bainbridge's other books. Still a decent read. And, at times, bloody comical. I shall read it again when I'm eighty.

I picked up a copy of The Seventh Son by Sebastian Faulks somewhere last week. Tesco charity bookshelves, Oxfam? Cannot remember. Read it in four days. (Remember I'm also reading eleven other books concurrently.) Could not put it down. There were some of the same themes as Human Traces but it was much more accessible. An exhilarating and enjoyable read that left me thinking about what it is to be a human being. I loved it.

Not reading but I did start listening to All Quiet On The Western Front. I will never be able to gather strawberries again without recalling the suffering of horses on the battlefield. I know the men suffered too but there must be something less harrowing to listen to whilst gardening. 

The Twelve, June 2024

I finished six books in May.

Hagseed by Margaret Atwood, a most enjoyable romp.

Five Days At Memorial by Sheri Fink – I’d been reading this forever. Is it right to dose the elderly and infirm with opiates in a disaster situation? The jury is out.

Dusklands by J.M. Coetzee. The first part was a struggle, the second less so. It was brutal in parts.

The Fifth Risk – I read this fast, enjoyed it, learned stuff, and then forgot it.

The Axeman’s Carnival by Catherine Chidgey – where a magpie ( Gymnorhina tibicen) is the main protagonist. This was so good, a recommendation from my New Zealand cousin, also called Catherine. I passed it straight on to Hannah and I expect that when she has finished it, Zoe will love it too. Thank you, Kiwi Catherine!

Back Home by Michelle Magorian, a children's book by the author of Goodnight, Mr. Tom. I read this one quickly, a story set in the post-war years. Moderately enjoyable, the heroine was a cheeky brat and there was rather too much psychological and physical abuse of children described and not enough censure of said abuse. 

Onwards to the June Twelve.

These are the books in my reading basket right now. Failing Peace and Pet are recent additions, yet to find their way to the front of the queue. In other words, not cracked but I am so looking forward to Pet. The Sara Roy will be a duty read. I need to educate myself about Palestine and Israel and this book has come recommended.

Hannah has been urging me to read The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure forever and I’ve only just started it. Maybe too soon to say but I think I will like it.

The Kingsolver is going slowly as are the Feeney and Bainbridge. None as slow as Lost Children which I picked up in a Sue Ryder in Fakenham. I’ve been reading that since last October.

I’ll Be Gone In The Dark was recommended by Mel and I like it. The Cabaret of Plants has not lived up to its early promise. I’m on Bird’s Eye Primulas and am underwhelmed. I’m expecting to enjoy the Tana French and the Elif Shafak is beguiling.

Easter 1916, is an educational read, so far I’m unmoved.

Since I posted the long list of all the books I’ve read since the multi-book project began I found that I left out a few.One was Prophet Song by Paul Lynch, a recent read on loan from Zoe. Did I enjoy it? I believe I did. It was dark and dystopic but I think,  just the smallest bit hopeful. For life goes on. Until it doesn’t.

Another one, finished a long time ago was André Alexis, Fifteen Dogs. Sad and beautiful and it made me cry. I may need to go back to it.

On Reading & Cooking

I finished two books this morning. The first was In the Castle of My Skin by George Lamming which I immediately wanted to reread. That is a rare feeling for me but I felt as if there was something there that I really needed to understand better. I will read it again.

The second book was Elisabeth Strout's Amy & Isabelle, a recommendation from London Sister. This one I didn't feel inclined to reread it but it did make me want to read another Strout. World Books on eBay here I come.

And speaking of World Books - I recently bought a pre-owned copy of Bee Wison's The Secret of Cooking. I paid top dollar for it, only a few quid less than a new copy and was very disappointed to discover that the previous owner had left some cooking splodges on it, in the form of stuck-together pages.  Of course, this meant that the book obviously encouraged cooking and if it had cost me a fiver I wouldn't have cared.  World Books were great about it and gave me a full refund which I have already spent on buying even more books from them. 

Tonight I made Mushroom Noodles with Peanut Dressing from Bee Wilson's book and it was superb. Probably the best salad dressing I've ever made in my life. It was the very definition of umami. Cannot wait to make it again. 

The Jeep has been in for a service this past day and a half. I've missed it. This must be how Vee feels all the time. No wheels. The car came back today and I was straight into town to buy all the special ingredients for the Mushroom Noodles etc. It was pension day yesterday and I longed to spend but had no wheels. I cracked around nine pm and replenished my spices from my online spice supplier. And I bought a book from World Books, The Trees by Percival Everett recommended by The Guardian and Ganching. I will probably buy Everett's James tomorrow if I can persuade Vee to Waterstone's.

PS This post should be more accurately be titled On Reading & Cooking & Drinking Wine for there was a really good offer in Tescos this evening.

Watching Blue Lights and Baby Reindeer. Gardening? Afraid not. It's far too cold and wet. Worst Spring in 70 years.

The Reading List

How long is it since I started reading multiple books? I need to look this up. Thankfully it will have been recorded in Nelly's Garden.

[checks blog]

Aha! I first mentioned it EXACTLY five years ago. This is why I blog.

On Friday, March 08, 2019, I posted this, 

For several months now I've been reading 10-12 books simultaneously. I was inspired to do this by Will Self, who in answer to the question,

What are you reading currently?

Replied, 

Before I read digitally, I’d be reading perhaps 10 books simultaneously – but now I read as many as 50 at once...

I still don't read digitally and I've never went as far as fifty books. That would be beyond me. Also, I.ve never read Will Self. So far, never felt the need.

I have kept a list of most of the books I've read this past five years and it numbers 199 which does not seem a lot. Forty books a year. At that rate if I live to be 90 (which I'd quite like to) I'll only be able to read another 800 books. Some of those will be re-reads and some still to be written. 

My current favourite reads are The Bee Sting and The Age of Innocence. 

All-time favourites Louise Kennedy - Trespasses and Claire Keegan - Foster. Recent favourites Wally Lamb - I Know This Much Is True and Barbara Kingsover - Demon Copperhead. 

My Monday

There were a lot of people and dogs in this house over the weekend so, when I heard that I would not be expected to do anything or go anywhere today, I was pleased. Maybe catch up on my reading?

Despite all the extra dogs and people on Saturday and Sunday I managed to finish two books.  Saturday's last chapters was Paul Lynch, Prophet Song and on Sunday morning, while Jazzer deep-cleaned my kitchen, I returned to bed and read the final pages of Demon Copperhead. I've been alternating those two for the last week. The Paul Lynch was an unsettling read but, in the end, worth it. Demon Copperhead was hugely enjoyable. It will be Zoe's next, then Bert, then Bilrus who really disliked Prophet Song. I know he'll like the Kingsolver as he once said that John Steinbeck's East of Eden was the best novel he'd ever read.

I am still doing that 12 books at a time thing so the Lynch was replaced by Beryl Bainbridge's According to Queeney and the Kingsolver by another Kingsolver, Animal Dreams. I expect to find them both good.

As it happened I did not read much today (so far). Instead, I cleaned floors. Unbelievable how much filth seven dogs, ten people and two sprogs can tramp into a house and Jazzer's deep clean did not make it to the floors. Then we watched an episode of Kin and another of The Way. Inbetween times I drank a lot of tea and followed Vancouver Brother's flight from Van to Puerto Vallarta on flightradar. They* are within minutes of landing and I believe they'll make it safely to the ground.** 

At the Dark Hedges. Photo by Zoe

*Vancouver Brother's pronouns are he/him not they/them. He is travelling with his beloved.   

**I woke this morning having just dreamed that I heard Vancouver brother calling my name. This unsettled me and I became convinced that this meant he was in some kind of trouble. I messaged him some time later and he replied that he was OK, sitting on a plane and heading to Mexico.

In which Bert takes up literary criticism

Sunday morning, and Bert stays in bed with his book.

When he comes down I ask him,

What are you reading now?

J.M. Coetzee. Dusklands.

Is it good?

It's shite.

Why read it then?

It's really two novellas and it shouldn't take long.

But why is it shite?

Because of how he writes. Never says what he means, just fliff-flaffing about. It's esoteric. What does esoteric mean anyway?

I don't actually know for sure. Look it up and while you're at it check out what's being said about Dusklands online.

Is that not cheating?

No. It's a really good thing to do. Helps you to understand the book, maybe get more out of it.

A little time passes. 

Bert has just found out about the world of books online. He says,

Ha! I'm not the only one then. It says here that those that find fault with Dusklands concentrate on the obliquity of the book's method.

He goes back online. Doing his research. Some minutes later he waves his phone in front of my face. I am looking at a picture of Frank O'Connor's Dutch Interior.

Bert says,

Look at that! The state of it! Spine's hanging off it! And they're looking £40 for it.

I say,

It's probably a first edition. But I wouldn't want it in that state.

I look up our paperback copy to see what that is worth. Seventeen pounds.

Bert says,

You should sell it. It's a load of shite anyway.

The Sweet Waters of Europe and Some Other Places

 

The Sweet Waters of Europe

Just as Bert finished reading Dutch Interior I'd completed Master Georgie by Beryl Bainbridge. I handed it over,

I think you'll like this. It's about a surgeon in the Crimean War, and it's written by a woman. 

These days Bert seems to prefer female novelists, his current faves being Hilary Mantel and Pat Barker. Sure enough he came downstairs next day saying,

That's more like it. Says what she means, no shilly-shallying around.

In the novel Master Georgie and his camp followers take a leisurely route to the battlefield. They set sail from Liverpool to Constantinople and on arrival spend some time taking in the sights including a trip to the Sweet Waters of Europe, which was a fashionable resort at that time. The area, now known as Kâğıthane, is urbanised and the wealthy must have found new playgrounds.

Now I know very little of the Crimean War for it never came up in my school history lessons. That was all Plantagenets, Tudors, The Flight of the Earls and the English Civil War. There was Florence Nightingale of course and references to limbless soldiers in Victorian novels. Yet when George and his camp followers get to where the action is I realised that many of the geographical place names were already familiar. Belfast, like hundreds of other towns and cities in these islands, had streets named Crimea, Inkerman, Alma, Sevastapol, Plevna and Varna. Most of these are part of old Belfast and no longer exist. However, Sevastapol Street, off the Falls Road still stands and that is where the famous mural of Bobby Sands is situated. Balaclava Street, also on the Falls Road, has disappeared. Its claim to fame was being named 'Balaclava' at one end and 'Balaklava' on the other. 

Nor was Lord Raglan, of Peninsular and Crimean War fame, been forgotten when it comes to Irish roads and pubs. Belfast had its Raglan Street, Dublin still has its Raglan Road made famous by Patrick Kavanagh and Luke Kelly. And Ballymena? We had the Raglan Bar in Harryville which I entered on one occasion for about five minutes. Strong Straw Dogs vibe. It's a Credit Union now. 

Places in Books: 19 Eldon Road, Kensington

 

Number 19, Eldon Road, where the art critic Brian Sewell and his dog Susie lived in 1972. Susie was the first to sense that they were not alone, trembling and howling on many occasions. Sewell himself became aware of a presence.

"...something disagreeable - a chill and a stench through which I could pass in a single stride, of much the same height and volume as a human being" (Sleeping With Dogs, Brian Sewell, p30)

It is to be hoped that the current residents are untroubled by hauntings and, if this is so, they can thank Sewell for it, because it was he on meeting the ghost on the stairs, sat down, talked to it and somehow persuaded it to leave, much to Susie's relief.

I am reading this book for the second time. Zoe loaned it to Hannah after Ziggy died and when she had finished I decided to read it again. By all accounts the author was a complicated man who held controversial views but I read him as a fellow lover of dogs and that will do.  

 

Union Street

 

This morning I finished reading Union Street by Pat Barker. It doesn't happen often but as I read the last paragraph I immediately wanted to re-read the entire book.

The book is unflinching in describing the reality of working-class women's lives. And no bodily excretion or fluid goes unmentioned. At first, I found that off-putting but not as much as the long-ago Guardian reviewer who wrote that it was all "far too gynaecological".

It was Bert who was the first to read Pat Barker. He began with the Regeneration Trilogy then moved to the Women of Troy novels and finally Union Street. I always gave him first dibs at the Barkers. Not any longer for I ordered three more today and I'll be reading them first. Bert will just have to wait.

*The last book I re-read straight away was Claire Keegan's Small Things Like These.