Reading etc.

The Eye of the Beholder

29 April, 2025
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Reading etc., Siblings

I was at the Hugh Lane Gallery recently. Francis Bacon’s studio has been reconstructed in the Gallery; and has been a big attraction there for many years. It was brought piece by piece from his London attic and re-instated in the Hugh Lane. I am not a big Francis Bacon fan but it is interesting. I took a photo and sent it in to the family group chat captioning it “My worst nightmare”. A hilarious line reflecting on the artist’s studio and my own slight obsession with tidiness. Like many of these hilarious lines of mine, it went unread in the family group chat except by my saintly husband who, on first glance thought it was actually my parents’ attic in its glory days (it has now been tamed by my sister in a project stretching over many months). I have to say, actually, it does resemble the attic except there is marginally more floor space in the studio.

Arts etc.

30 March, 2025
Posted in: Boys, Cork, Daniel, Family, Ireland, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc., Siblings

Mr. Waffle and I went to see “Dr. Strangelove” at the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre. It’s where all the big shows that come to Dublin go. I find it unsatisfactory as a theatre as it is ginormous and a bit lacking in atmosphere. The sets were amazing but the play only alright. I don’t mind Steve Coogan but I don’t love, love, love him. However, the rest of the audience were apparently only there to see him and when he appeared on stage he had to break character to acknowledge the rapturous applause. I only went because Armando Ianucci was involved and I love him and had heard him interviewed about the play on “This American Life”. Honestly, I wouldn’t say it was his best work but I may have been prejudiced by the fact that everyone else found it hilarious and it only occasionally made me smile. I thought the woman beside me was going to have to be stretchered out such was her hilarity while I smiled thinly at the very odd joke that appealed.

Michael went to see “And Juliet” which was recommended by a commenter. His friend got tickets for her birthday and invited him along. He found it reasonably enjoyable. I am coming to the conclusion that my family may be hard to please.

I took a half day from work to see Michael in a lunchtime performance of a college play. It is doubtless his mother’s prejudice but I thought he was really excellent.

Mr. Waffle and I investigated an Argentinian Bakery in the Liberties. It is called Bakeology and I would recommend. Our empanada needs are met for the foreseeable.

There has been plenty of cinema in my life since I was here last. I enjoyed “A Real Pain” as did the Oscar voters. “Bridget Jones” did not trouble the Oscars but I must say I really enjoyed it. A friend and I went for dinner after work and then saw it in the Stella in Rathmines which I would recommend for a little treat.

Mr. Waffle and I went to see another Iranian film – “Seed of the Sacred Fig”. You would want to be in the whole of your health for these Iranian films, I will say that. Very worthy and good and all but I was a bit wrung by the end.

As part of the festival of the Francophonie we went to a Moroccan film (and international buffet – can I deny that this was the major temptation? I can not). The film was “Animalia” and it’s about a girl who marries into a rich family and struggles to adapt; she stays at home one day while they are all out and – plot twist – gets cut off from the family by an alien invasion. The budget doesn’t really stretch to aliens so it’s just lights in the sky and fog. It was ok, I would say. Buffet was great – lots of Moroccan specialties. We met the Moroccan ambassador (who had introduced the film) having a cigarette outside afterwards. “What did you think?” he asked. “It was delicious,” said Mr. Waffle. “No, the film,” I hissed. “Um, very thought provoking,” he said politely. “It was a bit strange alright,” said the ambassador “and what a time to screen it early evening during Ramadan.” Not something that had occurred to me, I must confess, but it certainly made me think that he had performed his part admirably for someone who hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since before dawn.

I saw Edmund de Waal give a talk in the Chester Beatty library. I found him an amazing, fascinating, heart warming speaker. If you ever get a chance you should definitely go and see him. This was all the more amazing as it was online (only the elect got in person tickets and I was consumed with envy as he passed around netsuke for people to hold) and online things are, as we all know, not as good as in person, and it was still absolutely amazing.

I went to a talk on the Flying Dutchman in art which appeared to be largely a plug for the Flying Dutchman which the Irish National Opera are running in the Bord Gáis theatre. My guess is that they may have overestimated the appetite of the Irish public for opera (it’s a big, big venue) but who knows? I once saw “Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg” from the gods of the Brussels opera house and it has effectively extinguished any desire I might have to ever see another Wagner opera so it’s a no from me. I was chatting to the INO people afterwards and told them how the Princess had done a project with them during Covid and it had saved her sanity. Like many another thing the Princess does, her application to take part in this project took her parents by surprise as we are not particularly in opera and she had certainly never seemed interested before but then she is a constant series of surprises to her parents.* This lovely woman Sharon Carty put in loads of time online one on one with her and she has an abiding enthusiasm for and interest in opera. So, it’s not like I’m not grateful to the INO, just not grateful enough.

I also went to a talk on Mazzolino and the renaissance in Ferrara. I mean, alright. Can’t say that I now love Mazzolino of whom I was entirely ignorant previously but interesting enough. I went to a talk on Sarah Cecilia Harrison whose portraits I really liked and who seems, in life, to have been a very interesting and extremely contrary person. Finally, in visual arts news did I mention that I went to a talk on Eileen Gray? I will say this, the more I hear about Le Corbusier the less I like him. While I was there I had a look at the Harry Clarke stained glass which is temporarily in Dublin as Cork’s Crawford museum is closed for renovations. It was strange to see these old friends in new surroundings. I think the detail below is a self-portrait of the artist. A handsome man whose private life was, I believe, complex.

Let me throw in some more pictures of his glass from Bewley’s cafe in Grafton street. Because I can.

As I mentioned above, the Crawford Gallery is closed for renovations. Alas, alack. It’s not open again until 2027. It is being extended. Here is the text about the extension.

Here is the artist’s impression of the extension.

Really, the glass box on the roof will ensure that the character of the gallery is “maintained and enhanced with great sensitivity”? It’s appalling. I mean, I feel you King Charles. I’m sure it will be lovely from the inside but it’s quite dreadful from the outside.

My sister is still cleaning out my parents’ house and I am generally pretty ruthless about saying I don’t want things but books are my Achilles heel. My grandmother bought a large mahogany book case and its contents from Canon Mulcahy in Kilmallock at some point – maybe in the 40s. The bookcase and all its contents made their way to my parents’ house probably in about 1970. This means that my parents’ house had a fine collection of 19th and early 20th century books with a strong focus on theology, if that was your thing, but also other books: Thom’s directories, etiquette books, (worthy) novels etc. My sister pulled from this range of books a physics primer from 1874 and asked whether I would like it. Well, as you can imagine, I should have said no but we have a physics student in the house and I was weak and said yes. I showed it to my physics student who said a lot has changed in physics since 1874 but whose eye was caught by the name on the flyleaf. We found our man – JJ Joyce – in the census. He was a Jeremiah Joyce son of James W Joyce who was a successful businessman in Kilmallock and who was very active in the land league. Kilmallock (which has a great deal of local history for such a small place) has an active local history society and we were able to find out much more about James W. He was gaoled for his activities in the land league and kept a diary – it mostly seems a bit dull about managing his business back in Kilmallock – but look, look at this entry, what did he get sent to himself in Limerick gaol? Yes indeed, the physics primer which we now held in our little paws.

So that was pretty cool. I rang my sister to tell her and she thought I had discovered that the book was valuable. Alas, no. But still, my physics student brought it in to college where it was an object of fascination to the young people. One of them had an uncle in Kilmallock so he got to keep it. This seems a much better fate for it than any other I can imagine although I do wish I’d taken a photo.

Yesterday Mr. Waffle and I went on a nearly 3 hour walking tour of the city – v good, I recommend Arran Henderson for all your walking tour needs; I always learn something new and I have lived here a long time. As we were looking at a Dominican church he said how intellectual and clever the Dominicans were. As though reading the minds of his audience, he said, “Have you heard the joke about the Dominicans and the Jesuits? As you know the Dominicans dealt with the Cathars and the Albigensian heresy and the Jesuits were set up as a counter reformation force. Have you ever met a Cathar?” The poor old Cathars. As we walked on Mr. Waffle murmured to me, “Just brute force, no subtlety or intelligence.”

In the afternoon, we went to a talk by fantastic author Jan Carson who I nearly saw in 2022 and have been keen to see since. The French literature festival put together an excellent programme – all free, you’ve got to love the French – and who was on it? No prizes. The links to French literature were a bit tenuous, I mean Jan Carson’s French publisher was there? I think Jan Carson is an extraordinarily talented writer and I loath magical realism which, honestly, is a big feature of her work but somehow it’s ok when she does it. But, you know, being a great writer does not necessarily translate to being a great speaker so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. As they say, I need not have worried.

I found her really interesting. She comes from a very strict religious background. She’s from Ballymena in the North and when she was a little girl there was a sign on the roundabout saying “Ballymena still says no” and she thought it meant to line dancing as she had heard so much against it from the pulpit. Her family seem to have been very strict: no cinema, no theatre and the Bible as, if not the only book, certainly the main book available for reading at home. She attributes her interest in magical realism to hearing sermons on the Book of Revelation every Sunday between ages 10 and 12. When asked about her family and community’s attitude to her work she said that that was the first question she was always asked. She told a very moving story about a children’s play which she wrote which is currently on in the Lyric theatre in Belfast. Her mother a woman of 70 who had never been inside a theatre before, came to see it and sat and cried throughout the show. The mother said, “All these people are here, and they’re enjoying themselves and you wrote this.”

After this very touching reply, the next question came from an older gent with a booming voice and apparently unshakeable self-confidence. “Which lady writers have influenced you?” he said. “Do you like Simone de Beauvoir?” There was some hilarious confusion as she had just not heard the word “lady” and thought he meant French writers but the interviewer clarified. “I like Flannery O’Connor,” Jan Carson offered helpfully. “Is he an American?” our patrician gentleman boomed back slightly disapprovingly. He seemed not one whit discomfited by the information that Flannery O’Connor was a woman and it was poor old Jan Carson who seemed momentarily discombobulated.

Anyway recommended and not as well attended as it should have been. A win for me I guess as I got her to sign a book for me and there was almost no queue. She mentioned that she has another new book out next year. Bound to be worth a read.

Any cultural outings of your own?

*Text received last Monday: “I’m on a plane on my way to Warsaw. Did I mention I was doing this???” Reader, she did not.

Is there anybody out there?

9 January, 2025
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Reading etc.

My father used to listen to the shipping forecast at night. I imagine he got into the habit when he was younger and sailed a lot.

When we moved house in the early 1980s something about the way the walls of the house conducted sounds meant that his radio seemed louder in my room than in his. I resigned myself to hearing the shipping forecast boomed into my bedroom. I’ve always been a good sleeper which was just as well.

When he was old and deaf, the volume was quite terrifying. When I stayed in Cork, I would sometimes sleep with my head under the pillow to avoid being startled awake by the sounds of “Sailing By” which honestly sounded like it was being played live in my bedroom.

Since he died, I don’t think that I’ve listened to the shipping forecast. Recently, however, my podcast feed suggested a show on the shipping forecast and I had a listen on my commute home for nostalgia’s sake. It made me unexpectedly sad and I cycled home with tears streaming down my face.

Then, I came across this Dickens quote:

There are very few moments in a man’s existence when he experiences so much ludicrous distress as when he is in pursuit of his own hat.

I was reminded vividly of the time a daring gust of wind blew my father’s flat cap off his head and – ultimately – into the river. He was extremely cross but the rest of us were helpless with laughter which, obviously, didn’t make him any less cross.

Maybe he’s sending me a sign.

Putting the Fun in Funeral: December Round Up – Part 1

4 January, 2025
Posted in: Boys, Cork, Daniel, Ireland, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc., Siblings

Friday, November 29

Several men came and scalped the garden front and back. Overall I am delighted as it was getting out of control, although some precious plants were lost in the take no prisoners approach adopted. This before and after picture in no way conveys the extent of the haircut. I appreciate this is technically not December but look, close enough.

Friday, December 6

Faithful old Saint Nicholas delivered chocolate to Ireland and England as part of his lifelong obligation to those born in Belgium. The now adults in question are very firm on their understanding of St. Nicholas’s obligations in this regard.

That evening Mr. Waffle and I went to Cork for the funeral of my friend’s mother (our families were friends and I have known her and her parents my whole life). Her mother had died in England (where she had lived for many years) and it took – I kid you not – nearly three weeks to get the body back to Ireland for the funeral. My friend – who is an only child- said that she was inundated with texts from people saying “I totally understand if you have chosen to celebrate her life privately in your own way” basically a “you never told me about the funeral” message because no one could believe it would take so long. I myself was on constant refresh on rip.ie. It’s not all just glamour. Regular readers will be interested to hear that rip.ie has been bought by the Irish Times and from January 1, 2025 putting a death notice up on the site will cost €100 (cost to date – zero). The nation is up in arms. Honestly though it will just turn up on the undertaker’s bill, be paid for from the estate and on the scale of things, it won’t really stand out but still and all.

Anyway, Mr. Waffle and I decided to go to Cork for the weekend. He booked the Imperial on the South Mall which was once the height of glamour (it’s where Grace Kelly stayed when she came to Cork, it’s where Michael Collins stayed the night before he was shot and it’s where my great uncle Jack and great aunt Cecilia stayed – for three months (!) in the 60s while getting work done on their house – when they retired back to Cork after years in England). I was quite excited, I can tell you. We took our bikes on the train. We actually met my brother on the train who was returning from Dublin, also with his bike in the guard’s van. When we were chatting he said that he would come to the funeral also. This was great and everything but I had specifically asked my sister to put me and Mr. Waffle on her car insurance so that we could drive down in her car. She was away but had said we could borrow her car drive to Clonakilty where the funeral was. My brother is already a named driver on her policy and was planning to drive her car down so that was €80 well spent. Sigh. As I say to my children about their Uncle’s unpredictability “He’s not a tame uncle, you know.” (Small prize if you know the literary reference I am making).

The Dublin to Cork train service is fantastic but on this occasion it was not fantastic and we arrived 55 minutes late (more than an hour they refund you half your ticket value – not bitter at all). Mr. Waffle enjoyed the hilarious series of messages on the way down including the, honestly desperate sounding one, “If there’s a train engineer on board can he or she please get out on to the platform” and the not reassuring, “there’s a problem with the engine but she’s still going and we’ll do the best we can.” Percy French eat your heart out etc.

I had booked us dinner at the last sitting of Jacob’s on the Mall and when I rang to see whether they could accommodate us later than 9.30 it was with regret but no surprise that I discovered that they could not. Our train pulled into the station at 9.35.

I mean was I delighted to hop on my bike as Storm Darragh was raging? Not really, I have to concede. My smugness did not keep me dry (don’t worry, my rain gear did). When we got to the hotel, despite Mr. Waffle having checked, they were not, in fact, set up for bikes. However, after thinking it over for a bit a nice Polish man (in Cork 20 years) decided that they could be stored in the boardroom. Mr. Waffle brought his own up the carpeted stairs but the nice Polish man took my dripping bike up at speed. They looked very comfortable there leaning nonchalantly against the book shelves but I’m not sure that you could say that it was, strictly speaking, designated bike parking.

At this stage it was nearly 10 and the hotel was not serving food. Mr. Waffle who, I sometimes think does not value his life, suggested we could go to “Fast Al’s pizza”. We went across the road to a bar/tapas place that didn’t start serving food until 10.45. Just that little bit too authentic. I asked them if they could recommend anywhere and they said that there was a new taco place at the end of the street. We splashed down the road to this establishment and it’s bright fluorescent interior. This was my dinner:

Here is what I missed:

Any port in a storm, I guess. And, in fairness the staff were very nice but it wasn’t really what I was hoping for.

We rang home to make sure that someone had fed the cat and then rang back to check that the children had eaten themselves. Yes on both counts.

Our bedroom in the hotel was fine and not very expensive but it compared unfavourably with the public spaces. The hotel is undergoing a renovation and it is probably timely.

Not my best day.

Saturday, December 7

Next morning, once Mr. Waffle had picked up a new shirt (a packing malfunction), it was up on the bikes again (rescued from their boardroom haven by our Polish friend) and out to my brother’s house in the lashing rain to drive together to Clonakilty. He had offered to pick us up at our hotel but I was so concerned that he would be late that I had insisted on going to him. His attitude is that it doesn’t matter if you are late for the mass, the important thing is that you are there to sympathise afterwards and go for lunch. I do not subscribe to this view and having gone to the trouble of coming to Cork the night before I was not going to be late for the funeral. I was totally vindicated in my approach in that my brother was still in bed when we arrived at his house. He was partially vindicated in that we arrived half an hour early for the mass which even I would concede was a bit early.

I was really pleased to be at the funeral and see my friend and I think she was glad to see us including in particular my wayward brother. There were lots of people I knew at the funeral, mutual friends and relations and, indeed, the undertaker who is now pretty familiar to me. The rain held off at the cemetery and that was something. It was a particular mercy for my friend’s English cousins who were on their first visit to Ireland and had the previous evening had their flight diverted from Cork to Dublin, driven down from Dublin to Clonakilty through the storm and arrived in the early hours of the morning. God love them, they definitely needed a break from the weather.

At lunch I was seated near a very nice priest who was a friend of the deceased. He was a fellow Corkonian and I enjoyed our conversation wherein we placed each other on the social scale (he came to rest just above me). He attended the school in Cork where traditionally all the sons of the merchant princes went; my father attended the school where the boys at the next rung of the ladder went – “two households both alike in dignity” etc. While the results achieved by the boys attending the former were generally mediocre – they had family businesses to go into – the latter school was known for its excellent academic results. I commented to my new friend that the results in the former school had improved immensely (really quite extraordinary it has some of the best results in the country). My husband who had, crucially, not been following the conversation in detail said, “Isn’t that where you say that all the rich but thick boys used to go?” My new friend took it in good part but also took the opportunity to point out to me that the former president of his past pupils’ union was sitting opposite.

He (the priest) had done his PhD in Germany under none other than Cardinal Ratzinger of whom he seemed very fond. Typical of his schooling that he would get to work with the big names, of course.

Sitting opposite me was a man from Clonakilty who was a cousin of the deceased. He was so interesting. He was, I think retired but while working had been involved with a furniture factory. This had seen him working in Northern Ireland during the troubles and in China in the 80s, I think, when it was even further away than it is now. He described how once when he was staying in Carrickfergus – a very loyalist town outside Belfast – he asked to get a taxi into St Gall’s GAA club in the city. Apparently reception told him that no one from Carrickfergus would take a taxi to West Belfast. I see. His best story, however, involved a statue to Michael Collins. Although Michael Collins was from Clonakilty for a very long time there was no statue to him as it was a bit politically contentious and unclear who would unveil it. However, after the Liam Neeson film a statue went up and Liam Neeson himself, very decently, came to unveil it dealing with any political issues. Our friend was at the reception for the great and the good at which Liam Neeson was the guest of honour. Much drink was taken and a select group of half a dozen, including our friend and Mr. Neeson, went out to the town looking for further refreshment. A car drew up beside them. “Liam, get in” said a voice from within. He resisted. The voice insisted pretty firmly. Eventually he got in. We were agog, who was it? His Hollywood bodyguard? His minder? His agent? Apparently it was his mother. I love an Irish Mammy story.

We drove back up to the city and, acting on an excellent tip from my brother, went to Orso for dinner. They only take walk ins and this was a godsend when everywhere except the taco place was fully booked for a Saturday night in December. We went for a stroll around town and took a turn on the big wheel while waiting for our table to come free but it was a bit cold and damp.

We found ourselves at a bit of a loose end after our early dinner so went to see “Conclave“. I wouldn’t entirely recommend but it does look beautiful. It’s about electing a pope and Ralph Fiennes is terrific in it. I am still finding it a bit strange to be in Cork without my parents which I know is faintly ridiculous but there we are.

We got a message from the children that another spatula arrived with the shopping delivery. We lost one a couple of weeks ago and due to some errors in the purchasing department we are now the owners of three shiny new ones. Spatulas for everyone for Christmas.

Sunday, December 8

We headed back to Dublin on the train. “Wasn’t it great how easy it was to bring the bikes on the train?” I said to Mr. Waffle. He conceded that it was but then asked the killer question, “But did we need the bikes?” On reflection, I regret to inform you that, on balance, it would probably have been more convenient not to have had the bikes in Cork. Bitter.

More December thrills to come. Stay with us as Ira Glass would say.

Early Adventures in Literature

26 November, 2024
Posted in: Family, Reading etc.

I was thinking recently about “Stories for Eight Year Olds” which I presumably first read when I was eight. I remember it being quite a hard read the first time but enticing. It’s a great selection – with many scary and strange stories. Still occasionally I think of the story of the little girl who had a magic fishbone (if memory serves) which she could only use when the family were down on their luck. Her father kept wanting her to use it and asking anxiously “You have not lost it?” “No papa.” “Or forgotten it?” “No indeed papa.” After all these years I still remember her refrain and her capably finding solutions to problems while her father despairs. She uses it in the end though, I think the consequences were…good.

I still love to read but nothing, I suppose, will ever match the intensity of my love for those early books from the “Cat in the Hat” to the “Famous Five” and the Narnia books. I remember disappearing into the spare room and spending the whole day reading “The Swiss Family Robinson” under the bed (where I, presumably, was unlikely to be found and told to carry out unwelcome tasks).

I loved to read and it was such a gratifying habit as everyone seemed to feel it should be fully indulged except late at night when reading under the blankets was frowned upon. My parents were slightly down on comics, however, which I also adored. Cissie who minded us used to bring me a comic when she came back from her day off. It was about a pet lamb called “Lamb chop” which my parents found hilarious for reasons I did not at all understand at the time. My best friend got Mandy and Bunty and I burned with envy.

What did you like to read as a child?

Reading

20 November, 2024
Posted in: Reading etc.

Impossible Creatures by Katherine Rundell

This woman is a fellow at All Souls, writes books for children and is obsessed with John Donne (the author not the heroine of the book). I heard her on a podcast and liked the sound of her so I thought I would try this. It is based on some poem by John Donne which everyone finds baffling. It starts out reasonably cheerfully and I thought it might be good for my seven year old niece but then the assassin comes along. It’s set in a fantasy world which is nicely described. There is a lot of death and the door, I would say, is not open for a sequel. I found it very peculiar. Not bad, just odd.

Below the Salt by Thomas Costain

Oh my God, I heard John Major say on a podcast that this was his favourite/most inspiring book. I hated it. It’s set in two time periods: the 1930s /40s in the States and at the time of the signing of the Magna Carta in England. There is also an absolutely painful Irish interlude which I cannot even speak of. I guess Major hasn’t read it since he was a teenager and there’s a certain amount of derring do and the start of what we would now call the rule of law but, and this is really important, there’s a cringe on every page. Not recommended. Definitely in the running for my worst book of the year.

Beau Brummell The Ultimate Dandy by Ian Kelly

A friend gave me this. It’s quite long for a biography of someone whose influence was admittedly huge but who flourished only for a few short years. Most of his life was spent in France fleeing debtors and sinking forever down in the social scale. I think he must have been a dazzling companion during his brief heyday. Some of his bon mots still survive. Remember “Who’s your fat friend?” Interesting overall but surprisingly sad. You’d want to be a Regency enthusiast.

The Saint of Lost Things by Tish Delaney

This was a bookclub book which I would never have read under my own steam. It’s about an aunt and niece living together in rural Ulster and the set up is grim, grim, grim. But I loved it. It’s beautifully written; funny, sad and it felt very true in lots of ways. Absolutely recommended but you would want to be feeling strong.

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes by Suzanne Collins

I enjoyed the Hunger Games books and reread them in anticipation of this. This is a prequel. I thought it was terrible: I could not get interested in the character of the baddie (this prequel is about him as a young man). Maybe the author has been convinced by her own writing as she utterly fails to make him sympathetic or very interesting. Extremely disappointing. Alas.

Her Majesty’s Royal Coven by Juno Dawson

I mean, alright. I read another one of these last year and I suppose I came back for a second. I can’t say I’d bother with a third. Witches and covens in the modern world. It has made me keen to visit the Yorkshire village of Hebden Bridge where much of the action is set. It looks like they may be making a film/TV series about it. I passed this group in the King’s Inns in the autumn.

They found him Dead by Georgette Heyer

Georgette Heyer is my first love in the field of Regency romance and I reread her books again and again. So often that I almost know my favourites by heart. She also wrote detective novels and I never liked these. However, I decided to try again with this offering. A mistake. Not recommended.

The Vulnerables by Sigrid Nunez

This book is a bit shapeless. It’s set largely in the pandemic and not a great deal happens. A woman minds her friends’ parrot because they are out of the city for the duration of Covid. You’re really not there for the plot but more for the atmosphere, characters and writing. This is not the kind of book I would expect to enjoy but I did.

Two Sisters by Blake Morrison

I like Blake Morrison’s writing a lot. He has really mined his family for content writing separate books about his mother, his father and now his sisters. One of these is the product of a relationship his father had with a family friend and he didn’t realise they were related until later in life. The focus is more on the sister he grew up with. She was an alcoholic and he spends a lot of the book trying to work out why. It felt a bit exploitative I thought in a way that the books about his parents didn’t. Still an interesting read and very well written if you can face the ethical issues.

Birnam Wood by Eleanor Catton

Environmental groups, billionaires, prepping, planning permission, it’s all here in this book set in New Zealand. Well written and quite pacey. Not really my cup of tea but I could see how others might enjoy it.

David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

I decided to read this after reading Demon Copperhead. I was impressed by how cleverly Barbara Kingsolver based her novel on the original. I did not, however, enjoy David Copperfield. It’s overly long – you can tell he’s being paid by the word – and I found it a bit dull though funny in places. It’s a much lighter read than the Barbara Kingsolver novel. That said it is definitely not my favourite Dickens.

Life in the Balance by Jim Down

Another book written by a doctor. I find these are reliably good. This is an intensive care doctor and he’s really interesting about the job. I don’t know what I thought they did in intensive care before but now I know they basically knock you out and most intensive care doctors trained as anaesthetists. Recommended.

Family Politics by John O’Farrell

John O’Farrell is reliably hilarious. This is not his best work (that remains “Things Can Only Get Better”) but it’s still funny. The premise is that the son of a middle-class staunchly Labour family goes off to college and comes home a Tory. The author takes every opportunity to skewer the politics of the right and the left. Enjoyable.

The Dictator’s Wife by Freya Berry

I read an article about (against) artificial flowers in one of the Sunday papers and I was really impressed by the ideas and the writing style so I picked up this book by the author of the article. It’s about the widow of a dictator of an imaginary Eastern European country (honestly feels quite like Romania) who is on trial for the sins of the regime during Communism. The writing was good and the ideas were interesting but it feels like an early work and that the author will get better in time.

The Hunter by Tana French

I love Tana French. This is the second of her books featuring an American detective who has moved to the west of Ireland and his teenage protégée. I didn’t think it was as good as some of her other books but a mediocre Tana French book is still very very good.

Everywhere an Oink Oink: An Embittered, Dyspeptic, and Accurate Report of Forty Years in Hollywood by David Mamet

I found this quite annoying. It’s funny in parts but Mr. Mamet is the king of entitlement. If you like David Mamet, I guess you’ll like this.

The Witching Hour by Catriona McPherson

A new Dandy Gilver novel, I rejoice. There are loads of these detective books set between the wars in Scotland. I love Dandy our detective from the landed gentry (now a grandmother) and her sidekick and I love the period Scottish detail but the plots have always been a bit difficult to follow and this latest one is just completely bonkers. A qualified endorsement. If you want to read a Dandy Gilver novel, I wouldn’t start here.

The Farmer’s Wife by Helen Rebanks

I’ve read a couple of this woman’s husband’s books (James Rebanks) and loved them. I heard this recommended and thought I would give it a go. It’s an interesting book – very honest about the trials and tribulations of being a farmer’s wife but also acknowledging the joys of living on a farm. Well-written also.

You are here by David Nicholls

David Nicholls is funny. This is a romantic comedy about two strangers who end up walking across the north of England together. The character development is great and it’s very funny but also sad in places. Lovely. I recommend.

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel

This is the second of Emily St John Mendel’s books that I have read. It also features unsettling jumps forward and backward in time. It is not a feature I love, at least as executed by this author. Also, it’s about the collapse of civilisation after a pandemic. Frankly, too soon. Despite these caveats it’s pretty good and I would broadly recommend, if you can face pandemic content.

The Land of Lost Things by John Connolly

I was really looking forward to this. I found The Book of Lost Things to which this is a sequel an amazing, creepy, clever read. It’s a book for children, as is the sequel. The sequel doesn’t work for me, I found it much less engaging and much less strange. Disappointing.

The Letters of Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh edited by Charlotte Mosley

This does what it says on the tin, a lifetime’s correspondence between two authors that I really like. I enjoyed it hugely and was very sorry to finish it. My goodness though, Evelyn Waugh was a difficult, awkward person.

A Place of Greater Safety by Hilary Mantel

This is 1000 closely written pages about the French revolution. It’s an earlyish work and you can see flashes of what gave us Wolf Hall later but it contains a lot of tell don’t show for my money: Citizen Robespierre can you explain again the terms of reference for the revolutionary committees please? I would not recommend unless you are particularly interested in the French Revolution. They all die in the end.

Caledonian Road by Andrew O’Hagan

This has got rave reviews and I really enjoyed it at the beginning but ultimately I became very fed up with our hero and his mid-life crisis. It’s supposed to be a sweeping novel involving people a the top of society (Russian oligarchs, Dukes, landed gentry, star academics), the bottom (human traffickers, illegal migrants, teenage gangs) and everyone in between. Ultimately, I think it tries to do too much. I did not really enjoy.

Half Bad by Sally Green

Half Wild by Sally Green

Half Lost by Sally Green

I read all three books in this series having seen it on the TV with the kids. It’s young adult fiction. Quite a lot of fighting a war which is tedious. The first book establishing the magical world is the best – white witches/black witches and a mix of the two (no prizes for guessing which camp our hero falls into). In the second book he falls in love with a girl and in the third book he falls in love with a boy. I felt this triangle would be resolved by one of them dying in battle and so it was. I fully expected him to hook up with the girl. But he doesn’t, he goes to live in the wild. He has lots of powers including being able to transform into animals. In the very end of the last book (spoiler here) having seen so many people die and having killed lots of people himself he is quite damaged and he manages to turn himself into a tree, apparently forever. And that’s the end, I did not see that coming. Though poorly described here, I found it kind of moving. I suppose he can be revived if necessary for a book 4, but I think that’s the end.

My Favourite Mistake by Marian Keyes

I’ve read all the Marian Keyes books I think. Some of them are really good and extremely funny. This one is not. It’s about the Walsh family again who feature in many of her books. I just didn’t think it was very good and I found myself not caring at all whether the characters found love which isn’t great for romantic fiction.

Soldier Sailor by Claire Kilroy

This is the best book I’ve read so far this year. It’s about a mother and a child and I have never read anything that captures so well that first year of having a baby. I truly recommend it, I thought it was extraordinary. It really reminded me of when the Princess was a small baby. Except that the father in this book is useless. I’ll be searching out Claire Kilroy’s back catalogue.

How Finland Survived Stalin: From Winter War to Cold War, 1939-1950 by Kimmo Rentola

This is translated from the Finnish and assumes a much greater knowledge of Finland and its foreign policy than I have. Nevertheless, I found it really interesting and only about 200 pages. The Finns are not wordy. Did you know that Poland is known as a “Christ among nations” always having to sacrifice itself for other countries? Apparently Finns and Poles know this but other people not so much. Recommended, if you’re interested in this kind of thing.

We Solve Murders by Richard Osman

A new Richard Osman book moving away from the Thursday murder club. A detective story, an easy read; I found it just as I expected, perhaps a little twee, but pleasant to read. Would read another in due course.

Harlem Shuffle by Colson Whitehead

This is about a black man making his way in Harlem in the 1960s. He’s mostly on the right side of the law but he occasionally slides into criminality. It took me ages to get into this but after the first 100 pages it really picked up and I found it interesting and engaging. The heist at the start was dull for me (some people like a heist, not me) and I thought it was going to take up the whole book but it did not. I might even try another but not for some time.

Hercule Poirot’s Silent Night by Sophie Hannah

I heard someone recommending Sophie Hannah’s new Hercule Poirot novels and I saw this in the library and thought I would give it a try. I was quite disappointed. Poirot is there alright, the period is right but I’m afraid Sophie Hannah is no Agatha Christie. Alas.

Dissolution by CJ Samson

This is an extremely popular series of novels set in Tudor times. This first one is set during the dissolution of the monasteries. Our hero as Cromwell’s Commissioner is sent to investigate a murder. I thought the period detail and the historical material was good (some caveats) but I just wasn’t super interested in finding out who committed the murder. Unfortunate as if I had liked it there were loads of them.

Related (to reading): I was speaking to a male colleague in his thirties today; a man who likes to read and he had never heard of Noel Streatfeild. How is this possible?

What have you been reading yourself? Anything good?