Reading etc.

The publishing exec has kindly donated the above tome to the Waffle book collection. Having been away from home for three nights and four days, I have demolished it speedily. I found it slow going at first but it grew on me. It is a depressing reflection that the coming of age novel is now written by people the exact same age as me. I’m not sure how many more 80s stories I can take.

Mr. Mitchell, unwilling to waste some of the characters previously encountered in other works brings back Belgian Eva from “Cloud Atlas”. It is always nice to see a Flemish native cast as exotic and exciting. Those of us who live among them regard them differently, I think; more stoic, industious and dependable. And furthermore,if she were a real posh Fleming then French would be her native tongue even though she lived in deepest darkest Flanders, which she did. I know precisely where this fictional character lived because years ago, the publishing exec made us take a detour there on our way home from Bruges. Never say these editors don’t support their authors. I see there is a reference to number9dream as well. Is he going to be like that William Boyd and keep introducing the same characters in all his books? Not a bad thing, but I just wanted to show off, I haven’t been reading the London Review of Books for years for nothing, you know.

The book reminded me a bit of “The Rotters’ Club”, particularly the relationship between the siblings although my memory is that Lois and Ben enjoyed a somewhat happier rapport before Lois’s catastrophe (see the way I’m not ruining it for you, in case you haven’t read it) and horrible cousin Hugo reminds me of vile Paul. I bet Hugo will end up a New Labour MP as well.

It was also somewhat Mary George of Allnorthoverish in its descriptions but, if you ask me that Lavinia Greenlaw is a bit too poetic, so I’m not entirely sure that this is a compliment. There’s only so many poetic descriptions I want in my prose, thank you.

It wasn’t as good as “Cat’s Eye” or as horrific but it was an entertaining read. Not quite as entertaining as “Starter for Ten” also a pub exec present and now a major motion picture but, I thought, a much more thoughtful and evocative book. For me, far better than “Cloud Atlas” despite all the latter’s much vaunted cleverness. I really warmed to the main character and I loved his deeply unlikely triumph at the end of the book. While “Cloud Atlas” was very innovative in structure and all the more annoying for it; this is comfortably familiar perhaps even, ooh dare I say it, oh go on, a little derivative, but in a good way. What’s not to like? Recommended.

Oh, and apparently yesterday was world book day so they’ve brought out abbreviated versions of the classics to encourage more reading. “War and Peace” now weighs in at a slimline 900 pages instead of 1,500. Who precisely is the target audience for this? I suspect that a reluctant reader won’t embrace 900 pages more enthusiastically than 1,500 and, for heaven’s sake, if you’ve covered 900 pages, surely another 600 aren’t going to hurt. Mind you, they said they’ve made it shorter by cutting out a lot of the war and, if my memory is any way accurate, I can’t feel that that would hurt the narrative much.

I am from an island. I am from changing skies. I am from sunshine with scattered showers. I am from empty beaches and umbrellas. I am from damp and mildew. I am from sunburn and blisters on the ‘one hot day of the Summer’. I am from north channel and south channel. I am from hot presses, immersion switches and occasional cold baths. I am from green grass and yellow gorse. I am from the Lough and the Cuban House and the Western Road and the dairy farm.

I am from Barry’s Tea and Hadji Bey’s turkish delight. I am from home grown potatoes and poached eggs. I am from meat and two vegetables. I am from illicit oranges. I am from creme caramel and smoked salmon and chips. I am from Taytos and swizzle sticks.

I am from fancy dress, choirs, ballet classes, elocution and amateur dramatics. I am from school outings to the park. I am from apple trees. I am from swings. I am from headless daffodils. I am from tree bark rubbings. I am from paddling pools and garden hoses. I am from tennis and back garden football and frantic outdoor table tennis. I am from clubs in the attic, chasing in the hall and hide outs under the steps. I am from dust motes dancing in sunlight. I am from big rooms, long corridors, empty landings and 5 flights of stairs.

I am from books. I am from John D. McDonald and Father Brown. I am from Georgette Heyer and Nero Wolfe. I am from Dorothy L. Sayers and Agatha Christie. I am from Hilaire Belloc and Samuel Pepys. I am from Pickwick Papers and the Diary of a Country Parson. I am from Neville Shute and Isaac Asimov. I am from Pushkin and Gogol. I am from P.G Wodehouse and Gibbon.

I am from fervent catholicism. I am from First Communions and Mass and Confirmations. I am from crowded churches with speakers outside. I am from Palatines and Puritans. I am from moving statues. I am from closing down factories, strikes and jobless growth. I am from oil crises and government crises. I am from emigration and unemployment.

I am from leg warmers and Adidas Roms. I am from gaberdeens and blazers, knee socks and hitched up school skirts. I am from wet hair and wet wool. I am from cycling to school and a three penny bus fare. I am from bunsen burners, language labs, nuns and all weather hockey pitches.

I am from drugs and reactions. I am from brilliance and indolence. I am from procrastination and kindness. I am from eloquence and silence. I am from long fingers and dark under eye shadows. I am from crankiness and patience. I am from love, helpless laughter and forgetfulness.

From Charlotte who did a much better job.

What are you from?

I was really interested in what people said about their grandparents, so I took their comments out of the comments bit and put them in here.  The past really is another country.   If anyone has more stories, I would really love to hear them.
undercovercookie Says:
My grandmother (Gladys) met my grandfather (Dick) when he ran errands as an office boy and she was an office junior. She liked him because he was cheeky. She made friends with his sister (Bet) and when she was orphaned (in her mid teens) Bet’s family took her in to live with them.

Dick and Gladys used to go cycling together before they were married. We still have old black and white pictures of them out cycling.

Funny how that echoes Landlord and me. I moved under his roof due to life crcumstances, we also eventually became a couple and we also cycle around the countryside together.

angelfeet Says:
I shouldn’t really exist, as my maternal Nana was run over by a horse-and-cart in her twenties and was told she would never have children, She didn’t go overboard in reproducing compared to some of her generation, but she did have 2 children in the end.

How she came to have the accident in the first place I’m not sure. It obviously didn’t hinder her agility to sprint up the road in terror to the shelter when the air-raid sirens went, leaving my mother, who was 13ish at the time, to scoop up her 7 year-old brother and try and catch up with her. Eventually neighbours recognised the pattern and leant a hand in getting them all safely to the shelter.

ollka Says:
My father’s parents met in the USSR. Grandpa was an assistant at the Marxism Studies department and met my grandma when she came to their library to pick up some books for a report. He helped her choose the books, and then helped her again when she showed up again, and then one day said he would pick out the books for her only if she let him deliver them to her home. And she needed those books so badly that she agreed. Then there was some dumping of other young men and women and they got married:)

Katherine Says
My grandfather was a jesuit from Spain of italian heritage. He moved to the Dominican Republic to do some work as a Jesuit and met my grandmother who was born in St. Barts and had gone to the Dominican Republic to study medicine. She was 23, he was 31. He left the Jesuits and started chasing my grandma. She finally gave in and they had 7 children, among them my father. They had to fight lots of people who did not understand them. It was an interracial couple at the time where it was not the norm. Anyway, my maternal grandparents met through work. My grandfather was an amzing painter and my grandma taught languages. They met at the university both were of french background.

Jando Says

My paternal grandparents met at Oxford. In those days, (1930s) men and women weren’t allowed to go out with each other unescorted and my Nana and Grandpa met because they were chaperones to their two friends. My Nana died in 2001 and my Grandpa in 2003. At my Grandpa’s funeral I met the woman whom my Nana was chaperoning in Oxford – she had married her date who had died in the late 90s and the four of them had remained friends for all those years. If it wasn’t for her, my grandparents may not have met and I might not be here – I did feel terribly sad for her to be the remaining one of the four left.

I’m not sure how my maternal grandparents met – I know they were part of Harrogate high society and there was a 20 year age-gap between them. When my mother was born, her father was already 60. I never knew my maternal grandmother – she died before my parents married in 1966 and my maternal grandfather died in 1974 so I only have very hazy memories of him, it is weird to think he was born in 1885 though. I will ask my aunts how they met – thanks for the question, Waffle. Jando (aka Li’l o).

pog Says:
Never met any of mine. My mother’s mother was Dutch – and died when Mum was only 12, leaving her to bring up several younger siblings. Her Dad was from County Mayo and, apparently, was a mean old bugger who brought in a succession of ‘aunties’ over the years. Dad’s side – no idea. His ‘mother’ turned out to be his grandma, the woman he’s been calling auntie all his life up to the age of 20 was his Mum, and we have no idea who his Dad was (hence the above arrangements). I don’t think he ever forgave them for lying to him all that time. I certainly never met his Mum.
It’s lovely to see my niece and nephews with their grandparents, though.

geepeemum Says:
I never knew my paternal grendparents as my grandfather died when my father was very young. his mother developed a psychotic depression adn was institutionalised for a year (my father lived with his much older sister) before they discovered that sdhe actually had a brain tumour. It was removed and she came home but she was left with fits. one time she apparently burned all the flesh off her arm whilst ironing and had a fit. When my dad started dating my mum he invited her home but forgot to mention any of this – he left her alone with his mother who had a huge fit, completely terrifying my mother who had no idea this was a daily occurrence. His mother died before they got married. He had 2 older sisters and a younger sister who was adopted out by an aunty due to his mother’s indisposition. He’s never met her since or heard from her.

My maternal grandfather grew up as the son of off-licence owners in South Wales. My maternal grandmother was the daughter of a coalmining union leader ( she’s now the biggest Tory ever!) and left home at 15 to become a nanny for the local GP. She said she told him off for being cruel when he called his childre Suzanne and Benjamin as they were such awful names – 40 years later 2 of her 15 grandchildren were called by these names! They met just before the war and got married the year after war broke out. My grandfather was a bomber and survived the war. they had 5 children and moved to England where my grandfather was some sort of manager in a London company. He died in 1993 aged 75. my grandmother is 86 now and currently in Australia meeting her newest great-grandchild (2 months old).

And finally, Lesley offers the following rather depressing statistic:

“The chances are that only one out of your 8 great-grandchildren will remember your name”.

I have no new year resolutions.  I have no coherent thoughts about last year or this year.  Why don’t I share my thoughts on advertising instead?

Has anyone else seen the seiko watch advertisement that says “It’s your watch that says most about who you are”? Is this possibly the stupidest slogan in advertising history?

Belgian banks at the moment are really pushing the idea that their staff are just like you and you can bank with someone you identify with. Fortis, KBC, they’re all at. Unfortunately I can’t find any links to the ads because I am incapable of harnessing the power of the internet. These ads are mildly annoying and I do like the way that a bank rejoicing in the name of key trade sends them up.

A while ago, the fair Dooce was assailed by her many nice middle class readers for laughing at the concept of free range chicken soup. At this point, I would like to remark that I am not in favour of hurting animals, I would like them to lead full happy lives right up to the moment they killed painlessly for me to eat. I sound like I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not.

What struck me forcibly about this is the superior tones that people like to employ when reprimanding on this topic. I regard them as fellow travellers with the green lobby. Yes, I would like to save the planet, really. No, I am not going to stop sending Christmas cards or wrapping Christmas presents because it’s more sustainable. Nor am I going to give my children Christmas presents of goats in Africa or artificial limbs for amputees. It’s not that I don’t think these are good causes, I just don’t think they are good Christmas presents. Dear God, to hear people’s reactions I might as well be advocating the reinstatement of the death penalty. When I drive to work, I get reproving looks. Only the fact that I have two small children to deliver to the creche, saves me from complete disgrace. And sometimes, when I leave the room, I let the light on, oh yes I do.

Do you remember the 1980s (those born since 1983 need not respond) when greens were all people with socks and sandals? Well, now they’ve all been proved right. The London intelligensia love green issues. They fill the papers with it. UK government policy is full of it. EU policy is full of it. Al Gore made a wildly successful film about it. And boy are the environmental lobby (increasingly, I concede, beginning to look like everybody except me, George Bush and a couple of Texas oil billionaires) condescending in victory. They’re always offering patronising tips to the less enlightened like “make sure that you always use all the ink in your biro; if everyone did this then the ice caps wouldn’t be melting”.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to wrap my Christmas presents.