Investigation into Shenanigans and Skulduggery in the Secret Service
(Firstly, I’d just like to apologise to everyone for the delay in getting the Mueller Report out. Unfortunately, it was decided the FF Report should take priority so Mr Barr has been very busy with his coloured pencils. I shall be holding a Press Conference three hours before you get to read this.)
I saw this tag over on Rosepoint Publishing and her answers proved what we all already knew – that she’s very nice indeed! I’m a bit worried about what Santa will think of my behaviour, though, so I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me if I’ve been nice enough or if I need to make some quick amends…
So here are the questions – have you…
1. Received an ARC and not reviewed it?
Oh yes! For some reason I got put on a publisher’s list for what can only be described as women’s fiction and suddenly started receiving zillions of them. I struggled through one or two, but not my thing! Eventually they stopped sending them – phew! And then there are all the NetGalley ARCs I’ve abandoned for being badly written or badly formatted – I do send feedback (usually polite 😇, but not always 😡) but don’t review.
2. Got less than 60% feedback rating on NetGalley?
I don’t remember ever being under 90%! I’m currently on 93%. 😇
3. Rated a book on Goodreads and promised a full review was to come on your blog (and never did)?
No, I never put a rating on Goodreads until I’m posting the review. 😇 The exception is abandoned books where I have no intention of ever reviewing, but which I think require a 1-star rating. 😡
4. Folded down the page of a book?
Not intentionally, but I have done it accidentally while attempting to read, eat cake and fend off paper-chewing cats simultaneously. Annoyingly I managed to crease the cover of my current read… grrr! 😡
5. Accidentally spilled on a book?
Well… OK, I’ve never admitted to this before, but… well, OK, it was I who dropped the bread and marmalade face down on my sister’s treasured copy of The Hobbit. I’ve lived with the guilt for around half a century… 😞
6. DNF a book this year?
Oh, good heavens, yes!! Thousands!! But is that naughty?? Believe me, if I had finished and reviewed them, I wouldn’t have been nice… 🤬
7. Bought a book purely because it was pretty with no intention of reading it?
That’s not naughty, it’s crazy! No! 😇
8. Read whilst you were meant to be doing something else (like homework)?
Well, that all depends on one’s perspective. I prefer to think of things like housework as impinging on my reading time rather than the other way round. 😜
9. Skim read a book?
Guilty as charged. But only when they deserve it, and I reckon it makes me nice, because I could have fed them through the shredder instead, and didn’t… 😡
10. Completely missed your Goodreads goal?
I’m going to fail dismally this year. 😪 And I don’t care because I’m a rebel!! 😎 (Though I might sneakily read a few novellas to take me over the line… ) 😇
11. Borrowed a book and not returned it to the library?
Not this year, 😇 but only because I don’t use the library. And the reason I don’t is because I’m so hopeless at returning books and can’t face the guilt. 🤬
12. Broken a book buying ban?
What’s a book buying ban? 🎅
13. Started a review, left it for ages then forgot what the book was about?
Tragically, this happens all the time, though I find reading reviews on Goodreads is usually enough to remind me. But I left my review of Heart of Darkness for so long that I’m going to have to read it again… 🤬
14. Written in a book you were reading?
What?? Do you think I’m some kind of savage?? 😡 Of course not! I live in a society with ready access to notebooks… *shudders*
15. Finished a book and not added it to your Goodreads?
I add them before I read them, as I put them on TBR Thursday posts. 😇 I have however removed them on finishing, if they were so bad I couldn’t even bring myself to give one star… 😡
16. Borrowed a book and not returned it to a friend?
In the distant past, I have been both villain and victim of this heinous crime. 😇😡 Nowadays I don’t borrow books…
17. Dodged someone asking if they can borrow a book?
No, though due to my own tendency to accidentally steal books, I’d much rather give a book than lend it… 🎅
18. Broken the spine of someone else’s book?
No, but thanks for the suggestion! I’ll bear it in mind for the next time someone annoys me… 😡😡
19. Taken the jacket off a book to protect it and ended up making it more damaged?
I’m baffled – I thought jackets were there to protect the book. From accidental chocolate fingerprints, for example, or to give the cats something to chew. Have I been doing it wrong?? 😲
The Case of the Mutton-Bone by Sir Arthur Donan Coyle
(So many of us were disappointed to discover that the weapon in The Mystery of the Yellow Room wasn’t a real mutton-bone that I felt the matter ought to be rectified. Fortunately I was able to track down this tale from our old friend Sir Arthur Donan Coyle…)
It was an early spring morning as I made my way to Baker Street in response to an urgent telegram from my old friend, Sherlock Holmes. The last wisps of fog were burning off in the pale sunshine and I felt a renewed strength of vigour as I inhaled the clean air that returns to the great city each year when winter recedes. My medical practice was also receding, however, as the annual round of winter coughs and wheezes gave way to simple summer sneezes. I was ready for an adventure and hoped that Holmes was about to provide one. Little did I know that I was soon to be plunged into a horror blacker than the darkest nightmare.
….“Ah, Watson, you’re here at last!” Holmes cried, as I was ushered into his room by the small maidservant employed by the landlady of the house, Mrs Hudson. This little scrap of humanity answered to the name of Agnes. Mrs Hudson had taken her from the orphanage where she had spent her first years. Her story was the age-old one – her mother, little more than a child herself, tempted into error by a worldly man and then abandoned when he proved unwilling to pay the price of his pleasure. Shunned by family and friends, the woman’s grasp on life became ever more tenuous until she gave her last remaining strength to this, her daughter, and died without revealing the name of the child’s only living relation, the cruel and unfeeling father. God forgive her, and all other simple, loving women who fall from grace under the blandishments of a careless seducer.
….“You have a case, Holmes?” I inquired.
….“On our very doorstep, Watson! Come! Inspector Gregory is below!”
….I followed in some astonishment as Holmes led the way down the back stairs of the house to the private quarters of Mrs Hudson. Passing swiftly through the kitchen, we proceeded through the rear door into the small backyard. There, Gregory awaited us with a pair of rather bored looking constables. As Gregory moved to one side, I suddenly saw, at the entrance to the coal bunker, a man lying sprawled on the ground, clearly dead!
….“My word, Holmes!” I cried. “What can this mean? Do you know this man?”
….“There is a certain familiarity about his features, but I do not think I have met him. Have you found anything to tell us his name, Gregory?”
….“Yes, Mr Holmes, there is a letter in his pocket, an old one from the looks of it, addressed to Mr Alfred Smith, in Fremantle in Western Australia. The contents are of little interest – here, see for yourself.”
….Holmes took the worn and yellowed leaf from his hand and passed it to me, requesting I read it aloud.
….“Dearest Alfie,” the letter began. “I have had no reply from you to my last letter, so am writing one last time in the hope that you will have a change of heart and not be so cold to the one you were once pleased to call your little coo-pigeon. If you were to send me the price of the crossing, I could join you and I know we would be happy. A little family to call your own, Alfie. Is not that what you told me you desired, when you took from me the most precious gift a woman has to offer – her innocence? Please, for the love we have shared and the sake of your soul, do this thing that I ask of you.” It was signed, “Your loving friend, and more than friend, Ada.”
….I wiped a surreptitious tear from my eye. “Why, the fellow is obviously a complete reprobate! One can’t but feel that his sordid end is a just reward!”….
Holmes was thoughtful over lunch – soup followed by pork chops. I was a little disappointed that the soup, though delicious, was vegetable: in the years when Holmes and I roomed together here, Mrs Hudson had always given us a hearty mutton broth on Thursdays. As we drank our coffee, Holmes lighted his pipe and lay back in his old wing-chair, eyes closed and fingertips pressed together. I knew better than to disturb him so caught up on the news in The Daily Telegraph – Moriarty’s Madam had won the 3.30 at Epsom, giving my bank balance a much-needed boost.
….Suddenly, “Come, Watson!” Holmes cried, striding purposefully from the room. I followed after him, rather wishing I had brought my trusty service revolver along. Down to the kitchen we went, and entered to find Mrs Hudson and young Agnes just sitting down to their own lunch. I sniffed – mutton broth? I was somewhat annoyed, but reminded myself we had serious business on hand.
….Holmes, taking in the scene in an instant, took two long strides to the table, dashed from her hand the spoon Agnes was raising to her lips, lifted her soup-plate and emptied it into the kitchen sink! Poor Agnes began to sob and I rushed over in case she should swoon. But then I noticed that Mrs Hudson had paled to a dull grayish colour and her whole body was trembling like one of her own blancmanges.
….“Oh, Mrs Hudson, no,” Holmes said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “The first was excusable but this latter is unworthy of you. Send the girl to her room so we may talk freely.”
….Baffled, I waited till the girl had left the room and then demanded to know what Holmes had meant by it.
….“Shall I tell the story, Mrs Hudson? You must set me right if I err in any particular.” He led the old lady kindly to her accustomed chair and waited until she was settled. “A little brandy for Mrs Hudson, I think, Watson, and perhaps for us too. I fear the tale I have to tell may shock you.” I complied and finally, the three of us settled, Holmes began…
….“When I examined the dead man’s wound, I noticed small flecks of raw meat had attached themselves to his hair. A closer examination by dint of my keen olfactory sense allowed me to determine the type of meat: mutton. The wound itself could only have been caused by a blow from a heavy but blunt instrument – you know I have written a short monograph on the subject of head injuries caused by various implements and the signs were clear. I had already begun to suspect that the murderer – or perhaps I should say killer, since I believe her actions were fully justified – was none other than our own dear Mrs Hudson. And when today – Thursday, you note – we were served with vegetable soup rather than the usual mutton broth, my suspicions became a certainty.”
….I gasped and took a quick drink of brandy to steady my nerves. “But Holmes, how? And in God’s name, man, why?” Mrs Hudson had buried her head in her hands and was sobbing piteously. Holmes gently patted her knee. “Hush, Mrs Hudson, leave it to me and all will yet be well,” he said kindly.
….Turning to me, he continued. “You see, Watson, some years ago as we shared a Christmas sherry, Mrs Hudson told me that she was not a widow as we had always believed. In fact, she never married. This – reprobate, I think you called him, and a fine word it is to describe him – once told her he loved her, and with the innocence of youth Mrs Hudson – Ada – gave him all a woman has to give: her love and her trust. Having ruined her, this heartless brute then deserted her and went off to Australia. Poor Ada gave birth to their child, but it was a sickly little thing, and soon left this world for a better one.
….“Now I shall speculate as to what happened late last night. Smith had returned to England, and heard from some mutual acquaintance that Ada had got on in the world, earning back her respectability among people who knew nothing of her tragic story. To a man like him, her little property and the small wealth she has accumulated were enough of a temptation. He turned up here and demanded that Mrs Hudson give him her little all or he would reveal her past to the world, thrusting her back into shame. She refused, and he took violent hold of her, threatening to beat the money out of her if necessary. In the extreme fear and turmoil of emotions he had aroused in her, Mrs Hudson for one instant lost herself and, snatching up the nearest object – the mutton-bone for today’s broth – struck him as hard as she could on the temple. A lucky blow for her, though not for him. It killed him instantly with less pain than he deserved. And so Mrs Hudson dragged his corpse out to the yard, hoping that no-one would discover her connection to him.”
….“That’s just how it was, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson said through her tears. “It’s as if you had been there and seen the whole thing! Do what you must, sir – the law can never punish me more harshly than my own conscience.”
….“Pshaw, Mrs Hudson! We shall find some way to send Inspector Gregory off on a wild goose chase, never fear. The man was a scoundrel and a blackmailer – neither the law nor your conscience should waste another moment on him. He will now face judgement from a higher power than we. But you must promise me to look after the child, Agnes. Her poor mother did not have your strength.”
….“And my poor daughter did not have hers. It shall be as you say, sir – she will be well looked after while I live and provided for on my death. God bless you, Mr Holmes, sir!”
….“But, Holmes,” I asked rather plaintively, once we were again alone in his study. “Why did you throw out young Agnes’ broth?”
….“My dear fellow, it’s elementary! Mrs Hudson had to get rid of the mutton-bone; it was the only evidence against her. Making broth with it was clever enough. But I cannot feel it was right to allow the young girl to eat it.”
….I shuddered, and felt thankful after all that we had been served the vegetable soup. “As always, Holmes, you have tempered justice with mercy.” As I raised my brandy to him in salute, I contemplated my good fortune at being able to call this great man my friend.
(Last year I created a story – if it could be dignified by that name – using the titles of all the books I’d reviewed in the year… in the order I reviewed them! I couldn’t resist seeing if I could do it again this year. My twin obsessions of the year – the Russian Revolution and vintage crime – meant there could only really be one theme…)
“Shhh!” FFskova hissed, glancing round to make sure no members of the White Guard were within earshot. The dry tone of her voice admonished him. “You’ll find out soon enough – I’ll let the dead speak for themselves.”
And so at last they retired from assassining, leaving a string of crimes unsolved. Soon the assassin training program was unplayable. Lies were told to explain the foreign bodies, and the police, being mere fools and mortals, were left baffled, although FFskova ever afterwards found it hard to look a police officer in the eye. “Of Osiris,” she reminded Harriet, “we must never speak – that code name for the mistletoe murder and other stories of horrific deaths must remain forever secret, known only to us and my secret lover, the man they call the Catcher.” In the rye bottle, Harriet found a welcome oblivion in the years to come, but no alcohol was ever strong enough to dull FFskova’s mental anguish. Only chocolate could do that…
The lovely Anne at I’ve Read This nominated me for the Unique Blogger Award and set me some questions aaaaages ago, so first of all many thanks and many, many apologies for taking so long to reply! I feel totally honoured!
The rules of the award are as follows:
• Share the link of the blogger who has shown love to you by nominating you.
• Answer the questions.
• In the spirit of sharing love and solidarity with our blogging family, nominate 8-13 people for the same award.
• Ask them three questions.
Just to be different, Anne asked me four questions – what a rebel! But then, she’s Canadian…
So here goes!
1. How many hours per week do you spend on your blog?
Approximately 168. My daily schedule is as follows:
3 hours reading
1 hour writing and drafting posts
4 hours looking for suitable pictures
2 hours updating my TBR spreadsheet
6 hours poring over everyone else’s posts and sobbing about how easy you all make it look
8 hours having horrific nightmares about the exponential growth of my TBR…
2. Can you read more than one book at a time?
Well, it depends on what you mean. I usually have three books on the go – a hefty factual tome which I read in the afternoon when my brain is theoretically at its most alert; a “serious” fiction which I read in the early evening when I’m ready to relax but still awake enough to concentrate; and something light – usually crime, or occasionally sci-fi, for late at night when my braincells have declared an all-out strike and gone off up the dancing without me. But if you mean one book for each eye plus an audiobook, all simultaneously, then I have only one thing to say to you – what a great idea!! I’m going to practice that…
3. How much do you hate finding copy errors (spelling mistakes, etc.) in a published book on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being I don’t mind at all, and 10 being you hate it with a fiery rage?
Personally, I think that’s a crime so heinous that a special punishment should be devised for the perpetrators. I’ve had some thoughts on the subject and come up with a few options…
Being forced to read Moby Dick. Twice.
Being taken to visit a chocolate factory but not being allowed to try any of the samples.
Being made to spring-clean the houses of everyone who has spotted the errors.
Being made to listen to re-runs of Comrade Trump’s “greatest” speeches.
And for really serious repeat offenders…
Being forbidden to watch Pride and Prejudice for five whole years.
4. Why are cats so awesome?
I was going to say “because they’re fluffy and cuddly”, but Tuppence wasn’t at all pleased with that answer – she feels it undermines her status. So she’s decided to answer this question herself by pointing out what she feels are the main feline contributions to human happiness. Over to you, Tuppence!
1) Philosophy – we have discovered the true road to happiness and are only sad that humans are, frankly, too stupid to have worked it out for themselves. Twenty hours sleep per day, an hour cumulative of eating time, and three hours of pestering people just when they’re trying to relax. It’s so simple, really, but then, so are humans.
2) Art – some fools humans think we’re just messy when we scatter cat litter all over the floor, but if they had any true discernment, they’d realise we’re actually creating wonderful abstract mosaics for their pleasure and intellectual (and olfactory) stimulation.
3)Healthcare – we routinely check the circulation of our pet humans by opening a vein and ensuring the blood flow is strong. Plus, by making sure we do this just after creating one of our abstracts, we ensure our humans are motivated to keep their tetanus shots up to date.
Go on, tickle my tummy! I dare you…
4) Sport – we worry that our humans don’t seem to be very agile nor have very good reaction times, so we help to keep them supple by ensuring they fall over us on a regular basis, preferably when they’re half-way down a flight of stairs. This is great for improving their balance, and for helping them build up a tolerance for pain.
5) Wealth – by treating our human servants as the utterly inferior and, frankly, stupid species they are, we help to keep them meek. And, as we all know, the meek shall inherit the earth. Which, you must agree, is a pretty good return for the small investment we ask them to make on cat treats and toys…
Oh, excuse me, I’d go on, but I see it’s my nap time, and anyway, my servant has to go and admire my latest artwork now…
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Thank you, Tuppence – it’s so good of you to take time out of your busy schedule to give us the benefit of your superior wisdom. And talking of healthcare has reminded me – time for your worming tablet, I think!
Aaaarghhh! No!! I’m sorry! Please!! Not the laser eyes!!!
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Thanks again, Anne – Tuppence and I had a lot of fun doing this!
I nominate everyone who leaves a comment, and here are my three questions…
Everything you ever wanted to know about me, but were too afraid to ask…
The lovely Jessica over at The Bookworm Chronicles has kindly nominated me for the One Lovely Blog Award – thanks, Jessica! 😀
Here are the rules…
Thank the blogger who nominated you and link back to them.
Share 7-15 facts about yourself.
Nominate 9-15 bloggers you admire and contact them.
The first one is easy – thank you, Jessica! Much appreciated. 😀
The second one is harder – obviously I can’t tell you about my career as a Russian spy, nor reveal that secretly I’m Donald Trump’s hairdresser. You already know about my legendary iron willpower and my favourite hobby – chocolate-guzzling. But I think I’ve found a few facts that are quite revealing – perhaps TOO revealing! I shall let you decide…
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1. My cat Tommy once won an award for being the Bravest Cat in Scotland, but he refused to attend the ceremony, so I had to accept it on his behalf in front of a bunch of newspaper photographers. Fifteen minutes of fame… except they all printed the picture of the Bravest Dog instead, because he showed up. There’s a life lesson there…
2. When I was four, I had my first boyfriend. His dad worked for Coca-Cola as a delivery driver, so he would bring me a free bottle of Coke every day. Then his dad changed jobs, so I chucked him.
3. I once had a picnic with a bunch of armed policemen beneath the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. At 3 a.m. With wine.
4. My second boyfriend had a rocking horse. I’d always wanted a rocking horse…
5. During a sports day at the school I worked at, I got caught on video teaching some of the boys how to make water bombs to splat the teachers.
6. I once spent an evening in the kitchen hunting a mouse the cats had brought in and released… while the cats sat on the sofa in the living room watching a DVD of David Attenborough’s Life of Birds.
7. I once worked for 3 weeks as a chalet maid at Butlins Holiday Camp in Clacton-on-Sea, before getting a major promotion to the hot-dog stand.
8. My third boyfriend lasted from about age 9 to 11, then we went to different schools. The next time we met, we were sixteen. I had just been to the dentist and my mouth was so numb I couldn’t speak clearly and was kinda dribbling. One could see he felt he’d had a lucky escape…
9. When my mother collapsed during a holiday in France and was taken to hospital, my French wasn’t good enough and the doctor couldn’t speak English, so I had to mime her medical history. The angina was fine, but the prolapsed uterus stretched my acting abilities to their limit…**
10. When I fell madly in love aged 12, I graffitied “I Love Ronnie” all over my pencil case and school bag. Then a couple of weeks later I fell out of love with Ronnie and in love with Ian – my mother refused to replace the bag and case. This is why I don’t have tattoos…
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There! I think it’s safe to say you know everything about me now! As usual, I’m not going to nominate specific blogs, since you’re all lovely! So, to be fair, I think you really ought to reveal something about yourself in the comments below…
*For non-Brits and young people, this is not me! It’s Su Pollard, who played a chalet maid in an old sitcom called Hi-de-Hi… **She was fine!
Tap-thump! Tap-thump! Tap-thump! FF heard the unmistakeable sound of the captain crossing the deck.
“Ahoy, FF, thou lazy dog! Whyest dost thou lyeth there on that… thing… whilst Ahab practiceth his best cod Shakespearian?? Whatest is that thing, anyway, in the name of the gods above in Heaven, or perhaps the devils beneath in Hell! Or vice-versa. If Gods exist. Eth.”
FF raised her sunglasses and perched them on her golden curls. “It’s a sun-lounger, sir. Don’t you like it? I ordered it from Amazon and they had a drone drop it off an hour ago. It’s very comfortable.”
Ahab stuck his bone leg in the socket he had had specially made for it and, swivelling madly like Zebedee on his spring, cried out, “Thou liest here in the sun imbibing the devil’s grog…”
“It’s a margarita,” murmured FF, sipping.
“… when there is work to be (or not to be) done! Hast thou seen the great white whale?”
“No, and I’m at 92% now. Strange, isn’t it?”
Ahab ceased to swivel and fixed her with his mad eye. “Eh? 92%? Thou speakest in strange riddles as of one who has seen things not of nature!”
“Well, the book’s called Moby-Dick: or, the White Whale so you’d kinda think the whale would actually be in it, wouldn’t you?” FF waved her Kindle at the infuriated captain. “But no. We’ve sailed every sea in the entire world and not a blessed sign of him yet. A cheat, I call it! Plenty of other whales though – big ones, little ones, lots and lots of dead ones. And as for gory! Well, let’s just say I know more than I ever wanted to about how to skin them and squeeze the oil out of their blubber.” She shuddered, and sipped her margarita. “Sir.”
Ahab shook his fist at the cloudless sky. “Thou wasteth time reading stupid books on thy infernal device when thou shouldst be aloft the main mast searching for the monster whom thou hast sworn a great oath to destroyeth!”
“To be fair, though, sir, that was during the first night party and you’d been pretty generous with the old gin before you asked. I’m not sure that really counts as a proper oath.”
“Thy honour grovels on its lowly belly acrost the mud in the deeps where lie littered the bodies of great heroes and the monsters they pursued to their doom! Queequeg the cannibal shalt not fail me, he with his skin tattooed with marks that would scare the devils themselves. Nor even the poor, crazed savage, Pip, whose little black hand is nearly as soft as that of a decent white boy!”
“That reminds me, sir, an e-mail came in from Head Office. They want you to confirm you’ve completed the online training course in cultural sensitivity.”
“Aarghh! Get thee up to the lookout afore I call on the Heavens to strike thee with the unnatural fire of the corpusants!”
“No can do, I’m afraid, sir. Health and safety. You’ll just have to rely on the sonar equipment.”
“Gah! Art thou a yellow-bellied poltroon?? Thou wilt know real danger when Ahab sends thee in the little boat to stick harpoons in the monstrous Leviathan!”
FF shuddered. “I fear that won’t be possible, sir. Whaling has been outlawed by international convention. These days we use electricity to light our lamps.”
Ahab leapt up and down so hard his bone leg began to splinter. “Outlawed?! Never! For here, on the great ocean, Ahab is all – the captain, the King, the God! And the great white whale shall die, die horribly, because Ahab sayeth so! Look! What ist that strange vessel that approacheth?”
“It’s Greenpeace, sir. They’re here to protect the whale. I Skyped them when I realised you were insane, sir.”
Ahab turned purple with rage, and shook both fists at FF. “Thou hast ruined my revenge! Truly, verily, and yea, ’tis true what they say! To allow a woman aboardeth a ship is folly, for they are cursed, and curseth those who saileth with them!” Tap-thump! Tap-thump! Tap-thump!
“Silly old misogynist!” murmured FF, as she lay back on her lounger and opened the new Ian Rankin.
I have been nominated for the Liebster Award by the lovely Brontë at Brontë’s Page Turners! Thanks, Brontë!
Acknowledge the person who nominated you and display the award.
Answer eleven questions that the blogger gives you.
Give eleven random facts about yourself.
Nominate 11 blogs who you think deserve it.
Let the bloggers know you’ve nominated them.
Give your eleven questions to the nominees.
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What made you start blogging?
I was looking for a new hobby and someone suggested jogging. Fortunately I misheard…
I have to purchase every book I read. Do you?
No, not at all. Unlike the rest of my family who are notorious book hoarders, I really try to keep the number of books in the house down to a reasonable level. It doesn’t always work – I end up with piles of books all over the place, until I take a mad fit and cull them drastically. The only books I want to keep are books I firmly expect to re-read, and that’s a tiny sub-set of the overall number of books I read. I do keep some books for sentimental reasons, though – if they were given as a special gift, for example.
I have a spreadsheet of all of my books to guard against theft (aka borrowers not returning items) and other calamities. Do you?
Oddly, no, that’s never occurred to me, despite my profound love for spreadsheets. I don’t often lend or borrow books – I’m a hopeless returner myself, so I expect other people to be too. I do keep a spreadsheet of the TBR, but most of that is on Kindle.
I run yearly maintenance on my books, giving them a good airing and checking for damp. What lengths do you go to to care for your books?
Umm… I toss them in the bookshelves if there’s space (organised purely by heavy ones at the bottom, light at the top, for health and safety reasons) or build a pile on an available surface. And then I forget about them till I want to find one, or until I decide it’s time for a cull. (You all hate me now, don’t you?)
To paraphrase the poet Barry Manilow…Questions 2-4 show How Deep Is My Love for books. Can you tell me something that demonstrates How Deep Is Your Love for books?
Erm… *wriggles uncomfortably*… I read them? Nope, don’t sniff them, stroke them, sing to them or water them daily. They don’t have pet names or go to luxury bookeries when I go on holiday. If the cats chew the corners while I’m reading, that’s OK, because I love the cats more than the books.
Ooh…ooh…wait! I don’t write in them and think people who do should be put in the stocks and pelted with rotten tomatoes! Phew! That sounds a bit better! Can I still be a member of the bookosphere now?
Do you have a favourite song based on a book?
Oh dear! I’m sorry! I can’t think of a single song based on a book! Are there any? *rubs forehead frantically* Oooh, no… I mean, yes!! I do! How could I have forgotten?? Loads of them in fact. The entire The War of the Worlds concept album!!
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Give eleven random facts about yourself
(Goodness! I’ve totally failed to do the Versatile Blogger Award because it demands seven interesting things about myself, so what are the chance of me thinking up eleven! Hmm… *scratches head*)
I’m rotten at thinking up interesting facts about myself.
My first pet was a hamster called Jerry. I used to take him for walks.
I used to love John McEnroe because he was so rude, and now I disapprove of Nick Kyrgios because he’s so rude. Who says we don’t change as we age?
During a heated argument over the ridiculous claim that parallel lines meet in infinity, my irate maths teacher told me I’d either just have to accept it or create an entirely new system of maths. I’m still considering the latter option.
I love the marzipan you get on Christmas cakes and hate the marzipan you get in chocolates. Why is that?
Sometimes I baffle myself.
I can read upside down. The book upside down, that is, not me.
I can only tell left from right by checking which arm my vaccination mark is on.
I have no sense of direction (see random fact 8) so when I used to take my mother out for a run in the car, I would tell her it was a mystery tour, and then wherever we ended up I pretended that’s where I had been heading.
I used to be able to touch the tip of my nose with the tip of my tongue, but I can’t anymore. The question is – which got shorter? And how? (See random fact 6.)
I once put my real name into an anagram generator and it came up with two options – firstly, with my middle name: Banal Hive Earthling; and then without my middle name: Arabel La Thigh. I prefer the latter.
That was awful! That was great fun – thanks so much for nominating me, Brontë! 😀
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As always, I am nominating anyone who wishes to participate because you all deserve an award!
Here are your questions should you choose to accept… (or answer in the comments)
What is an anagram of your name?
If you were only allowed one chocolate in the box, which would you take? (DON’T take the coffee cream!)
Cats are better than dogs. Discuss.
Complete this sentence – “I love…”
Do you think of dawn as late or early?
If you were a book, what book would you be?
Complete this sentence – “I hate…”
When you look out of your bedroom window, what do you see?
Which bookish/filmish/TV-ish character would you desert your spouse/partner/singleton-ness for without a moment’s hesitation?
What would you most like someone to invent?
Complete this sentence – “I’m so glad she didn’t ask about…”
It is a truth universally acknowledged that, when I find a book a tad on the disappointing side, my reviews have a tendency to become, shall we say, a little grumpy. You should know, however, that the review you see is normally about the eighth draft, after I’ve worked hard to insert some kind of objective balance into the whole thing.
Occasionally, though, a book annoys me so much, I abandon it at too early a stage to justify a full review. But to get my blood pressure back down, I usually leave an instantaneous, unconsidered reaction on Goodreads to remind myself of what heinous crime against literature the author committed to cause my outrage. Much to my surprise, these blunt and brutal notes tend to attract ‘likes’ and comments – suggesting bookish disgruntlement may be more widespread than we think.
So I thought it might be fun to share a couple of them with you. No prizes, I’m afraid, for guessing the books or the authors… but I’m betting you might be able to work out one or two…
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Abandoned at 30% on the grounds of trying not to die from boredom. Another case of an author doing a ton of research, bunging it all down on paper and thinking that’s enough to make a novel. It isn’t. Let me save you reading the whole 700+ pages – spoiler alert! White man bad – destroys land, forest and indigenous way of life! There! Bet you’re as astonished at that major revelation as I am…
In fairness, other reviews suggest that eventually she widens it out to clarify that ALL men are bad…
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Well enough written, but not for me. Turns out it’s some kind of YA fantasy – ‘cos, like, there’s just not enough of them in the world already…
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Anti-religious drivel combined with excessive foul language, sexual fantasising and filth – not for me. Abandoned at 44% – just at the point where the author gives us some profound insights into the toilet habits of our main character…
“Afterwards, he hoses down the inside of the toilet bowl with his urine to dislodge any skid marks.”
Almost poetry, isn’t it? I wonder how the great authors of the past ever managed to tell a story without letting us know about these crucial (despite being entirely irrelevant) details.
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Utterly dreadful – a longwinded racist, bigoted diatribe by a man with neither the intelligence nor the culture to appreciate the opportunity his wealth brought him to broaden his narrow mind. And not even funny. Done with Twain now.
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Abandoned. I was already finding the book repetitive and a bit silly, but was willing to persevere till I hit the extended graphic oral sex scene at the 18% mark, which other reviews lead me to believe is the first of many. Not good enough otherwise to tempt me to read hundreds more pages of an elderly man’s sex fantasies. Note to self: Remember to stop getting books written by men over the age of 60 – it must be hormonal…
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Now aren’t you glad you’re normally only subjected to the revised version?
Well, dear friends, I can honestly say it’s been many a long year since my gast was last so flabbered!! Imagine my surprise, on clicking through from the lovely Jo’s post to the voting page for the 2nd Annual Bloggers Bash Award, to read the following…
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First is Funniest Blogger. The nominees are as follows:
The criteria, in case you forgot is: Which blogger continually makes you laugh out loud? Has someone made you laugh so hard you cried? Maybe you snorted drink through your nose at one of their jokes. Who’s the funniest blogger of them all?
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Yes!!! That’s me in there!!! Ooooooooh!!!! *performs double back-flip with a half-twist and phones osteopath*
I have absolutely no idea who nominated me, and in fact wasn’t aware of the Bloggers Bash before today, but whoever you are, here’s a great big hug and possibly a soppy, sloppy kiss too (depending on how closely you resemble Rafa).
I’m genuinely thrilled to bits! Not just because I got nominated, but because I’m so glad you guys enjoy my occasional detours away from serious book talk towards the sillier end of life! Though I do sincerely apologise if I’ve ever made you snort your drink through your nose…
I’m also thrilled to see several of my besties nominated in other categories…
In Hidden Gem, the lovely and talented MarinaSofia at Finding Time to Write, book reviewer and poet extraordinaire! Hmm… a bright and sparkling gem, for sure, but hidden? She’s part of the glue that holds the bookish blogosphere together…
The Best Pal award seems custom made for the wonderful Margot Kinberg at Confessions of a Mystery Novelist! Generous to bloggers and crime authors new and old, Margot is always there with the encouraging comment just when it’s needed – I’m sure many bloggers, including myself, only stuck it out through those early days of talking to a seeming void because Margot took the time to pop in, comment and introduce them to the wider book blogging community.
So get on over there and get voting for these amazing people or for some of the many others on the nomination lists whom I don’t yet know, but whose blogs I’m looking forward to snooping round in the near future.
But think carefully before you decide whether to vote for me… remember those sloppy wet kisses!!!
I have shamelessly stolen this idea from Naomi at the wonderful Consumed by Ink , who was in turn inspired by Valerie at Books Can Save A Life. My book spines are virtual since so many of my books are.
Their poems turned out beautiful. Mine, on the other hand, turned out a bit… well… bitter and twisted! I’m really hoping that says more about the books I read than my personality… 😉
she (Miss Rosa Coldfield) rattles on circuitously, circling round and round, in a circle; and yet, not round always, but in memory, sometimes backward, before the enemy thrashed her father and destroyed the Old South, destroying it in a destructive manner, while he watched the dust motes and wondered why she repeated herself endlessly without ever actually saying anything to the point, endlessly repeating the story of her sister, long dead, and Sutpen, repeatedly telling him (Quentin) about his (Sutpen’s) beard that was the only thing that differentiated him from the wild black men he brought with him when he came to destroy the honour of his or possibly her family, or possibly their families, or possibly not, for as she would undoubtedly come to say “It is important that this story never dies, so I’m going to reveal it to you in a code so obscure it will take, not just the rest of your life, but the lives of many academics, paid for by the taxes not just of ourselves but of those who conquered us and tamed the wild men, destroying something precious but perhaps a little immoral along the way, for some strange people in the North, you know, think that to chain wild men to a post is nearly as wicked as to beat horses for no reason other than to show how wicked the beater is, to decipher it or at least to convince themselves that they had deciphered it because otherwise would be to admit that yet again the Nobel Prize had been given to someone who fundamentally can’t write intelligibly, though of course in the wondrous worlds of academe and literary prizes intelligibility ranks low on the list of things a writer should achieve, which is not how it was…” and she broke off as her voice retreated not into silence exactly, but into silence nevertheless, a silence forced upon her and all her race by the men who conquered her or them or him and his family and their honour, and he said “Yessum” which was, one has to admit, as good an answer as any from one of the broken ghosts that inhabit this broken land, broken by conquerors who destroyed the honour of those whose only fault, if indeed fault it were, and who is to decide that question is still to be decided, was to tie wild men to posts and impregnate wild women, hardly a fault at all; though some may say that then naming the offspring with silly names like Clytemnestra may have been the most wicked thing of all and may even have been some small justification for the destruction of these once proud people, now wandering ghost-like through the past and present…
…with no calendar, dammit, to tell them where they might be supposed to be, which is to assume anyone cares, which brings me back to the point which I have unfortunately forgotten since my braincells began deteriorating at page 5 and the deterioration deteriorated so rapidly that by page 48 I had turned into a brainless mumbling mono-celled organism condemned to spend eternity going round in an endless circle of rambling, barely punctuated, incomprehensibly-structured prose, an endless circle of destruction, leaving me feeling like a ghost inhabiting a land which unfortunately the destroyers didn’t destroy thoroughly enough or they would have wiped out Miss Coldfield, Mr Compson, Mr Sutpen and all their pesky descendants and left Mr Faulkner with nothing to go round in endless circles about, so that when at some time in the future or perhaps the past FF asked for recommendations for the Great American Novel Quest, no-one, not one person, not even a ghost, would have suggested torturing herself half to death reading a pretentious, repetitive, repetitive book, which is to literature much as WWE is to sport, with its major claim to fame being that it contains the longest grammatically correct sentence in the English language, thus getting into the Guinness Book of Records, surely more illustrious than the broken Nobel, though that record doesn’t specify intelligible, nor does it take account of the fact that Michael Chabon created a much longer, better constructed, and rather beautiful one in Telegraph Avenue, thus making this work even more redundant than it once was, this being the problem with all records, for who now remembers who held the record for the fastest mile before Roger Bannister broke the four-minute mark, itself a record now broken, but one that was at least exciting at the time, which I suggest this one wasn’t; and if they did, if some ghost drifting in the motes of dust circling round the room of the woman who is doing a particularly bad Miss ‘Avisham impersonation, in her room where she lives with the blinds drawn, angsting about a 50-year-old jilting, had whispered “Read Absalom! Absalom!”, then FF would have known to say “No’m!” – but too late, alas, too late!
Lovely Sindhuja over at The Random Book Review has tagged me to take part in the Six Questions Tag. If you haven’t met Sindhuja, pop on over – great reviews, often of Indian authors and books I wouldn’t normally hear about, plus the occasional sneak peek into her life – one of my favourite blog stops!
So… here goes…
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One beauty product you would recommend to your girlfriends
Wrinkle cream! I don’t need it myself, obviously, but I like to be helpful when I can…
(But seriously, all my friends are naturally gorgeous, especially Lady Fancifull who regularly bathes in the morning dew collected by fairies from the prettiest flowers of May…)
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Three books everyone must read
‘Tis the season to be jolly, so I’m going for…
Right Ho, Jeeves by PG Wodehouse – not just Jeeves and Bertie, but also sundered hearts and star-crossed lovers galore! Newt-fancier and orange-juice addict Gussie Finknottle getting sozzled and handing out the prizes at Market Snodsbury Grammar School for Boys. Soupy Madeleine Bassett – she who thinks the stars are God’s daisychain and that every time a fairy sheds a tear, a wee bit star is born. Poor Angela, devastated by Tuppy implying that her new hat makes her look like a Pekinese. And Tuppy pining for his own true love – Anatole’s steak-and-kidney pie…
Three Men in a Boat… to say Nothing of the Dog by Jerome K Jerome. I shall merely mention Uncle Podger and the picture-hanging, Montmorency and the kettle, the singing of the German comic song, George and the banjo-playing and the sad tale of Harris and the swan. If you’ve read it, you’ll know what I mean, and if you haven’t, well, do get on with it!
A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens– everyone should be forced by law to read this every Christmas Eve to make sure they understand what Christmas is all about. And then they should be made to listen to Patrick Stewart’s reading, so they understand the meaning of joyousness! And when I rule the world, they will be…
And if you’re not jolly by the end of that little lot, I give up!
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Favourite online shopping site
Oh dear! I know we’re supposed to hate them but I couldn’t survive without Amazon! Not just for books – music, films, cat toys – all the essentials of life! I’m deeply ashamed…
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Favourite phone app
Ahem – I don’t have a phone. Well, I do – one of those ones that plugs into the wall and you use it for speaking to people on – remember them? No txt spch in my life – isn’t that gr8? But needless to say my favourite app on my tablet is the Kindle app…
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One dish you are really good at making and its recipe
See, at this point I could tell you about my world-renowned boeuf bourguignon or my secret recipe, passed down through the generations, for hand-made haggis. I could – but I’m in the unfortunate position that my BigSister reads the blog and might laugh till she choked! And then who’d cook Christmas dinner…?
So I am forced to stick with the truth, however embarrassing…
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Now pay attention, ‘cos this is quite complicated.
Take 1 box of Ricicles (which, as you may or may not remember, are twicicles as nicicles)
Pour generously into a bowl.
Add milk – but be careful – this is the tricky bit! Too little and your Ricicles will be dry – too much and you might set off a tsunami in your kitchen.
Listen to them snap, crackle and pop.
Eat, while holding well away from passing felines.
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Five movies that I can watch over and over again
Only 5?? Well…
The Lord of the Rings trilogy – but that only counts as one, right? And I like other things about it apart from Aragorn, you know. Boromir, for example…
A Few Good Men – partly because Tom is so delicious in his dinky little white uniform, but mainly for Jack and his “You WANT me on that wall! You NEED me on that wall!” speech. ‘Cos secretly, in my heart, I do…
Twelve Angry Men – it’s a real regret that I’ve only been allowed to serve on a jury once and the rotten so-and-so changed his plea to guilty just as I was gearing up to do my Henry Fonda act. The bit I love most is when they all get up one by one and turn their backs on the man who’s doing a Donald Trump impersonation…
Rear Window – love the story, think it’s filmed gorgeously – great colour – Jimmy Stewart is fab (and kinda lovely – it’s his voice, I think), Thelma Ritter adds a lot of fun, but most of all it’s those fabulous dresses that Grace Kelly gets to wear! Oh how I wish I lived in a time when we dressed like that!
Casablanca – well, obviously! Fortunately I’m usually alone when I watch it, which makes it less embarrassing when I get up and join in with the singing of the Marseillaise – not easy, since I don’t know the words, but somehow that little detail never stands in my way…
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But ask me again tomorrow and it’ll be a different five…
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Thanks again, Sindhuja – I enjoyed this! And I tag… everybody!! Especially you!
She sits at the screen, fingers drumming lightly on the keyboard.
“Lo-li-ta,” she murmurs, checking if the tip of her tongue takes a trip of three steps down her palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. No – her tongue remains firmly behind her teeth at every step. Having mastered counting to ten in Russian at school, she tries it in a Russian accent. “Lo-LI-ta!” Hmm…better, but still not quite there. In the background, the News Channel is discussing whether the UK has managed to blow up anything useful in Syria. “Lo-li-ta!” She becomes aware of the ticking of the clock – a surprise, since all the various clocks in the room are digital. And each tells her that 30 minutes have passed since she opened the document that stares blankly and somewhat accusingly from the screen. Quickly she types:
Middle-aged paedophile Humbert Humbert narrates the story of how he repeatedly abuses and rapes a child.
Hmm… accurate, but perhaps a bit harsh? She shudders as she is assaulted by a sudden vision of hordes of angry Lolita fans waving placards. Reaching for a piece of chocolate, she mumbles “Lo-li-ta”, then presses delete. The News Channel reports that it’s raining today, will be raining tomorrow and that the medium term forecast is for rain. The damp cat drying its paws on her sweater confirms the report’s accuracy. She makes coffee.
Humbert Humbert falls in love with the twelve-year-old golden-tanned, lentigo-bespeckled daughter of his landlady – little Lo-li-ta…
She ponders, then deletes the hyphens. Then deletes the sentence.
This beautifully written – no, scratch that – This pretentious – no, no, definitely scratch that!
The News Channel is now discussing the ethics of gene-editing. She finds herself wondering if they could edit her genes to turn her into a natural red-head. Or perhaps they could give her a golden tan and lentigo.
Humbert Humbert is genetically programmed to be obsessed by nymphets, and little Lolita is genetically designed to be one…
She sighs, deletes and switches off the TV. The ticking of the clock sounds louder now. She reads a few blog posts, all of which depress her with the conviction that everyone else can always find plenty to say even about books that are basically pulp. Lolita is an acknowledged classic so she should be able to write something deeply insightful and possibly poetic about it, shouldn’t she? A small part of her brain knows exactly what the problem is – that what she wants to write is…
* * * * * * *
Middle-aged paedophile Humbert Humbert narrates the story of how he repeatedly abuses and rapes a child.
Despite the fact that I knew going in that this was what the book was fundamentally about, I had hoped that it might have some merits that would outweigh the unpleasantness of the subject matter. For example, I’ve read a million reviews saying how wonderfully written it is. At the point where I was dying of tedium around the 40% mark, praying that he would stop repeating himself and just for once say ‘freckles’ rather than consulting his thesaurus and coming up with ‘lentigo’ instead, I rechecked some of the reviews and noted the little rider that 90% of them add – I paraphrase: “the prose is wonderful, considering he wasn’t writing in his first language”. Aha! If only I’d paid more attention – ‘cos, in general, anytime anyone follows the word “wonderful” with the word “considering” that usually equates to “not really wonderful at all”. Certainly his love of words shines through, and I grant his mastery of English is considerably greater than many native speakers’. But the purpose of a wide vocabulary is surely to enable one to communicate more effectively – not to spend one’s time replacing perfectly functional commonplace words with others that are never used. Unless one is compiling a cryptic crossword…
Of course, had I been swept up in the masterful story-telling, I wouldn’t have had time to get picky about the pretentiousness of the language. But I fear I didn’t find the storytelling masterful at all. Surprising, since Nabokov tells us in his foreword (written tongue-in-cheek as if by a fictional character but still managing to sound rather nauseatingly self-complimentary) that Humbert has written a great work of art, and goes on to say…
“…how magically his singing violin can conjure up a tendresse, a compassion for Lolita that makes us entranced with the book while abhorring its author.”
Hmm! Well… anyway…
Perhaps at the time of writing the whole concept of grooming a child would have been shocking, but frankly it’s a story we hear time and again now, both in reality and in fiction, so its shock value is considerably lessened. Its unpleasantness, however, remains. I think the thing I liked least about it was the attempt to make the story humorous. While Nabokov does often remind us of the real cruelty at the heart of the story – for instance, when he mentions Lolita crying herself to sleep each night – I felt that he was painting Humbert in too sympathetic a light, though I wasn’t sure that this was his intention. And conversely, showing Lolita as too well able to cope with the abuse both as it happened and afterwards. In fact, Lolita’s strength is in a sense a get out of jail free card for Humbert (or Nabokov), because Nabokov would have found it much more difficult to put in his little “jokes”, surely, had Lolita been portrayed more truthfully. I spent much of my time debating whether the falseness of Lolita’s character was a deliberate effect of Humbert’s unreliability as a narrator, but actually I couldn’t convince myself that he is unreliable. I think we are supposed to accept that events happened as he describes them, which left me with real credibility problems.
Certainly we are not supposed to assume that the book has any meaning deeper than the story it tells – Nabokov himself makes this clear, in his afterword…
“There are gentle souls who would pronounce Lolita meaningless because it does not teach them anything. I am neither a reader nor a writer of didactic fiction, and, despite John Ray’s assertion, Lolita has no moral in tow. For me a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm.”
I agree – it is meaningless and it has no moral in tow. Sadly it did not provoke in me any feelings of bliss, aesthetic or otherwise – though it does have the distinction of being the only book I remember reading that both bored me and made me want to vomit simultaneously. Screeds of it are tediously repetitive – the pages and pages where he describes all the different kinds of hotels they stay in read like some kind of holiday brochure written by an aspiring poet doing a summer job, or perhaps more like the reviews on TripAdvisor, only with better spelling. I would have skipped through to the good bits only I couldn’t find out where they were. One more lingering description of Lolita’s golden tan would have provoked me to start campaigning for compulsory sunscreen. And just when I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, I was forced to live through the most ridiculous climax (an unfortunate choice of words, perhaps, in the circumstances) with some of the least convincing dialogue I have ever read.
“Ah, that hurts, sir, enough! Ah, that hurts atrociously, my dear fellow. I pray you, desist.”
My feelings exactly. So, it’s very well written, considering English isn’t his first language. And that’s pretty much the best I can find to say about it.
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…but she knows that would be an ill-tempered rant rather than a review. Exasperated, she presses delete and switches off the laptop. Maybe tomorrow…
I wake. I groan despondently. I had hoped today would be different. But this isn’t heaven, or even hell. It’s worse than that. I’m in my bedroom, this room which has seen so much trouble, with my head on my old, lumpy pillow, mouldy now from the dampness of tears. I ache all over, but I know it’s just a response to the pain in my heart.
I stumble to the kitchen. 8 a.m. Is it too early to have a drink, I wonder? A bottle is open on the table – there’s a couple of inches of red at the bottom. I pour it, still unsure whether to have it or coffee. I notice there’s a dead fly floating in it. Oh well! I put the kettle on.
I take my coffee to the computer. I haven’t showered. It seems so pointless to be clean, today of all days. My mind is pulled back to THAT DAY, ten years ago, when…. but no, I mustn’t think of it. I desperately want a drink.
I think about phoning my daughter, but she hates me calling in the morning. Or the afternoon. Or evening. In fact, she hates me. Ever since that day when she was five and I made her go to school. I remember the scene vividly. “WTF, Mum!” she yelled. “Why the flock would you make me do this? If I learn to flickering read, one day I’ll find myself reading The Girl on the Bus or Babies, You’re Dead! You’re a bad mother, you flubbing titch!” (We had taught her to swear early in the hopes she would write crime novels one day, but she still had some work to do…)
I think sadly of my hopes for her and my disappointment at what she’s become. A politician. I groan and bury my head in my hands, the grease from my unwashed hair leaving an oily deposit on my hands. I think about vomiting, but decide to leave it till chapter 2. I desperately want a drink.
Breakfast. I must eat. I had some leftover pizza last Tuesday but since then I haven’t been able to face food. I look in the kitchen. The bread is mouldy. The milk is mouldy. There’s jam. I scoop the mould off the top and eat it from the jar with a dirty spoon. I remember those happy mornings when David and I were first married and we would gaze at each other lovingly over lightly boiled eggs and buttered toast. It’s six months since he left. With that floozy. And the dog. I miss the dog. It’s dead now. He forgot to feed it. I knew he would. I desperately need a drink.
I open my e-mails – 600, all from Nigeria. I think about moving there. It appears I have lots of rich relatives over there, though apparently they’re all dead. Here I only have my daughter. And my mother. She hates me. Ever since the social services made her take me back after she abandoned me at the recycling centre.
I spot an e-mail that’s not from Nigeria! Though I know better, my hopes rise. Could it be from a friend? Unlikely. I only have one friend, and she hates me. Ever since she asked me “Does my bum look big in this?”, and I told her the truth. I open the e-mail. OMG! WTF!! It’s from him! The man from THAT DAY, ten years ago, when… My mind recoils from the memory. I rush to the kitchen for the wine and chug it down in two gulps. The dead fly gives it added body. I put my head in my hands and groan. Can this day get any worse, I ask myself? But I know from experience – it can…
MarinaSofia this week upped the reviewing ante by producing a poem in lieu of a book review. Now, she has an unfair advantage by virtue of the fact that she is a poet, but nonetheless I feel the gauntlet has been thrown down.
So, never one to refuse a challenge, here goes…
There was a young woman from Longbourn
Who treated her suitor with much scorn
But when she saw his great house
She would fain be his spouse
The poor girl was really quite lovelorn.
Her sisters were terribly busy
Catching husbands, which left our poor Lizzie
On the shelf, until Darcy
Took her hand at a party*
And they danced till they both were quite dizzy.
* (well, you try and find a rhyme for Darcy, smartypants!)
Now some people call this a romance
(Just ’cause they don’t like to dance)
But wait just a moment!
It’s deep social comment
And gets 5-stars from me! *happy trance*
😀 😀 😀 😀 😀
OK, your turn. Now…who’s going to do War and Peace…?
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PS If you’d like to see how it’s really done, do visit MarinaSofia’s blog, Finding Time to Write – a great place for poetry and reviews, plus she hunts down all the best locations for the readers and writers amongst us to lust after…