Bloomsbury Bell

Life in Cold Comfort Farm

2011-05-31T10:17:00.004+01:00

The road into our village in winter.

One of my favourite books is Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons and having recently moved to the countryside I can certainly see where her inspiration came from! There is a tumbledown farmyard along our lane and as I pass it every morning I sometimes expect Adam Lambsbreath to come around the corner with Feckless or Aimless in tow.

Our village is owned by Oxford University which acquired it in the 1940s after the death of the landowner who lived in the 'big house'. This means that there has been no building or housing development for around 100 years - I think the village hall was one of the last buildings that was built in the 1920s. As I walk to the shop (little more than a front room in a cottage) or to the pub, I feel as though I am being transported back in time. It is completely feudal as we all pay rent to the university as none of the houses are ever sold.

There are only around 50 households in the village but, despite the small population, there is a thriving community and lots of village parties and events. Moving to a village after living in London for almost a decade was a daunting prospect but we have struck lucky in that we are only 3 miles from Oxford and the village community is made up of a strong and friendly bunch of people.

When I read articles about the decline of rural communities, I look around at ours and think how lucky we are that we didn't move somewhere that is home to commuters and second homeowners. Having said that, I can see how easily things would change for us if the shop ever disappeared as it really is the hub - all information is gathered via the shop. And believe me when I say that nothing is sacred. Everyone really does know everything!

There are some things that I am still struggling to get used to but life in the country is actually never quiet! If it isn't the wildlife, it's people knocking on your door for a chat. And the other day I opened our front door to find an array of fresh vegetables and salad leaves that a neighbour had grown in their garden. It's moments like that when I wonder if I have landed in the middle of a Miss Marple novel!

And yes, there are definitely moments when I have been in the midst of Cold Comfort Farm - a whole different breed of eccentricity resides in the country. So imagine my delight when I discovered that Vintage Classics are publishing a batch of novels by Stella Gibbons. I am really looking forward to getting my hands on Christmas at Cold Comfort Farm and also Conference at Cold Comfort Farm. The others that look really interesting are Starlight and Westwood - I 'may as well' bung those into the order as well. Oh dear, well at least I have that free veg to eat!

A Right Royal Knees Up!

2011-04-29T08:30:00.001+01:00

Well, the day of the Royal Wedding is upon us. Will she be wearing 'cream' or 'ivory'? Satin, lace or silk? Without meaning to sound too 'bah humbug' about the whole thing I have been bored to tears by the media incessantly reporting pointless gossip regarding the 'fairytale romance'. Isn't that what they said about Charles and Diana? If that's a fairytale then Disney has a whole load of script edits to make. Of course I wish them well, but it would be wonderful if the media could actually report on more pressing issues such as the major referendum that is about to take place.

Despite my miserable old git attitude I still appreciate a bit of pomp so I will be watching the ceremony and in the true style of a seasoned hypocrite I will probably be gossiping with my friends about the various outfits of the guests. Our village is having a party at the Village Hall and we all have to take a dish to contribute to the supper. I'm ready-armed with my shop bought quiche - well, you can take the girl out of London....

Spring Awakening

2011-04-27T09:04:00.004+01:00

Blossom in our garden

Well, the inadvertant blog break is now over! Lots has been going on but first I will update you on the World Book Night shenanigans. I decided to give my books out at the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford. I roped my friend in and we floated through the corridors of the hospital giving books out to doctors, nurses, patients and visitors. It was surprising how many people said no and were immediately suspicious of what we were up to, expecting a catch. However, one woman in particular was so pleased to have received a free book that she said I had 'made her night'. Meeting her alone made the whole experience worth it as she explained that she never bought books and didn't really know how to use the library. I gave her a copy for her nephew as well as she said that he liked history and so she thought he might like Dissolution. I will definitely take part next year. In the meantime, schemes likes bookcrossing and bookmooch are a great way to pass on the literary love!

Since World Book Night I have been dipping in and out of various books and waiting for spring to arrive in the village. Moving to the country has unleashed an obsession with seasons and the weather as I never noticed them so much in London.

I am revisiting Iris Murdoch at the moment as I went to a talk about her at the local library in Woodstock. I am also in the grip of reading Karen Armstrong's Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life which I bought after hearing her talk at the Southbank Centre. More on all this soon!

So a hotchpotch couple of months drifting along watching the leaves unfurl and the sun gaining strength. Below is a picture of our cottage surrounded by new green.

World Book Night - the Countdown

2011-03-03T15:28:00.004Z

So, I have collected my 48 copies of Dissolution by C.J. Sansom from Blackwell's in Oxford and now I have 2 days to finalise my plans for giving them away on Saturday night during the first ever World Book Night. Somehow, 48 books don't seem enough as I have a rather long shortlist of ideas to choose from!

Oxford is an internationally renowned city of learning and academia but what has struck me since moving here is just how much poverty and associated lack of opportunity there is in some parts of the city. It is certainly not all dreaming spires. Oxford is saturated in books, from the wonderful Bodleian Library to all the fantastically stocked local libraries, it would seem that we should be the most literate and well-read city in Britain. However, according to the National Literacy Trust, one in six adults in the UK has a literacy rate that is lower than the level expected of an eleven year old. That means that there are a great many people in Oxford who struggle with literacy. For someone who takes their own literacy for granted, the figure from the National Literacy Trust is shocking. I am not suggesting that handing out 48 books will somehow have any impact upon this issue - but whilst deciding where to hand out my books these thoughts have been at the back of my mind.

I am in the fortunate position to be able to say that books are not a luxury for me. Rather, I view them as a necessity! I don't have to choose between food and books. But for many people, especially in these difficult times, these choices will be made more and more. Public libraries become sacred spaces during economic difficulty - all of us need to save the pennies, some more than others, so a library offers a place in which we can all access any text, for free. As I have already mentioned, many local libraries in Oxfordshire will be forced to close due to funding cuts from the local government. I just want to know, where will people be able to get their books from when they can't afford to buy them? Why is access to the printed word viewed as a luxury? I don't know.

I do know that World Book Night is a fantastic scheme - whilst it is only one night, it is one night during which anyone could end up holding a book that they may never have held otherwise. Whether, it's someone who gets a book that they just would never have chosen or someone who doesn't have the money to spend on books for themselves it doesn't matter. For one night the whole country will become like a library - totally egalitarian as to who takes the books home.

I will keep you posted as to exactly where and when I will be handing the books out. Is anyone else a World Book Night Giver? What are your plans? For the rest of you, are you hoping to bag a freebie?

Window Haunting

2011-02-13T18:06:00.005Z

One of my favourite things to do is to scurry and lurk, scurry and lurk past people's windows. I walk fast down a chosen street and then, invariably the glimpse of an interior induces me to dawdle as I peek into the lives of the inhabitants.

It's partly the reason why I love the autumn so much, as for months my prying will have been hindered by the fact that I was in plain view. The onset of early darkness aids my hobby as I am covered by its velvet complicity.

Virginia Woolf writes wonderfully about windows in Street Haunting;

"high among the bare trees are hung oblong frames of reddish-yellow light - windows; there are points of brilliance burning steadily like low stars - lamps; this empty ground, which holds the country in it and its peace."

But , Woolf reminds us that we must be careful not to dig 'deeper than the eye approves' and I remember this when I am walking past people's houses, watching them sit down to supper or slumped in front of the TV or admiring their bookshelves. A glimpse is all I need to imagine their lives. As I was walking home the other evening I approached my own house and glimpsed how it might look from a fellow street haunters perspective. So I took a photo - which is above. I wonder what Woolf would have made of it?

I'm a World Book Night Giver!

2011-02-01T10:31:00.002Z

I woke up this morning to a lovely email from the organisers of World Book Night. I have been selected to be a ‘giver’ which means that on Saturday 5 March I will be distributing 48 copies of C.J. Sansom’s Dissolution to people in Oxford as a celebration of literature, literacy, reading and the value of the written word. It is doubly exciting as it’s the night before my birthday so I can combine this bookish escapade with my birthday celebrations!

As yet, I am undecided as to where exactly I will be giving the books. There are so many ideas to choose from. Should I give them out at one of the many homeless shelters or hospices? Or, should I use this as an opportunity to join forces with those who are campaigning against the closure of 50% of the local libraries in Oxfordshire?

I don’t want to get political especially as this is not about politics; rather, it’s about ethics and ideology. The devaluation of local libraries as a resource for local communities is, in my opinion, unethical. Libraries are not just places for people to borrow books from. They are centres for community groups to meet, for people to access the internet and places for people to explore ideas and learn.

There has been much campaigning across Oxford against the proposed funding cuts and closures. I wrote to my local MP who wrote back, which I was grateful for, however she spelt my name incorrectly. She has since written to keep me updated as to what she is ‘doing’ about the cuts; spelling my name incorrectly again. Now, I could go on a rant about this slapdash illiteracy. I won’t, but I would like to point out that perhaps she should go to her local library and borrow a book on both manners and spelling.

The author of the His Dark Materials trilogy, Philip Pullman, wrote a fantastic piece about the cuts which you can read here. He lives in Oxford and has been at the forefront of the campaign.

To be part of World Book Night is an honour and so exciting. I will keep you updated as to what I plan to do with the books. Any ideas are more than welcome! And if you are a ‘giver’ in Oxford, let me know and we could combine forces!

A favourite...

2011-01-31T10:19:00.004Z

Chalk Paths, 1935. © Estate of Eric Ravilious

Just a quick post today after a hefty break (all will become clear!) - I went home to Sussex for the weekend and as I was ambling around the Southdowns with my friend I thought of Eric Ravilious and how much I love his work. Today, The Persephone Post has featured one of his images - it's funny how you think of something after a long time and then it crops up elsewhere as a secondary reminder!!

I loved the old slam door trains - there was nothing quite like the feeling of speeding through the countryside with the window pushed down to the bottom whilst the warm summer air blew in your face. Somehow, I don't think Brief Encounter could have happened on our electric, aeroplane style trains!

Train Landscape, 1939 © Estate of Eric Ravilious

Ringing the changes

2011-01-08T18:20:00.003Z

The village in snow

It is, once again, a long time since I posted anything. Indeed, since I have written anything at all either online or in notebooks or on scraps of paper that I often look at and think, "what?!" I hope you all had a lovely Christmas and New Year.

So much has happened that I am going to have to speed through or else it will be March and I will still be catching up on December. A week before Christmas Mr Bell and I braved the blizzards and moved house for the second time in a year. Due to the snow we were delayed by four days and caused quite a stir in the village as we ended up being towed in as our van had got completely stuck. In the midst of our frenzied move we went down to Sussex for a lovely family Christmas but we were fairly dazed at this point so everything was a bit of a blur and we never got around to putting up any of our decorations. It felt a bit of a shock to go to mum's and see a Christmas tree as I didn't have time to get obsessively Christmassy (which I usually do). Anyway, I gorged myself on Christmas lunch and had lots of cuddles with my very cute eleven month old niece.

Tonight is the first time we have connection to the internet (long story) and we are still sorting out the utilities (tedious) BUT every morning I wake up to my lovely tabby cat nosing his way into my consciousness as he demands his breakfast and the views from our windows change from day to day depending on the light which reminds me why we moved in the first place. For the past six months we have been without our beloved tabby cat as we couldn't find anywhere in the centre of Oxford to rent that would accept a cat. Ironically, London seems to be more amenable to animals! Anyway, we had to send him to my best friend who lives in Sussex so he has had a six month sabbatical from us, enjoying himself no end and being thoroughly spoilt. We didn't cope so well in his absence. Soft as we are, we never got used to being without him so despite the mad move it has been totally worth it.

So now we are country dwellers. A whole new experience and, so far, an interesting one. We are still a cycle ride from the city centre so we are not too isolated, before you start imagining an hour's hike to the nearest shop, but it is quiet enough that we have more peace, we have a lot more space and it is fun to experience such a contrast from the flat in London that we crammed ourselves into.

In terms of reading, moving house doesn't aid literary pursuits so there has been a bit of a drought. I am currently reading The Group by Mary McCarthy and The Sacred and Profane Love Machine by Iris Murdoch which are getting me through the dry spell. My only resolution for 2011 is to be a more diligent blogger as things have lapsed of late!

And All Shall Be Well

2010-12-06T17:33:00.002Z

Where have I been? It has been over a month since I last wrote a post on poor, neglected Bloomsbury Bell. I have been having a small dose of respite from all sorts of things and now I am ready to emerge from my shell and crack it from me as I stretch my limbs forward through their slow creak of waking.

Winter Blues is a funny term I always think - the winter has never been blue exactly. It is sparkling, glittering even and the winter sun is gold and pink as it dips down past the Equator and slips out of sight. I enjoyed reading this article about the wonder of winter. Winter is indeed a wonderland at the moment - through the window I can see a white world as a permanent frost seems to have set in.

In two weeks time the world will turn again for me as I'm moving to a cottage just outside Oxford. The trees pictured above will be my neighbours. It is a fairly big adventure for two citydwellers but it is exciting as I have never lived anywhere so rural before. I have had to order my first pair of adult sized wellies (having long ago outgrown my pink pair) and we have even bought a torch to light our way back from the local pub!

I packed my books last night (leaving out a few to keep me going) and really wished that I had stuck to my resolve to only borrow from the library. My arm muscles are wincing in anticipation.

Saving Lambert Barnard

2010-10-22T14:00:00.005+01:00

Tudor Paintings in Chichester Cathedral

Ever since I was a tiny child I have loved Chichester Cathedral. Not only is it a beacon for home but it is a beautiful building containing a Chagall window an uncovered Roman mosaic floor and a myriad of other delights. The Cathedral has long been an advocate for the arts and alongside medieval stone carvings there are many contemporary pieces, mostly commissioned by Dean Walter Hussey who was a great patron to musicians and artists. The Arundel Tomb inspired Philip Larkin to write the famous poem of the same name and the composer Leonard Bernstein (who wrote West Side Story) composed the Chichester Psalms. It is a cliche to use the term 'treasure trove' but the Cathedral really is just that, especially to a child on the lookout for the carved mice on the wooden furniture or the monkey in the Tudor painting.

Lambert Barnard (what a name) was an English Renaissance painter during the early 16th century and was Court Painter to Bishop Sherburne for twenty years. During this time, Barnard painted a series of works on wooden panels which are displayed in Chichester Cathedral and which are currently in desperate need of repair and conservation work. Last night's Culture Show on BBC2 features the paintings and has some lovely shots of the Cathedral, you can watch it here. There is much more information about the campaign to save the paintings and about their relevance to English history, on this website here. The image below of Henry VIII is believed to be the only secular image of the King remaining in the Country thereby giving an indication of the way that he was seen by ordinary people.

I was so pleased to see these paintings being shown on the Culture Show as they are not in a gallery so do not always get the notice that they deserve. They hang on cold grey walls during christenings, marriages, funerals and watch over the general bustle of Cathedral life. The painting pictured at the top hangs in the South Transept which is where Coffee is served after a service. I like to look at it and think of all the eyes before mine which have done the same. The paintings are a constant presence, silently soaking in history as transient human activity takes place below. If only they could tell us all that they have seen.

A new blogging adventure!

2010-10-18T15:02:00.003+01:00

To my dear Bloomsbury Bell readers, some of you may already know that I have landed a new blogging gig for The Lady magazine's website. I am hoping that it will give me a more structured approach to my writing as I now have a copy deadline once a fortnight! Essentially, it will be more about my move to Oxford and the challenge and adventure that living here is turning out to be after being in London for eight years. You can read it here and all feedback is welcome so let me know what you think!

But, Bloomsbury Bell will very much remain alive and will retain its focus on books and general literary bits and bobs. The last few weeks have been an absolute whirlwind - I went home to Chichester at the weekend for my mother's mouthwatering roast dinner (and to see friends and family of course!) which was lovely. It's funny that even though I haven't lived there for a decade I still feel a sense of homecoming when we arrive in the city. I know every tree, every road, every building and the familiarity is so strong that it induces a sense of ownership. I see it as mine somehow and I feel comforted every time I return. It's a similar feeling to revisiting a book that had a massive impact upon you when you read it for the first time. In my head I connect the feeling with reading Howards End. Perhaps because the feeling that Mrs Wilcox has for the house is exactly my feeling towards Chichester. Are there any places or books that inspire these feelings within you?

As the nights are drawing in I have been stockpiling books and I bought a new hotwater bottle as I am planning to stay in and spend the winter reading. I have fallen behind my reading target for this year as moving and all sorts of things have got in the way. But, wintry evenings are the perfect motivation for cosying up and hiding away from the world with a good book.

Thou hast thy music too

2010-10-11T17:41:00.003+01:00

The Thames at Iffley Lock

Yesterday I walked along the Thames towards Iffley Lock. The golden autumn light lit the trees and church tower and rowers gently slid past as I trundled along. I felt a world away from my life of a few months ago and then I suddenly realised that I live as close to the Thames now as I did in London. So, I haven't moved away I have merely moved upriver!

Autumn always feels like a good time of year for being busy. Winter is still curled up, waiting to unfurl and swathe its darkness over the land. So, there is time to quickly busy ourselves and get things done before the long months of waiting for spring. As I write this, I can see a squirrel dashing about in our garden, no doubt planning where to hide his food before hibernation starts. In the last of the sun people come out and bask as they stroll along - the river yesterday was a hive of activity as families were making the most of the weakening rays. I stopped for a drink in the Isis Farmhouse and sat in their orchard watching the people around me. Families chattered, students were alight with finding out all the summer activities of their peers and apples plopped from the over-laden boughs. Autumn is full of smells and sounds - it has its music too.

The day brought the following poem by Keats into my mind. I love autumn and I also love Keats so the two combined is a perfect marriage.

To Autumn

John Keats (1820)

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

On A Slope of Orchard

2010-10-10T11:11:00.003+01:00

Another holiday snap - food stalls in Bologna

The food shops in Bologna are incredible. We gorged ourselves on bread, olives, pecorino cheese and the sausage Mortadella which is a speciality of the area. We were spoilt for choice as we went from one deli to the next, our eyes increasing to three times the size of our stomachs, and we bought bag fulls of food to eat on the train to the coast. I have never had such a feast on public transport before - as we looked out of the train windows we saw endless olive groves and vineyards speeding by so even though we were not quite on the slope of an orchard we had a picnic that I am sure Francis would have been proud of!

On A Slope Of Orchard

There on a slope of orchard, Francis laid
A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound,
brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home,
And cut down, a pasty costly made,
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret, lay
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks
Imbedded and in jellied.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Italian Riviera

2010-10-09T11:07:00.012+01:00

Riomaggiore

To say that I have come crashing back to earth with a bump is an understatement. Mr Bell and I spent just under a week in Italy. First stop was Bologna where we indulged in pistachio ice cream from what is apparently Umberto Eco's favourite ice cream shop. And it was heavenly.

We then caught a train, armed with enough food to feed the Roman Army, for a 4 hour journey to the Cinque Terre or five towns. We spent days walking the coastal path and having our breath taken away by the views.

We swam in the sea, found ancient churches up in the hills and spent our evenings watching the incredible sunsets.

We stayed in Riomaggiore and as you can see in the photo, bunting has been strung between buildings in the harbour. I am a huge fan of bunting so was thrilled to turn a corner and see it festooned over the boats.

We stumbled upon an old monastery above Monterosso that has a statue of St Francis at the entrance, to protect the bay. The evening light was incredible, as you can see from the photo, and we wandered around the cemetery accompanied by the sound of the waves far below us. An idyllic resting place.
We met this cat on a path up in the hills, in the middle of nowhere. I was very tempted to put him in my rucksack and bring him home. But, he scurried off into some nearby olive groves. After all, who would want to leave such a haven?

We spent hours watching the light play on the sea.
The view of Vernazza from the coastal path.
Bologna was lit by golden evening light which I always think of when I think of Italy.

On our last day in Italy I made Mr Bell accompany me on a 3 hour train journey to Florence as I just had to pop into my favourite paper shop for bookbinding supplies. I spent a vast sum of money on many sheets of hand marbled paper which I had to transport back on a rather packed Ryan Air flight. I managed to get them home without any creases and they are now waiting for me to turn them into notebooks.

In search of wine, olives and the Cinque Terre

2010-09-25T22:00:00.004+01:00

Bologna

In a few short hours I will be leaving for Bologna and the Cinque Terre where I will be partaking in much wine, cheese, pizza, pasta and olive consumption! I have not yet packed, but when I do I will be prioritising books over thick jumpers (which may come in handy for the chilly evenings) as we are only taking one small rucksack each. I am going to take The Enchanted April by Elizabeth Von Arnim and either the biography of Nancy Mitford by Harold Acton or The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. Decisions, decisions.

Ilyrian Spring by Ann Bridge

2010-09-23T17:50:00.002+01:00

Occasionally I finish one book and drift over to my bookshelves to contemplate which book to read next - and the next read turns out to be the most perfect book to suit my current mood. This does not happen often enough, but when it does, oh! The delight! I love being gripped from page one and being unable to think of anything else for days. The sheer joy of slipping in between the book covers and burrowing down into the plot so that the characters are a whisper's breath away is incomparable to anything else.

Illyrian Spring is one of those reads that pulls you in so that you are the characters. Their experiences are as vivid as your own and they become so real that to finish the book is a wrench. The protagonist is Lady Kilmichael who is also the famous painter Grace Stanway. Grace decides to escape her family and leave her life behind to go on an unplanned trip drifting and painting her way through Italy, Croatia and the eastern coast of the Adriatic sea which used to be known as Dalmatia.

Whilst in Venice, Grace meets the young Nicholas Humphries who is around the same age as her twin sons. He is an aspiring painter whose parents have convinced him to pursue the sensible route of architecture and give up painting. Just as Grace is looking for freedom from the pressures of domestic life and the associated responsibility, so Nicholas is looking for freedom from his parents rule.

Grace and Nicholas go on a journey together. They paint and explore the landscape and their lives become further and further entwined as each embarks upon an intense journey of self-discovery.

What is so interesting about Ann Bridge's writing is the insightful portrayal of characters who are in a state of flux and running away from their lives. There is no melodrama, only the deep intensity of two souls searching for answers and finding each other to aid them in their understanding.

The search for freedom on Grace's part leads her to make some startling discoveries about herself. The freedom that she craves is not gained from running away from her life but from looking inside herself and examining the truth of her problems with her family. In this way, Bridge writes with psychological astuteness and her novel is timeless as a result. After all, how many of us avoid a difficult situation by leaving it?

This book is a simply lovely and wonderful read, made more wonderful by the description of the beautiful landscapes that Nicholas and Grace explore. It made me yearn to go travelling along the Adriatic coast with only a rucksack and a pair of tennis shoes. I would swap the paint and canvas for a notebook and pen though.

Illyrian Spring seems to be a difficult book to get your hands on, I was fortunate enough to be given it by my lovely friend Rachel. She loved it and raved about it and I know exactly why - it is an honest portrayal of a realistic adventure. In other words, the reader feels as if the experiences of Grace are obtainable, if we just left a note and hopped on a train. In that way, it is made even more magical as it delves into a part of us that we all keep hidden. The part that wants to run away. The novel makes it perfectly clear though, that at some point we have to make a decision about going back and Ann Bridge leads us gently by the hand to the right decision.

If you can find this book, buy it. Beg, borrow or steal it. Reading it is like slipping into a new skin and embarking upon a trip during which life presents some answers to a few troubling questions. All this in the midst of a delicate romance in a breathtaking location where the sea sparkles and time is an irrelevance. I think I may have to dive back in.

Bloomsbury Books go Gleeful

2010-09-23T17:22:00.002+01:00

Ok - this is just a quick post for those of you who haven't seen it. This video here by members of staff at Bloomsbury Publishing is possibly the best thing I have seen in years - how is it possible that I can spend five minutes cringing and grinning all at the same time? A work of genius. Enjoy!

The Woodstock Literary Festival

2010-09-19T17:19:00.004+01:00

Blenheim Palace

A day spent at a world heritage site in the company of great writers is the perfect way to spend a cold and grey Sunday. This morning my alarm went off at 07.30 and as I rolled over to slam my hand down on the snooze button I remembered that I had to get the bus to Woodstock.

This was a new experience for me as I actually had to arrive at the bus stop for a specific time - after years of living in London I am used to just pitching up and hopping on one of the many buses that would all go to my destination. The Oxfordshire service is a totally different story. I caught the one bus that went that hour and as we chugged along country lanes I did start to wonder if the bus driver was frightened of the accelerator.

I arrived at Blenheim Palace when it was still sleepy and calm. I walked along the endless drive and was awed by the sprawling grounds and stunning palace. It is an incredible sight when you round on the palace but somehow it is too glorious. I found it hard to imagine it as a place of residence, rather than a visitor attraction. I wonder what it must have been like fifty or one hundred years ago when it was bustling with serving staff and groundsmen and was an entire economy in itself.

The first talk I went to was Adam Sisman talking about Hugh Trevor-Roper and it was absolutely fascinating. Trevor-Roper was a historian and academic at Oxford who had a thirty year feud with Evelyn Waugh. They never met but were arch-enemies due to fundamental differences in opinion about Catholicism. Waugh referred to Trevor-Roper as the "Demon Don" after he criticised the behaviour of the Catholic Church during the Second World War. In turn, Trevor-Roper thought that Brideshead Revisited was a fake portrayal of life at Oxford and that it over-romanticised Catholicism.

Waugh and Trevor-Roper's feud was very public as both would write letters to various publications in which they criticised each other. I couldn't help thinking that they both sounded as though they enjoyed goading each other to make the next move; like a pair of ego-maniacal schoolboys.

I also saw Lady Antonia Fraser talking about the book she has written about her thirty-three year relationship with Harold Pinter. I was inspired by her admission that she has kept a diary for over forty years as, in her words, "One good reason for keeping a diary is that you remember the facts but you forget the details" - so diary-keeping is how she can remember a lifetime of detail. Her relationship with Pinter sounds like a true love affair and he was incredibly romantic, writing her love poems and bestowing her with bundles of flowers. The thing that she said which really struck me was that Pinter would say to her "Happiness is not dramatic" - a true statement, articulated perfectly.

And lastly, I saw Colin Dexter talk about his life. He is incredibly witty and had the audience in stitches for most of his talk. It was such a great opportunity to see the author of the Morse novels which I love. He didn't talk too much about Morse but regaled us with tales from his schooldays and his inspirational English teacher who introduced him to Thomas Hardy. By the time he left school he had read all of Hardy's novels. He admitted that he will be appearing in all the Lewis episodes (he appeared in most Morse episodes) but he has to do about six takes even if he is just walking down the street as he isn't a very good actor!

If the Oxfordshire local bus service can take me to such an amazing location to hear fantastic speakers - I can't really complain about the infrequency or lack of speed!

Acquisitions for the weekend

2010-09-17T15:16:00.003+01:00

Chichester Cathedral

I am going home to Chichester for the weekend to stay at my mother's house. As soon as I walk in the door I will be met with the warm fug of cooking smells and my mum will greet me in her apron. The familiarity of my childhood home is something that I cherish and I love curling up on my mum's sofa with the family cat, Oscar, a cup of tea in hand and a huge slice of homemade cake with a good book.

In preparation for a weekend of reading, and due to the fact that I was escaping a rain shower, I bought three books in the Oxfam bookshop on St Giles; William Golding's The Spire, Thomas Hardy's The Return of the Native and a rather amazing looking Virago which I am particularly excited about.

Before I start these however, I must finish Ann Bridge's Ilyrian Spring which is one of my favourtie reads of 2010 so far. Simply perfect. A review will follow!

The Pre-Raphaelites and Italy

2010-09-16T16:30:00.001+01:00

Edward Burne-Jones, Music, 1877, copyright The Ashmolean

Last night we went to the private view for The Pre-Raphaelites and Italy at the Ashmolean. The exhibition is a fantastic opportunity to see lesser known works by well known Pre-Raphaelites; Rossetti, Burne-Jones, Hunt and Ruskin are all on show. What was particularly interesting is that a lot of landscapes of Italy are on display which was great as I haven't seen many Pre-Raphaelite landscapes before. Looking at all the paintings of beautiful Italian landscapes was a perfect way to whet my appetite as I only have a week and a half before I will be in Italy basking in the autumnal sun and scoffing as many olives as I can find!

I love Burne-Jones and one of the real treats of this exhibition is that Andrew Lloyd-Webber has lent The Fall of Lucifer from his private collection. The painting is haunting and at 2.5 metres high is quite over-powering. The gilded edge contrasts beautifully with the gloomy, lowly colours of the painting as Lucifer and his reprobate angels fall from heaven.

Cycling home through the quiet streets of Oxford is such a delight at this time of year. Our way home was lit by the stars and we were accompanied by the peal of bells as bell-ringers were practising for Sunday. September is one of my favourite months as the smell of woodsmoke starts to creep in and the gentle chill reminds me that cosy evenings are on their way.

I am going to plan the books that I will take with me to Italy. Thank you for all your Italy inspired reading suggestions. I now have to narrow it down so that I leave some room for my toothbrush.

A holiday to cure my 'consumption'

2010-09-09T15:21:00.003+01:00

This is just a quick post to explain the unintentional blogging break. The last two weeks have simply flown by into nowhere it seems and I haven't been very well so have been holed up in my bed feeling very sorry for myself and watching rubbish telly and reading easy crime novels. I am still peaky and currently have no voice at all, well I have a croaky, squeaky sound that is just ridiculous.

Anyway, that is the reason I haven't been writing (or reading much). The end is in sight though and I am cheering myself up with the fact that I have booked a week in Italy at the end of September; for a much needed rest. We are going to Bologna and the Cinque Terre (see above) and I cannot wait. Apart from A Room With A View what other books are set in Italy and constitute a 'must read'?

In the meantime - normal blogging will resume.

But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near

2010-08-24T16:43:00.004+01:00

The view from my study window

To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell is one of my favourite poems as I understand that sense of urgency about life. Obviously, his goal is quite different from mine! But, I am finding myself more and more with a feeling that there are just not enough hours in the day. Had I but world enough indeed as I make endless plans to get things done and find that the week has flown by once more. So, I am turning more and more to the beautiful sky that I have found over Oxford - it is amazing how little sky I saw in London. Why wasn't I looking? Now I just can't seem to escape the overwhelming beauty of it as it catches my eye everyday.

But, as Marvell's poem encourages, I just need to crack on and wade through my Nile-length to do list - it has been almost a week since I went along to a book group in Oxford that Simon (Stuck in Book) was kind enough to take me to, as he is a regular at two book groups. I had a lovely time and the book was Frankenstein which Simon posted about here. I had great fun disagreeing with Simon and some other members of the group about who we should sympathise with, Frankenstein or his creation. I am a member of 'Team Creation' myself as I find Dr Frankenstein a completely unlikeable character not least because he never takes responsibility for his actions. I could go on at length here as I did last Wednesday but I will spare you my rant. I think I actually started to foam at the mouth at one point so perhaps they won't let me go back!

The next book on the list is Villette, I sometimes wonder if I am in the Truman Show as someone somewhere must have rigged it so that the books for the next couple of months are nineteenth century. Still, I have vowed to read more nineteenth century so I shall give it a go. Although, I am making poor headway with Jane Eyre. Which is another thing that I must finish.

Recently, I have been reading novels set in Oxford, The Lessons by Naomi Alderman was really interesting but I will do a post on that soon. I am now reading a crime novel by Veronica Stallwood, Death and the Oxford Box - to be honest it isn't blowing me away but then nothing compares to a Colin Dexter or Dorothy L. Sayers. Which, reminds me I had planned to read Gaudy Night again which I love. Harriet Vane, with her backbone of steel, is such a great character. More on that anon.

So, lots of reading plans. And now I have booked to go to the Iris Murdoch conference in September which I am really looking forward to but I need to swot up before I go! I nipped into the Oxfam Bookshop on St Giles today and found a copy of Bruno's Dream which I snapped up. Perhaps I should stop looking at the sky so much - and that way, I might yet make the sun run!

A trip to Hay on Wye

2010-08-23T17:16:00.007+01:00

Booth Books

As soon as we bought our very own car I was determined to go to Hay on Wye to indulge myself with abandon in book browsing and book buying. So, at the weekend we packed our bags and drove to Hay via Hereford where we gazed at the Mappa Mundi. It rained the entire time that we were in Hay but that merely added to the cosiness of the trip and meant that I didn't feel at all guilty for not marching up the Brecon Beacons (something which does not appeal to me in the slightest but Mr Bell was quite keen to break in his new walking boots - I have never been more grateful for the rain).

There are approximately thirty secondhand bookshops in Hay and I traipsed around most of them. I have to say that the majority are blatantly over-pricing books; ripping off unsuspecting tourists. For example, one shop was selling secondhand Colin Dexter books for £2.50 - these are ten a penny in any secondhand bookshop and I wouldn't pay more than 50p for an indulgent Inspector Morse session. In another bookshop I saw a very battered copy of The Group by Mary McCarthy for £4.50 - absolutely ridiculous.

So be warned - Hay on Wye is every booklovers' fantasy BUT shop around. I then went into another shop and saw The Group for £1.95 - much more reasonable. But, I still didn't buy it as I am desperately trying to use the library and keep book acquisition to a minimum. I bought five books in Booth Books which I recommend to anyone planning to go to Hay. Not only is it a total emporium but books are reasonably priced and they have delightful reading areas. I stumbled upon this very happy cat, fast asleep on the sofa.

I feel that I was really boring in my purchases as I stuck to what I know, here is the list:
Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor (Virago)
The Ballad and the Source by Rosamond Lehmann (Virago)
Rumour of Heaven by Beatrix Lehmann (Virago)
No More Than Human by Maura Laverty (Virago)
To The North by Elizabeth Bowen (Penguin)

I just can't help myself when it comes to early twentieth century literature written by women.

We left Hay in brilliant sunshine and stopped off in Tewkesbury for a look around the Abbey which not only boasts the largest Norman tower in Europe but also a rather delicious Mulberry tree in its grounds.

As we were on the road to Oxford I saw the sign to Swinbrook so I immediately made Mr Bell do a handbrake turn into the single track road which leads to the churchyard where Nancy Mitford is buried. She has been an idol of mine for years so I was so pleased to have the chance to visit her grave. Her sisters Diana, Unity and Pamela are also buried in the churchyard. Unfortunately, Unity and Nancy's graves are covered in lichen which, whilst being very pretty, means that it is really difficult to read them. Unity has a longer epitaph and I have googled to find out that it says "Say not the struggle naught availeth" - which, when you think about it, is both touching and defensive. When it comes to sisterhood I am a teeny bit soppy so I was pleased to see their graves in a row - yes, they bickered and didn't always understand each other but the bonds held fast. Having said that, I doubt my sister would forgive me if I shopped her to MI5 thereby causing her imprisonment!

...that bearing boughs may live

2010-08-16T21:09:00.005+01:00

And so autumn is slowly ripening the fruit of summer's labour. I found this bounteous tree in the grounds of The National Trust's Chastleton House. A moment in between drenching rain showers took me off into the wilds of Oxfordshire with my oldest friend. We have known each other since we were seven years old and have been aspiring, in our tastes, to be middle aged ever since we met. We are long used to being the youngest people wherever we go. So, on Saturday we went for a hearty pub lunch and gentle stroll at Great Tew and then on to Chastleton House for an idyllic afternoon spent wandering the grounds and eating the mulberries.

Chastleton House

A chocolate box cottage in Great Tew

If only wild music did 'burthen every bough' as Shakespeare declared in Sonnet 102. For if it did then the fruit trees at Chastleton House would be truly raucous. Mulberries, plums, apples, quinces and even peaches are scattered throughout the grounds making me wonder why we import fruit at all. I look forward to late summer every year for so many different reasons but to hear my mother (as I did today) say she is going out for damsons is absolutely one of them; as I know that on a cold winter's night I will go home to a jar of her damson jam. Spreading it thickly on toast, I will think of the late summer sun and my mother's jam making magic combining to produce the best comfort food that you could wish for when the boughs are bare and the bounty of summer seems a lifetime away.

For the rain it raineth every day

2010-08-14T09:10:00.003+01:00

Well, this is the view from my (newly finished) study window this morning which immediately brought dear old Feste to mind. Summer seems to have scurried off and left us between seasons. While I wait for the burnished bronze of autumn to sweep in and save us from limbo I am reading three books, fuelled by copious amounts of warming tea and rather too much cake. The trouble is that I need to focus on one as I keep flitting between them.

I have started and am really enjoying The Lessons by Naomi Alderman, not least because it is set in Oxford so it is helping me get my bearings in this new city. I am still reading Jane Eyre, which is perfect to read on a grey day as it is steeped in grey. Grey people, grey places, grey plot, grey, grey, grey. And finally I am reading An Instance of the Fingerpost by Iain Pears, which is also set in Oxford and is great bed time reading.

I am off in search of a hearty pub lunch and, hopefully, a fire to sit beside!

Bimbling about

2010-08-10T17:00:00.004+01:00

I am pretty sure that bimbling is not a word. But it is what I spend quite a lot of time doing. This week has been a 'bimbling' week. I have drifted about doing bits and bobs and not very much all at the same time. I was a bridesmaid for a very beautiful bride up on the moors in the far north. I still have the lovely flowers (above) in a jar on our mantelpiece. On our way back down the spine of the country we veered westwards and found tea and cake in Stroud.

I gorged myself on treacle tart and looked on in horror as Mr Bell devoured a coffee and walnut cake; I detest coffee and walnut. Actually, that was probably a cunning tactic on his part so that I wouldn't want to steal any of his.
We found a view to look at before returning back to Oxfordshire.
It is easy to make friends in the country - here is one that we found in a pub in Bampton
As I sat eating a bag of chips in this churchyard last Friday night,
I caught the smallest whiff of autumn. I wonder if summer knows that the next season is impatiently waiting its turn? There is time yet though before the apples fully ripen, so I am going to go and sun my toes in the grass.

The Weather in the Streets - Book Review

2010-08-08T12:00:00.002+01:00

What better way to spend a sunny afternoon than by sitting in the garden, picking at a fresh bowl of strawberries and reading Rosamund Lehmann's The Weather in the Streets. I promise I am attempting to read Jane Eyre (still the saga continues) but I needed a quick fix of early twentieth century literature before fully embarking upon the epic tome. Anyway, I digress.

The Weather in the Streets is a continuation of the story of Olivia Curtis who is the protagonist in Lehmann's Invitation to the Waltz. Here, Olivia has grown up, separated from her husband and is at a crossroads when a chance encounter with an old acquaintance leads to a heady love affair.

Olivia is a nervous and vulnerable person. She never feels that she can match her sensible sister Kate who has married, produced children and is living the textbook life of domestic serenity. Feeling a failure in every sense Olivia goes home to see her sick father. It is on the train journey home that she meets Rollo Spencer, the brother of her old friend Marigold. Olivia always had a soft spot for Rollo and the reader is quickly made aware of a sense of missed opportunity as each reveals that they are not happy.

Rollo is married to Nicola, and it quickly transpires that she is not physically forthcoming. Olivia has always admired Rollo and they start having an affair. What struck me was how passively Olivia accepts Rollo as a dangerous liaison. She loves him but she is aware of the inevitability of her getting hurt as she lets him rule the relationship. Olivia has no delusion that he will leave his wife but she struggles with the constant and overwhelming presence of Nicola in all that they do. Nicola controls Rollo and, ultimately, she is his priority. Filtering down from this, Olivia is beholden to Nicola's whims. If Nicola wants to go away, then Rollo will take her. If she stays, Rollo will look after her. Olivia has to snatch her time and be grateful for it.

Nicola is a silent presence, she is given no voice in the narrative. But, arguably, hers is the strongest. The protagonists are circling around her at all times and the reader is caught between sympathy for this unknown character and the desire that she would release Rollo from her grip. Interestingly, Olivia discovers that she is pregnant just as Rollo goes away with Nicola for a long holiday. Throughout the ordeal of Olivia concealing her morning sickness from her family and her booking a termination the reader is left on a precipice of hope. Surely, Rollo will come back for her? Surely, it will be alright? But Olivia calmly goes through with it as she knows that she is only second in Rollo's affections and that he will never leave his wife.

Painfully, Olivia tells Rollo when he returns and although he is distressed through shock, he barely manages to comfort her. Rather she comforts him. Nicola, of course, becomes pregnant and Olivia realises how fickle Rollo really is. Relations restored with his wife, his attentions towards Olivia become slack.

Lehmann's characterisation is so piercing that the reader feels dragged into the mind of each character as they become entangled in a web of messy relationships and journeys of self-discovery. Olivia is both perceptive and resigned. She is striving on the one hand for understanding, love and reassurance but on the other she knows the truth of the situation and she makes huge personal sacrifices as a result.

I wondered as I was reading, whether Olivia embarked upon the relationship out of a combination of both nostalgia and safety. Nostalgia because Rollo was her first girlhood crush, her friends glamorous older brother. And safety because, having left her husband, she wasn't really looking for one hundred percent commitment. I gained a sense that this bright girl was struggling with the realisation that she has not achieved all that she thought she might with the consequence that she drifted into a relationship to consume all her attentions rather than pursue her writing, her dreams and ultimately, rather than find herself.

Moments of strength would quickly fade as Rollo charmed Olivia back into the cycle of being his mistress. If this isn't a man who wants his bread buttered on both sides, I don't know what he is! I was exasperated as Olivia just couldn't make that final break. And my mind would stray to Nicola. We know she doesn't love Rollo but does that make it alright?

I was left with a mixed feeling of bewilderment as Lehmann leaves the reader reeling from Olivia's passive acceptance that she and Rollo will remain lovers. Is Lehmann pointing out that some women sacrifice too much for men? Obviously, I am not reading this book through the eyes of a young woman in 1936, rather I have the legacy of feminism sitting on my shoulder. Am I being too hard on Rollo and Olivia?

Reading books like this in the 21st century is fascinating as I sometimes realise that we haven't necessarily 'come that far'. There are plenty of books being published now in which a female 'heroine' compromises herself to keep 'her man'. But reading this article a few months ago I started to wonder if something was brewing. But I thought nothing more of it as life drifted on. Yesterday, I treated myself to a magazine - I bought ELLE, an old favourite. This month there is a feature on passivity within relationships and it cites Laura Munson (see article) as an example. Something is indeed brewing here. Is it new - or is it a resurrection of the age old hatred of the shrewish woman?

Either way, a thread is being spun in the women's lifestyle pages at the moment. Remaining passive in the face of relationship difficulties will apparently steer the relationship back on course. Erm, I am no expert but I have found that an equal amount of work from both parties will carry a relationship through the rocky times. And once through the rocky times, you are both reassured that the other is investing themselves fully in making the relationship work. A great sense of fulfilment, respect and love is borne through this knowledge. The women behind the two articles I have found on this topic seem to imply that the majority of women react hysterically to the prospect of a relationship breaking down. Do we? If so, yes, a certain amount of calm might be worth investing in. But passivity?

I think I would always wonder if the relationship was still breathing merely through his apathy bred as a result of the lack of response he had got from me. It is, after all, easier to stay in a rut than jump out. Do we really want to stay with men who announce that they don't want to be with us? And then stay, because we continued to feed them, clean for them and not make any demands of them?

The Oxford English Dictionary cites the word passive as being synonymous with submissiveness. An interesting thought for modern times. Lehmann, in 1936, made it clear that Olivia's passivity made her both unhappy and submissive. She didn't strive for a solid relationship instead she tiptoed around Rollo and ended up aborting their baby so as not to cause him the anguish of having an illegitimate child. I think Lehmann was trying to tell women something and, it appears, her message is as relevant today as it was seventy years ago.

Struggling through Jane Eyre

2010-08-01T13:34:00.009+01:00

The Oxfordshire Sky

I promise I am trying but I am struggling. Don't get me wrong, it is a great plot and I like the grey/gothic undertone but good lord the syntax. Round and round we go swooping up and down and under and over. I will persevere but in the meantime I'll talk about what I have been up to this week. Whilst avoiding nineteenth century literature.

This week we bought our very first car so that we can do a myriad of not very exciting things like go to the supermarket (no I haven't given up on the market but I like to bulk buy cleaning products) or the local recycling centre. We like to find excuses to celebrate so last night we took ourselves off for a celebratory 'we have a car' meal at the Trout Inn at Wolvercote. A totally picturesque pub outside Oxford with the river running by and this lovely bridge connecting one side of the garden to the other. The pub also boasts its very own pet Peacock which struts around looking for attention.

On our way home we caught a glimpse of Godstow Nunnery through the hedge.

Godstow Nunnery

I immediately made Mr Bell stop the car and I leapt out and climbed over the fence to go and have a poke about, leaving him bemused to wait whilst I basked in a ruin glowing with evening light. Godstow Nunnery was finished and dedicated in 1139 and was made famous through the fact that it was the final resting place of Rosamund Clifford or 'Fair Rosamund'. Rosamund was the mistress of Henry II (who accidentally ordered the murder of Thomas Becket) and is the focus of several legends including the legend that Henry II's queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, had Rosamund poisoned out of revenge.

'Fair Rosamund' was immortalised in John William Waterhouse's painting of her which he painted in 1917.

As I walked around the site I wondered about the lives of these women. Were they all dedicated to a holy life or were some of them there against their will? Sold to the church to ease their family's financial burden. I had only cows for company as I wandered around a silent site which would once have been bustling with activity. The Nunnery was dissolved by Henry VIII in 1539 and passed through various different hands until it was eventually acquired by the University of Oxford. Apparently, Charles Dodgson (aka Lewis Carroll) took Alice Liddell (aka Alice in Wonderland) to the site for picnics.

Jane Eyre is calling. I fear this is turning into an epic journey of realisation that my veins flow with the juices of modernism - and there is nothing that consumptive nineteenth century types can do about it. But we shall see.

A quintessential weekend

2010-07-26T17:14:00.001+01:00

Leaving London for Oxford is proving to be a huge learning curve. On Saturday morning I decided to cycle into town to do our food shopping at the Covered Market. I left the house on my bike and peddled into town as fast as my weak, feeble London legs could peddle. 'How delightful' I mused to myself, and I was halfway to feeling as though I had landed in the middle of a Miss Marple when I was met with a plague of tourists. Not so idyllic. The town was absolutely buzzing with tourists. Everywhere. Now, coming from London I am, of course, used to irritating tourists. But they are easily avoided in London - there is less space in Oxford so we are confined to walk the same streets as the grockles. And I have discovered something, my inner-Londoner has not withered away, she bursts forth as I huff and mutter and barge people out of my way.

Once I had fought my way into the Covered Market I felt that things could only get better. All the fresh fruit and veg, the amazing cheese counter, butchers and delicious cookie shop enticed me in to the relative calm. But I ran into a bit of difficulty. You see, as much as it pains me to admit this - I had absolutely no idea where to start. How much is 100 grams? How do these women around me know what to do? I felt like a complete fraud as I walked around pathetically wondering how much of everything to ask for. And then I realised, I have grown up lacking the skills that were second nature to my grandmother and mother. I am used to going to a supermarket where everything is ready weighed and packaged with a nice price tag stamped onto it. Market shopping is a whole new world.

I rallied myself and dived in. I started with cheese. I bought a wonderful local cheese called Oxford Isis which is absolutely heavenly and very smelly indeed. So far so good - I then bought some strawberries and some delicious figs. It was when I went to the fish counter that all went pear-shaped. I have a weakness for Scallops - which are very expensive but the label had an alright price for 100g so I thought I would treat Mr Bell and myself to a yummy starter. I boldly asked for 100g and was horrified when two scallops were placed in a sorry little bag and handed to me. Mortified, I handed over my cash and fled the scene. TWO SCALLOPS?! I could have snorted them up - so I have learnt that 100g is not very much at all. And I have also learnt that I am not one of the fortunate few who can afford to buy Scallops.

I then gave the butchers a go but feeling as if the word 'novice' was stamped across my forehead I went for the easiest thing to order - four sausages. And then I scuttled away with my hard-won goodies to find my bike amidst a sea of tourists.

Aside from my disastrous first attempt at ordering food by the weight; pootling about the side streets around the college buildings was idyllic in the summer sunshine. I made time to stop for yet another scone at the Vaults & Garden cafe which is my favourite cafe in Oxford. And which is where a couple of Saturday's ago I had the most delicious breakfast of tea and toast (picture above, forgive the poor quality - I took it with my phone). Is there any breakfast more satisfying than simple homemade bread, toasted and slathered with butter and homemade strawberry jam? And for 60p? Heaven. I am going to become a very regular sight in the Vaults cafe as they serve fab tea and I can burrow in and read my book underneath the 13th century vaulted ceiling.

Yesterday I went home to Sussex for our annual family get together at Horn Fair in Ebernoe. I wrote about it in a bit more detail last year here. Four generations of our family were present as it was my six month old niece's first fair - I have been going since I was a baby and I still don't know the rules for Cricket! Perhaps my niece will grasp them more quickly than me! It all seems very slow and is interspersed with a tea break, a lunch break and another tea break. Meanwhile spectators are languishing around with their own thermos flasks and picnics - not really my thing I must say. Don't get me wrong I love a picnic - but not when balls are flying about. But it is somehow wry and a bit subversive of my family to repeatedly sit through this every single year - as only one of my mother's cousin's is into cricket (in a big way) the rest of us couldn't give two figs. But we always clap heartedly when it is required.

Anyway, I am off to battle with Jane Eyre. All your comments from my last post have made me even more determined to conquer the nineteenth century. Wish me luck - I am going in armed with a cup of tea and, oddly, some strawberry jelly.

I have a confession to make...

2010-07-20T06:00:00.002+01:00

The effect of nineteenth century literature upon Kate Winslet?

I am a wolf in sheep's clothing; a traitor in the midst - I claim to be well read and I claim to love literature however, there is something I have to confess. I loathe nineteenth century literature. I despise the rambling and, seemingly, endless descriptive passages of not very much happening. I am a modernist through and through - give me someone's interior monologue any day. Stream of Consciousness and I'm there, gripped. Modernist literature explores the very core of the human condition - it strips away the faff and exposes the raw, bloody nerve endings that are relationships, humanity, society etc etc (I could go on with my rant about the merits of modernism but will cease).

Anyway, I am conscious of the fact that I can't write off a whole movement within the literary canon. I have tried to get on with the Victorians, believe me I have but I failed every time I opened anything containing a corset. Now, this is where it really gets to confession time - I am an English graduate who has never read an Austen. I got part way through Pride and Prejudice and decided that, frankly, life is way too short so I put it down; that lame experience put me off her other books. This is odd considering I like the TV and film adaptations but perhaps that is because they are mental chewing gum and I like to effortlessly watch the condensed versions of the novels where an end is in sight (cue massive backlash from all ye nineteenth century lovers).

There is one exception to my issue with the nineteenth century and it comes in the glorious form of Hardy. I adore Thomas Hardy BUT he is a modernist born before his time so that gets around that issue. Jude the Obscure is a work of sheer, unparalleled genius. Tess of the D'Urbervilles is one of the greatest feminist works that English literature has ever seen - Hardy is truly a modern man. I have read and re-read Tess, my copy is falling apart and I still weep when she tells Angel the truth. Angel betrays her everytime through his boyish ignorance and if you look in the dictionary for the word 'hypocrite' his name is EMBLAZONED there. Well, in my copy anyway.

And I enjoy the gothic, so devoured Frankenstein, Dracula, Wuthering Heights (gothic-ish) with relish. So, I can dance around the edges of nineteenth century literature but I can't seem to plunge in. I tried Eliot, but dear lord does she prattle on. I made it through about seven pages of Adam Bede (dire) and I got a bit further through Middlemarch but it was doomed from the start as my mind slowly started to grasp at the twentieth century and I succumbed to a Rosamund Lehmann.

I am now going to embark upon another attempt to crack the nut that is Austen and the wider nineteenth century offering. So, I have got Jane Eyre in my bag ready and waiting to be opened. I will then (provided I can drag my way through it) tackle Austen. I refuse to let this beat me, I will read Emma all the way through. Even if I have to go and overdose on some Forster or Fitzgerald immediately after. I admit, I am dubious as to this whole enterprise but I am willing to read it from cover to cover and then we shall see if I have been converted.

To Bed With Grand Music - Book Review

2010-07-19T06:30:00.001+01:00

It has taken me five cups of tea to ponder this book and reach any sort of conclusion as to what I think of it. I was left totally bemused and one of my first thoughts was 'this isn't the wartime that my granny remembers so fondly'. You know the sort of thing, dashing young officers asking girls to dance whilst only expecting a peck on the cheek goodbye at the end of the night. This novel suggests very different wartime behaviour.

The novel opens with Deborah Robertson in bed with her husband, Graham; a portent of what is to come. Deborah promises Graham that she will remain faithful to him as he is being posted to Cairo. Graham, however is a little more hesitant as he knows he cannot do without sex for three or four years. Instead, he promises not to fall in love with anyone else. Deborah is horrified that he cannot commit to her and eventually gets him to concede to be faithful.

As soon as Graham has left, Deborah tries to turn her attention to their baby son, Timmy. However, it soon transpires that Deborah is not interested in being a housewife and even less interested in being a mother. The weeks go on and Deborah leaves Timmy more and more in the care of her housekeeper, Mrs Chalmers. When Deborah's mother arrives for a visit, she can see that Deborah is bored and upsetting Timmy as a result. She suggests that Deborah try to find a job. In fact, Deborah's mother is well aware that her daughter is not suited to the roles of wife and mother so she actively encourages Deborah to go to London in search of something to occupy her time whilst Graham is away.

When Deborah visits her friend, Madeleine, in London she is swept away by the freedom and glamour of Madeleine's life. Instead of search for a job Deborah goes for dinner with Madeleine and two male friends, and she ends up in bed with one of the men. Deborah's fall into infidelity is swift and seemingly without a thought for Graham or Timmy. Until the morning after when she skulks home and promises herself that she will stay in the country and look after Timmy until Graham's return.

As you can probably predict, Deborah does not stay in the country and await her husbands' return. Instead she moves in with Madeleine and embarks upon a wartime career of working her way around the male members of the armed forces in return for gifts, expensive nights out and, ultimately, excitement.

There are moments during which Deborah has doubts and wonders about her behaviour, but these are swiftly cast aside with self-justification and a total failure to realise the fact that she has become, in essence, a prostitute. Her male friends pass her around each other; she obviously gains a reputation as being available. She acquires jewels, stockings, make up, expensive dinners at fancy restaurants, perfume and a myriad of other gifts which are her payment.

Deborah is a character that I totally despised. It wasn't so much her behaviour as her refusal to think realistically about her actions and their consequences. She is a weak personality, easily led astray by Madeleine and seemingly incapable of refusing temptation. Towards the end of her novel her relationship with her son is redundant as he clings on to Mrs Chalmers for love and attention. And instead of thinking proactively about Graham's impending return she just turns away and pursues her current course, which in the light of peace takes her into the arms of businessmen as the armed forces are all returning home.

I disliked Deborah immensely - the very fact that at the end of the novel she showed no remorse, just resentment that her life would inevitably return to its pre-war state, only made me dislike her even more. Deborah's desire for Madeleine's life is farcical as we clearly realise that Madeleine is envious of Deborah's husband and baby. Instead of realising this and appreciating her life, Deborah pursues a life of glamour and hedonism with an underlying streak of bitterness about her marriage and child.

To Bed With Grand Music is a great read as it strips all sense of nostalgia from your thoughts of the second world war. Instead you realise that human nature was, of course, the same and people took advantage of the unique circumstances to please themselves.

In direct contrast to the portrayal of war by Marghanita Laski, I watched a documentary on Channel 4 called Time Warp Wives. Now, this was a piece of trash tv that I slumped in front of last week but it was quite an interesting programme as some modern women are retreating into the past to escape modern life. The majority of women featured in this programme had decided to live in the 1940s and 1950s; before women's liberation one might add. Anyway, they are under the impression that manners were impeccable, there were no social problems and every woman was faithful and dutiful to her husband. Perhaps they should all read To Bed With Grand Music to cure their ailment of acute nostalgia.

These women are totally delusional but it is interesting that they all revert to fantasy to avoid the pressures of modern life. What they don't seem to realise though is that throughout history 'modern life' has always been stressful, uncertain and, crucially, perceived to be worse than any period that has gone before. Deborah escaped her life into a fantasy that cannot be sustained - as have the women on the tv programme. I think I would rather face up to the grit of everyday life - even if that means I have to forget about sepia wartime dances leading to a mere peck on the cheek.

Too many books

2010-07-05T12:22:00.005+01:00

I write this not quite sitting in the kitchen sink but nearly, as I have had to find a bit of space to settle amidst all the boxes, strewn furniture and general chaos. We have, at long last, moved to Oxford. The bell will now chime from a different tower and hopefully more frequently than it has been of late!

All my fantasies about sitting by the river in the warm summer sun are so far coming true as the weather has been wonderful. We have spent evenings strolling along the canal and looking for tucked away pubs in search for a quiet drink.

Moving has highlighted to me how bad my book obsession has become as my arms are now extremely sore from all the lifting and struggling with box after box of precious cargo. In light of the pain, nay agony, that I am now in I have made a dramatic decision. I am not buying any more books in 2010 and from now on I am giving books away after I have read them - unless they are absolutely vital, of course. Hopefully this will solve some of my current storage problems as well!

Over the past few weeks my whole life has been about moving so I am looking forward to having more time to myself to explore Oxford and get some reading done. I don't really theme my reading but I thought that over the next couple of weeks I might read novels with an Oxford connection - so, I asked some literary types and they suggested some great books. I have already read Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy which I loved so I think that I will re-read them to refresh my memory (provided that I can find the box that they are in!). I loved Joanna Cannan's Princes in the Land (which I wrote about here) and Verity recommended one of her other novels, High Table, which I will borrow from the library. I adore Dorothy L. Sayers' Gaudy Night which is also set in Oxford so that might be another re-read possibility. I would be grateful for any recommendations for good Oxfordian novels.

Of course, the grand-daddy of Oxford novels has to be Brideshead Revisited. I adore Evelyn Waugh and I adore him even more for his great friendship with Nancy Mitford; an idol of mine and not just because she kept a white chicken in her Paris apartment, well almost.

The big move

2010-06-14T17:18:00.005+01:00

Poor old Bloomsbury Bell has been unintentionally neglected over the past few weeks due to the impending 'big move'. I mentioned in my last post that things are afoot; I am pleased to say that they are still afoot and Mr Bell and I are packing up our books to go and live in Oxford.

I have lived in London for the past eight years and it is proving to be a wrench to leave, despite the fact that I have been longing for pastures new for a while. We are leaving all of our lovely friends and plunging into a totally new and different life. Both of us have new jobs doing completely different things and we are very much looking forward to getting started. Before we go however, we have a few 'last hurrah's' planned in London with various friends so I am looking forward to making the most of my last fortnight in the big city.

Whilst I have been planning and organising our new life I haven't been able to read anything too meaty. As soon as I found out we were going I cracked open my 50p copy of The Way Through the Woods by Colin Dexter to get me in the Oxford mood. I am now having to curb my perception that Oxford is all dreaming spires and multiple murders.

I have only been to Oxford for the odd day trip so I am excited about discovering what the city has to offer. I have been doing as much online research as possible and have found some interesting places to go for Burgers, Moroccan and Ice Cream. I just need to find a non-touristy tea room with real homemade cake. To this day I have not found a tea room to beat St Martin's Tea Rooms in my home town; Chichester. I wonder if Oxford can provide a rival?

One major source of excitement is that my old dutch bike, which I bought in 2007 for dirtbag cheap (and hardly used), has been tarted up and I even paid extra for a wicker basket to be put on the front. I am now having visions of pootling on my bike to the Covered Market for provisions and a paper before cycling along the river to a shady spot to while away the hours a la Brideshead.

Charleston Literary Festival - calm in the chaos

2010-05-26T21:54:00.006+01:00

The Orchard at Charleston

Last weekend I escaped home to Sussex for some much needed peace and to see Carol Ann Duffy at The Charleston Festival. Duffy has been one of my favourite poets for a long time - alongside Alice Oswald - and I have heard her read her poems before but seeing her at Charleston was truly delightful. We all bundled into the marquee thankful that it wasn't the usual howling wind and rain accompanying the event. Just as Duffy started to read a poem, the cows in the neighbouring field decided to pipe up. I am not sure that such things happen at the slick Hay Festival but these messy, honest occurrences are what keep Charleston charming.

Going to Charleston is an annual event for me and my ritual is to have a slice of lemon drizzle cake with my tea before the event.

Lemon Drizzle at Charleston

The tea tent was bedecked in bunting this year and the cow parsley even more abundant than my memory of it from last year. Sitting in the orchard sipping on tea and scoffing cake is one of my favourite things and I look forward to it every year. May in Sussex is a perfect month as everything is fresh and abundant ahead of the withering power of the summer sun. The burnt tinge of August is a future concern and the countryside sparkles with shades of green.

I love the way that the trestle tables and chairs are scattered as if they naturally appear in the orchard.

Carol Ann Duffy read for nearly an hour and, along with the cows, held the audience spellbound as she read both old and new poems. Her dry humour and subtle delivery had us in paroxysms of mirth, particularly 'from Mrs Tiresias' which recounts the myth of Tiresias from the point of view of his wife - the poem is from the collection The World's Wife which I will talk more about in another post as I could write reams about the collection.

During the past week my life has turned completely topsy-turvy (self-inflicted I hasten to add) - I have set many exciting changes in motion which I will elaborate upon as time goes on and things become more certain. So, going to Charleston was a moment of peace before the (hopefully organised) chaos that the next couple of months will be. After my tea and cake I found something pink and fizzy with which to celebrate in the sunshine; heavenly.

A spot of summer comfort

2010-05-18T21:58:00.006+01:00

At long last we have the promise of warm weather. The English summer can be a fleeting and momentary burst of warmth, sparkling light and soft breezes that need to be embraced before the wind changes and torrents of rain set in. Despite this, when I think of childhood summers spent meandering the shores of the Cornish coast it always seems that summer was endless, boiling and a period of complete freedom. Months spent without shoes, eating outside and splashing around in any water I could find rolled on and on until September dawned and those halcyon days drifted off on another path that I wasn't on anymore.

To get me through the endless months of waiting for the summer holiday I would bury myself in the Redwall books by Brian Jacques. Redwall is the name of an Abbey which is at the heart of each book in the series and its inhabitants are woodland creatures. There are now 20 books in the series and I am only one behind as I do still read them. I admit, I no longer read them with the complete absorption of my 10,11,12 year old self but they are comforting and it's a bit of my childhood from which I can't quite let go.

Each book in the series is a heady tale of adventure, quests, battles and feasts. And it was always the feasts which particularly gripped me. My mouth watered as I read about crumble and meadowcream, strawberry fizz, deeper'n'ever pie (favoured by the moles), shrimp and hotroot soup (loved by otters), October Ale and candied chestnuts. I would lazily dream about feasts in the Abbey orchard whilst I was in maths lessons, wishing myself there with all my heart.

Books we read as children are perfect to re-visit when we need some comfort reading. I haven't gone back to the start of the series for a long time so I am looking forward to spending balmy summer evenings in the garden with a glass of Pimm's whilst revisiting my old friends at the Abbey.

A week of enchantment

2010-05-08T10:27:00.006+01:00

This week has been stuffed with a myriad of experiences. Last weekend I took up arms and decided to paint the bathroom - which I had no idea would take me two days! Such a small room but so much work. Anyway, my friend who is currently writing a children's book wanted to go to Kensington Palace as it has turned itself into the Enchanted Palace - perfect for inspiration. The exhibition sounded right up my street (as what girl does not like fairytales?) so I downed tools and met her in the Orangery Cafe for tea and cake before entering the magical palace.

The exhibition focuses on a quest to find seven princesses, all of whom were former residents of the palace. You are given a map to guide you through the rooms and a pencil to write down the names. The rooms all take on an individual theme relating to the life of a royal princess. Not all are happy, for instance one room focused on the danger of childbirth to both mother and child. My favourite room was the room of 'Dancing Princesses' which was lit with blue light and had life size trees dotted around so it was like entering a moonlit enchanted wood. In a glass case was a beautiful dress with red ballet shoes and a tiara which was worn by Princess Margaret, the Queen's sister.

The room obviously referenced Hans Christian Anderson's The Red Shoes which is a favourite fairytale of mine. In addition I adore the 1948 film starring Moira Shearer. My sister bought it for me for my birthday this year and watching it is a regular Sunday afternoon ritual. So the room of 'Dancing Princesses' was like walking into my dream bedroom - I am not sure I will be able to convince Mr Bell that we should turn our bedroom into a homage to The Red Shoes; but it's worth trying?

On Tuesday it was our monthly V&A Women's Institute meeting which is always enjoyable but was made especially so by the guest speaker who is the blogger and author Jane Brocket. Jane gave a wonderful talk about how she has managed to turn her creativity and domestic skilfulness into a full time occupation. She brought in some of her quilts to show us and I am now totally inspired. For the past few months I have been doing patchwork by hand. I am not a natural at sewing so, inspired by Jane, I am going to throw caution to the wind and buy a sewing machine so that I can have fun instead of fiddling about with papers and tacking and all that malarky.

I also acquired some new books this week which is a pretty normal occurrence, however this transaction did involve me having to lay my pride to one side as I have purchased a book with the worst cover ever. It is truly horrendous and, frankly, it's embarassing that I own such a book when I am such a snob about my volumes. Still, it was only 50p in a charity shop and I will be secreting it away in a dark corner of a very dark room as soon as I have read it.

The offending article is After the War by Frederic Raphael who wrote The Glittering Prizes, a book which I really enjoyed so hopefully After the War will be just as good despite sporting the cheesiest of covers.

I also bought some other 50p books: The Way Through The Woods by Colin Dexter, an Inspector Morse novel so pure indulgence as I love Morse, The Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark as I really enjoyed both The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and A Far Cry From Kensington and another copy of the children's book Redwall by Brian Jacques. I now have three copies but it was only 50p and I couldn't bear to leave it alone on the shelf with no guarantee of a good, appreciative home. I will do a full post on Redwall as I have loved the Redwall books since I was about ten years old and they are partially responsible for my obsession with bells - along with, The Bell by Iris Murdoch, the actual sound of church bells and various other bell-related experiences.

As for Persephone Books Reading Week, I have really enjoyed reading everyone's Persephone Books related posts. I am part of the way through House-bound which is, true to Persephone form, a great read. Fingers crossed Claire and Verity will host another reading week later this year as I don't think I can wait until 2011 for another excuse to buy more Persephones!

The enchantment continues today as I am about to go for afternoon tea at Beas of Bloomsbury with Rachel (Book Snob) and we are meeting Claire, Verity and a whole (insert collective noun) of book bloggers in, my favourite part of London, Bloomsbury. Actually, what is the collective noun for book bloggers?

Miss Buncle's Book saves the day

2010-05-04T10:25:00.002+01:00

Endpapers taken from a design by Vanessa Bell used in Miss Buncle's Book published by Persephone Books

Hotels can be isolating, bizarre and frankly surreal. Whilst I was alone in New York I was staying in a pokey little hotel with dark corridors and a really terrifying lift. The shaft had no roof so you could look up through the gap and see the sky. I don't think that an engineer had been near it since the 1920s and it clanked its way jerkily to my floor at the top of the building. Negotiating the metal sliding door and external heavy door was a real test of strength and skill. If I managed to escape the clutches of one door I could just as easily get squished by the other. I wasn't very good at it and a cleaner had to (very kindly) show me the trick. Which involved speed and agility - neither of which I have.

My room was clean and had a clear view of the Empire State Building which was really exciting. I was out and about all day so it was a relief to get back to my room and rest my weary legs - the unfamiliar noises of the city and hotel were soon forgotten about as every night I would open Miss Buncle's Book and lose myself in the little piece of England that I had brought with me.

Miss Barbara Buncle has run out of money so as an enterprising woman she sits down and writes a bestseller - Disturber of the Peace. Barbara Buncle's book is about a village and it's inhabitants and is a gripping portrayal of life in Middle England. However, it is not strictly a work of fiction.

Barbara Buncle has spent her whole life in Silverstream, she is considered odd, pitiful and a 'typical' spinster. But Barbara Buncle has a gift - she is an astute and insightful observer and has the ability to pierce to the core of the human soul. Her work of 'fiction' is more of an account of the people of Silverstream; renamed Copperfield in Disturber of the Peace.

Miss Buncle's Book portrays English village life at its best. When the peace is disturbed and the mirror has been turned around on to its inhabitants. The characters in Disturber of the Peace are easily recognisable to the inhabitants of Silverstream as they are the characters. For some, this makes for uncomfortable reading as Miss Buncle portrays them warts and all.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading this truly English novel as DE Stevenson flays the village open and presents all the stereotypes for us to gawp over and laugh at. But overriding this was the wonderful message that the most overlooked amongst us can achieve the most unexpected of things. Through hard work, perseverance and an iron will Barbara Buncle transformed her life. She strode out and took a risk, in taking that risk she disturbed the peace and found happiness.

The gentle pace and lightheartedness were exactly what I needed to end my days tramping the streets of New York sightseeing. There is no greater comfort than a book to sink into and lose yourself in - especially when it is a book that has been published by Persephone Books.

This week is Persephone Book Reading Week, hosted by Claire at Paperback Reader and Verity at The B Files. The next Persephone I have on my list is House-bound by Winifred Peck which I am really looking forward to and hopefully I will have time to finally read Family Roundabout by Richmal Crompton which has been on my pile of books for an absolute age.

The Volcano, the Big Apple and Me

2010-04-27T17:16:00.005+01:00

I am back after an American adventure. As I was flying over Iceland a fortnight ago I had no idea that the volcano was stirring and that I was on one of the last flights to leave the UK. So I merrily watched the in-flight films and tried to digest the, frankly frightening, plane food.

I arrived in Denver for a conference and had a fabulous time visiting the Tattered Cover bookstore which is reason alone to go to Denver. Floors of books and delightfully the secondhand books are mixed in with new books. Comfy armchairs and sofas are provided for people to spend time relaxing in. I wanted to go to Molly Brown's house but, I did have to get on with some work whilst I was there! Denver is a huge city but only has a population of half a million so it feels strangely empty. Coming from a crowded little island I felt overwhelmed by all the space.

I then flew to New York where I was supposed to meet my mum for a holiday. Her flight was cancelled and she couldn't make it out in time so I ended up spending a week in NYC on my own. If you spend anywhere alone it should be New York. I had never been before and it was fantastic. I spent so much time wandering the streets, going to museums and galleries and generally soaking in the city. I also spent a lot of time comparing Manhattan to central London.

I have lived in London for eight years now and I love the city as it has so much to offer. But, I just felt that New Yorkers were 'perkier' somehow. Manhattan felt upbeat and hopeful whereas recently I have been feeling that London has become more cynical and ground down. For example, I actually witnessed people in public places leaving their belongings as they went to collect drinks - this would never happen in London or if it did, your bag would not be there when you returned.

This could be a one off of course but I did feel safer from petty crime - and the major difference was just walking down the street. Fifth Avenue is as busy as Regent Street but walking down the latter renders you bashed and bruised. Not once did someone barge me out of the way, or refuse to move for an entire week! I was flabbergasted. And I think it boils down to this, manners.

I don't think us Brits have the same level of good manners. Our customer service is practically non-existent and if you dare ask a sales person for help in a shop then you almost get openly accused of being unreasonably demanding. If there is a way for us to have no human contact in a store then we will try it, just look at the rise in self-service checkouts.

I was alone in a big city and the number of people who offered help, advice and just conversation was staggering. I have never been anywhere so friendly. In London people are wary of starting a conversation with strangers and I cannot think that so many Londoners would have offered me their spare room if I had been stranded here. I don't think I would. But I had complete strangers offering me a place to stay if I found myself in need of it. I was even offered a place to stay in Tennessee - and I admit, I quite fancied the idea of running away and becoming a country and western singer in a honky tonk bar!

So, my holiday taught me something about human nature and also about myself. How charitable am I? How many people do I barge out of the way when I am pounding the streets of London?

The only criticism I have of New York is the number of toy dogs. I have to declare that I am a cat person so am destined to think this way but I saw a ridiculous number of teeny tiny dogs and some of them were in outfits! I actually saw a dog with sunglasses on - sheer madness.

I have promised my mum that we will go there together as soon as possible. Volcano permitting of course.

There have always been Starkadders...

2010-04-04T16:32:00.008+01:00

A Sussex farm

Sussex in the springtime is utterly delightful. Primroses skirt the hedgerows and Daffodils nod their regal heads in the blustery spring air that drives the tail of winter into hiding. The South Downs become peppered with colour as delicate flowers unfurl their jewelled heads and the trees start to bud. This year's leaves are all in waiting whilst the weather calms and softens. Once the clocks change the new found evening light promises months of frivolity and summery abandon.

My Granny was brought up on a farm in deep, deep Sussex. As a child I would listen, enthralled by both the tales of her father and their animals, and by her knowledge of the countryside. I spent the best part of my childhood walking with her around the lanes and fields surrounding her village learning what each plant, tree and bird were called. Every season would bring fresh excitement and every spring we would go and stand on the fence of the big house, to look over at the sprawling mass of daffodils and primroses that they had in their grounds.

The past few weeks have been full with all sorts of different things so I found myself in a reading rut. I would get part way through a book and listlessly place it back on the shelf as I was just unable to settle with anything. After the fifth attempt at getting through a novel I rang my mother to seek advice. And, of course, she suggested the book that really I should have turned to first. The very book which is perfect for this time of year but also for getting out of a reading rut.

As I opened Cold Comfort Farm for what must be the millionth time (I may exaggerate slightly) I was immediately gripped as Flora Poste rolled up her sleeves and got to work. Stella Gibbons wrote Cold Comfort Farm in 1932. The British countryside changed dramatically in the first half of the twentieth century and Cold Comfort Farm documents the altering state of the countryside through a wry and very English humour.

The peculiarity and sheer backwardness of the Starkadder's who have 'always been at Cold Comfort' is perfectly offset by Flora Poste's very modern, progressive and urban ways. Flora, recently orphaned, goes to stay at Cold Comfort Farm as she has been left with little money so wants to try her hand as a novelist. She realises that she can stay for free with relatives whilst acquiring 'material' for her great work of fiction.

This quickly goes awry as she realises that she is simply better at being interfering and sorting out the lives of the tumultuous Starkadder's than she is at writing. The Starkadder's (who have always been at Cold Comfort) are a family that is easy to mock. Whether it is Amos and his calling to lead the 'Quivering Brethren' or Elfine with her 'poetry' and longing for local gentry-pin-up Dick Hawk-Monitor, the Starkadders are splayed open for ridicule. Adam Lambsbreath with his 'liddle mop' and Seth seething with sexual urges in the corner, Reuben clinging on to his birth right which no one else wants anyway and Judith with her forboding and near incestuous love for Seth. They are all stark mad.

But none more so than Aunt Ada Doom - who as a young child 'saw something narsty in the woodshed' - she holds the entire family in her psychological stranglehold due to the 'narsty woodshed' incident. No Starkadder is to leave Cold Comfort as there have 'always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort'. Her fear of change and modernisation present the perfect challenge for Flora who, through Gibbons' ironic wit, realises that Aunt Ada Doom 'was the Dominant Grandmother Theme, which was found in all typical novels of agricultural life (and sometimes in novels of urban life, too). It was, of course, right and proper that Aunt Ada should be in possession at Cold Comfort; Flora should have suspected her existence from the beginning.'

Flora is an advocate of a 'tidy life'. Her mission is to 'tidy' the Starkadder's which she accomplishes - whilst inadvertantly tidying her own life too, of course.

Some of the first 'tidying' that Flora accomplishes is teaching Meriam about family planning -having had four unplanned pregnancies out of wedlock Meriam, Flora decides, is in need of some tidy advice. But as Meriam says 'who's to know what will happen to me when the sukebind is out in the hedges again and I feel so strange on the long summer evenings?' Flora realises the size of the task ahead of her. Particularly when, during the third week in March, 'Fecund dreams stirred the yearlings. The sukebind was in bud [...] this meant that Micah, Urk, Amos, Caraway, Harkaway, Mizpah, Luke, Mark and four farm-hands who were not related to the family had a good deal of time on their hands in one way and another. Seth, of course, was always busiest in the spring.'

This book is in my top five of all time favourites. It is eye-wateringly hilarious as Gibbons captures English eccentricity and foibles with masterly precision and she also executes the humour through that subtle, dry and nuanced English wit. All the characters are stereotypes - taken from literature, history and I daresay real people. Stella Gibbons pokes fun at our long tradition of rural family sagas in literature and presents us with a perfectly formed romp through an ironic anti-melodrama.

Spring is upon us and if you look carefully in the hedgerows you may just see the sukebind in bud - the long, careless summer evenings will be upon us before we know it. Once the sukebind is in flower, of course.

Beware the sukebind

On Butterflies...

2010-03-17T07:31:00.002Z

They say that butterflies represent the human soul. Every time a chrysalis bursts open a new soul is born - carried forth by the butterfly on whose transitory wings it perches. This, I think is rather lovely and bestows a generous amount of responsibility onto such a fleeting insect! They have a few, short days to realise their purpose. The humble butterfly also carries the weight of chaos theory - the idea that something so small as a butterfly beating its wings can change the course of events via a ripple effect. The notion that the smallest of occurrences can lead to a complete divergence in course.

My sister has a beautiful butterfly that she bought at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. I was so envious when she brought it home, its iridescent blue shone out through the display box and I was enraptured.

So, when I went to the Oxford University Museum of Natural History I was delighted to see lots of butterflies on display. They really are lovely to look at and I marvelled at nature's intelligence and aesthetic vision at having produced such creatures. Whether these small insects can cause chaos and change the course of history I am not sure but looking closely at the shining brilliance of their wings I like to think that my soul was butterfly-borne, even if in my dreams.

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold - Book Review

2010-03-15T20:09:00.007Z

I don't know why it has taken me so long to get around to reading The Lovely Bones. It was on my list of books to read for a long time so I asked my Sister to buy it for my Birthday. I picked it up last week and was immediately gripped.

The novel opens in 1973 with the rape and murder of fourteen year old Susie Salmon and the rest of the novel charts the impact of her death upon her family, friends and local community. We immediately know who her murderer is - the recounting of the event is chilling to read as Susie's narrative voice is both blunt and calm. The real sorrow and emotion develops as Susie watches her family and friends from her Heaven. She remains fourteen and powerless whilst she watches them struggle, grow and change.

Initially, I was concerned only with the capture and prosecution of her killer but as the novel developed my focus gradually weakened and I found myself becoming more concerned with the welfare of the Salmon family. This is Sebold's strength - that her writing leads the reader through the journey that Susie herself is on. But more than this, Sebold ensures that the reader does not just dwell on a desire to jump in and become a vigilante, erasing the novel of the 'baddie' but instead we are placed in Susie's Heaven. We watch her family and our focus on the murder becomes diluted with their struggles, torment, fracture and ultimately their reconciliation.

Her father and his breakdown is fascinating to read - the overwhelming sence of powerlessness that pervades every moment that we read about him is sorrowful. His obsession with her killer is natural and yet the only person who it has an impact upon is him - not the accused.

The reaction of Susie's mother is something which I am still grappling with. In some senses I can understand the desire for release and freedom from a horrific situation but ultimately, she had other children and reality can never truly be left behind. As she eventually found out.

Each character is affected by Susie's death in a unique way - but Sebold captures the relevance of the reaction for each character. Her sister, Lindsey, reacts exactly as a Sister reading the novel can understand. She is forever in shadow and yet frightened that the shadow will one day disappear. Her identity with Susie was entwined in life and in death it becomes even more so.

Sebold manages to write a Heaven that is not an embarrassing cliche - instead it is a slick and succinct device through which Susie Salmon has a voice after death, which is present and immediate. Even when Susie presents herself to members of her family or friends I did not shy away as I may have done if the portrayal had been a romantic one of life after death. In some senses this is a secular Heaven. One in which the protagonist comes of age, matures and is able to enter the new 'wide, wide Heaven' an adult. Susie may have been killed at fourteen but we watch her grow as she observes the people around her and discovers the intricacies of human relationships, sorrow, joy and love for the first time.

I haven't seen the film adaptation and I am not sure if I will see it or not. I rarely find that films based on books are that good - they changed the end of The Painted Veil (a favourite book), Stephen in the film looks nothing like the Stephen in the book of I Capture the Castle and Keira Knightley's Elizabeth Bennett is completely unrecognisable. Have any of you read the book and seen the film of The Lovely Bones - what did you think?

A very bookish birthday

2010-03-09T20:36:00.005Z

I am undecided about my feelings towards my birthday. Shedding the years seems a sad activity and the celebration of another year passed can seem odd when, like me, you had a 'to do when I am (fill in age)' list as long as your arm. Last year I was supposed to go and see a musical (I have never seen one), take a ride in a hot air balloon, go to a theme park (I have never been to one), learn calligraphy and learn Latin. The list does go on and it is safe to say that I did NOTHING that was on the list.

What happened? Where did the year go? Time seems to get much faster as I get older - and I often wonder what happened to those long, endless summers? I would spend hours drifting around my mother's garden - the mossy lawn would spring between my toes as I would go down to the vegetable patch to pick whatever my mother needed for our supper. Balmy evenings would be spent watching the swallows whilst lying on my bed with the windows wide open - the warm breeze nudging me further towards a sleep which seemed a thousand sleeps from the morning in September when I would wake to a stiff collar, crisp pleated skirt and a new pair of sturdy, awful shoes that I would 'grow into'. I now have an irrevocable aversion to ever being 'sensibly' shod - much to my mother's annoyance.

Time seems different now and in acknowledgment of this I have not written a list for this year. The only thing I would like to do is ride in a hot air balloon at the end of a hot summer's day, (with a bottle of cold champagne, of course) to listen to the silence of the air as I look down on a patchwork burnt by the sun. This, I think I will do.

I had a very lovely birthday weekend spent wandering the streets of Oxford in the early spring sunshine and a day spent at my parent's in the company of my family including my lovely eight week old niece who stole the show entirely - understandably. My mother baked me a fantastic cake bedecked with glitter and I have just scoffed the last piece with a cup of tea.

I was very spoilt and have been given a truck load of books - I received two Persephone Books vouchers (cannot wait to spend on Saturday) along with the following stack.

The secondhand copy of Hardy's Under the Greenwood Tree and Sylvia Townsend Warner's Summer will Show were bought in the Oxfam bookshop in Oxford with some birthday money from my Granny. The Lovely Bones and The Other Queen were given to my by my Sister - here is where I confess my dirty secret that I read Philippa Gregory, still everyone needs a bit of mental chewing gum now and again; surely? The snob in me is screaming to deny my ever having heard of her - the shame. My lovely friend bought me Elizabeth Goudge's The Bird in the Tree and Coco Before Chanel which I have wanted to watch for ages as I adore Chanel and my mum gave me Meals in Heels (I did mention my aversion to sensible shoes - it pervades every aspect of my life) which has me salivating already. The still wrapped Persephone is House-Bound by Winifred Peck which I am sure will render me house-bound for a while. And finally, Rachel (Book Snob) gave me Elizabeth Goudge's Green Dolphin Country which I have wanted to read for ages.

The long, endless summers may have become short but this hardship is counter-balanced by the realisation that I would rather a shorter summer with no starched school term looming ever closer - now I can decide my own reading list and while away my Sundays with books that I enjoy rather than a maths textbook or my MA thesis to write (of which I still have nightmares) - and that is absolutely worth getting older for.

Henry VIII's Art Deco Palace

2010-03-05T08:50:00.004Z

As winter slowly creeps back into its icy lair and tree buds tentatively thicken, hope seeps into the newborn warmth of the air as we all wait for spring. Snowdrops hang their heads as the Daffodils start to take charge and perch on the edge of bloom. And every year at this time I get excited as not only is it my birthday in a few days but it is lighter when I leave work and I know that the time will come when I can leave the house with only a cardigan for warmth. I start to leave the husk of my winter hibernation and I look forward to the colour, smells and lushness of spring. The thought of soon being able to read a book in the park is simply too much excitement.

So, to take my mind off warm fantasies I am currently reading Henry: Virtuous Prince by David Starkey (with a frightful cover design). So far, I cannot put it down. Starkey writes in an incredibly accessible way. I have, perhaps a misplaced notion that non-fiction is often dry and laborious but this is a real page turner.

It has also reminded me of one of my favourite places in London. Eltham Palace was Henry VIII's childhood home. Now owned by English Heritage, the ruined medieval palace was bought by the millionaires Stephen and Virginia Courtauld who built an extraordinarily stunning Art Deco mansion on the site. The original Great Hall exists and medieval and Art Deco architecture sit side by side and work together to present an outstanding and unique palace.

The entrance to the Art Deco palace.

The Courtaulds turned the ruined moat into a lawn.

The medieval Great Hall, built by Edward IV in the 1470s

You may recognise the entrance hall from the recent film of
I Capture the Castle

Virginia's Boudoir

The ornate Art Deco interior is beautiful but my favourite room was Stephen's bathroom. I love the pattern on these curtains and the colours of the leaves against the blue tiles. The simplicity of his choice of decor is both striking and comforting. In contrast, Virginia's bathroom was covered in gold mosaic tiles, containted a Grecian statue and boasted a rather large mirror framed with lightbulbs.

Before I return to my longing for the warmth of spring I have to announce the winner of the copy of Iris Murdoch's The Book and the Brotherhood that Random House kindly gave me to offer for my book giveaway. I am pleased to let Hannah Stoneham know that she is the winner! Just email me with your address and I will pop it in the post. Thank you to everyone who entered - I hope that some of you will go out and read an Iris Murdoch - perhaps in the warmth of the sun in your local park?

A Fairly Honourable Defeat - Book review

2010-02-26T17:15:00.000Z

Another of my favourite novels by Iris Murdoch is A Fairly Honourable Defeat. Published in 1970, the story is set in London during a long, hot summer. Hilda and Rupert Foster have been happily married for twenty years; they are essentially 'the perfect couple'. The only shadows at their gate are Hilda's sister Morgan and their grown-up son Peter. Nevertheless the novel opens with them celebrating their anniversary.

As they sip champagne in the cool shade of their urban garden, dipping their feet in the small pool, they discuss Julius King and his return. Julius is the intellectual, cynical and Machiavellian man who Morgan left her husband, Tallis, for some years previously. Morgan followed Julius to America where their relationship broke down. As Hilda and Rupert bask in their comfort, happiness and companionship they worry about their circle. Fraught with tension, their friends seem to be on the brink of self-destruction.

Their home is the centre - the haven which every character seeks at some point during the novel. Morgan returns to London in Julius's wake. Peter moves in with Tallis and Rupert's brother Simon and his partner Axel enter the melee as Julius slowly embroils them all in his deceitful meddling.

Julius makes a pact with the obsessive Morgan that he can destroy Axel and Simon's relationship - what he does not tell her is that he will also set out to destroy Hilda and Rupert's marriage, using Morgan as his weapon.

The lies, deceit and mistrust are triggered by Julius but all the characters perpetuate what could have been dissolved at the beginning if only they had communicated openly with each other. Julius is the 'puppet master' but Simon and Morgan are just as responsible. Evil perhaps is not just something achieved through actions but also through irresponsibility. The plot unfurls in a frustrating yet gripping fashion and climaxes with one of the most unexpected events that I have ever read.

Again, Murdoch packs her writing with symbolism but it is more subtle in this novel than the symbolism in The Bell. Clothes, food, a telephone and a giant teddy bear all shed their basic, material functions and become indicators of the internal lives of the characters. The swimming pool is a magnet, a honey-trap and even as reader I was entranced also. My imagination dipped my own toes into the same "square of flashing shimmering blue in the middle of the courtyard garden". But then, I have long had an obsessive love for being in water.

Despite the tragic events that unfold and the bleak outcome, the novel strikes me as a very, very black comedy. It is oddly humorous but there is no humour to speak of. The reader watches with a morbid fascination and you can see exactly what needs to be done to extricate the characters from their self-generated mess but there is nothing you can do. The sense of powerlessness ultimately results in warped sniggers as you read on with an increasing awareness that the novelist is almost mocking her characters for the ease at which her protagonist achieves his evil plan.

I only read this for the first time last year and it needs to be read again, like most of the books I have read by Murdoch. I think I love Murdoch's writing so much because of her probing fascination with relationships. A Fairly Honourable Defeat dissects every aspect of relationships and the reader is left emotionally drained at the end. A sign of a satisfying read!

Iris Murdoch 'season' is nearly over at Bloomsbury Bell. March will bring new books and musings but it would be great to know if any of you are thinking about reading Iris for the first time or if you will revisit her work. I have gone on and on about The Bell but here are a few more which I really recommend to you all:

1) The Sea, The Sea (won the Booker Prize - very odd, yet enjoyable read if you don't mind sea monsters)

2) Under the Net (her first novel, fascinating as very different in style and hilarious)

3) The Black Prince (A bit Fairly-Honourable-Defeat-like - packed with symbolism)

4) The Unicorn (psychological, fairly bleak but magical)

5) The Book and the Brotherhood another favourite of mine - opens at a midsummer ball at Oxford where a group of friends are reunited. Having years ago made a pact to each other which has not been fulfilled - this night sparks off a crisis. Duelling, murder, a suicide pact, passion and hatred - this is a meaty read.

I have a Vintage Classics edition of The Book and the Brotherhood to give away. Again, very kindly donated by Fiona at Random House. No question this time - just let me know in the comments section if you want to be entered for the draw. I will draw a random name on Friday 5 March and I will post anywhere. Good luck!

The Bell chimes the winner

2010-02-26T08:28:00.001Z

The lucky winner of the Vintage Classics edition of The Bell is.... Jenny. Congratulations! Jenny - I couldn't find your email address on your site so it would be great if you could contact me so that I know where to send the book to!

Thank you to everyone who entered - I am sorry that I don't have a warehouse full of copies to give away. I hope that you all pick up a Murdoch and enjoy her writing as much as I do. Let me know what you think!

Bloomsbury Bell chimes for The Bell - book review

2010-02-20T15:47:00.005Z

Having declared my love for The Bell in the last post, it is only fitting that this post should be a review of my beloved. I have told you the story of how I first came to read The Bell - I will now tell you exactly why I love it so much.

The Bell is about ideas, religion, sex and human relationships. It is about people who have ideas, who share ideas, whose very thoughts change their lives and impact upon others. But more than this, in a way more simply than this, it is such an English novel.

Set in a dilapidated country house in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in the English countryside The Bell examines a lay community. The community has taken up residence in the house to be close to the enclosed order of nuns who are next door at Imber Abbey.

The opening two lines are Murdoch's best "Dora Greenfield left her husband because she was afraid of him. She decided six months later to return to him for the same reason." And it is Dora Greenfield who we follow, through her disastrous marriage to Paul, to Imber Court where she joins her husband who is an art historian researching some 14th century manuscripts that belong to the Abbey.

Very quickly we realise that this is a fractious community, a community struggling to find its way and purpose in the modern world. The outside influences of Dora, Paul and the young Toby Gashe bring to light the flaws within the community. The peripheral presence of Nick, encamped in the lodge is a constant shadow over the community, specifically for its leader Michael Meade.

Meade is essentially a good but weak man. Naive, metaphorically blind and an idealist he has established a community but struggles to realise the very human flaws which can destroy such a community. James Tayper Pace is the very religious and austere presence and it is he who ends up as confessor.

The Abbess at Imber Abbey is the ever watchful presence within the novel. From the confines of her closed order she exercises authority over the community outside. But, at the heart of the novel is the bell itself.

Dora is told by Paul about the legend of the Abbey bell - that during the 14th century a nun was suspected of having a lover. When the Abbess asked the nun to confess, she would not. The Bishop arrived to probe the matter further, still the nun would not come forward so he put a curse on the Abbey and the bell "flew like a bird out of the tower and fell into the lake". Where the bell remains as the characters prepare for a new bell to be delivered and blessed at the Abbey.

Toby Gashe discovers the old bell whilst diving in the lake and he confides in Dora. Dora knowing of the legend hatches a plan with Toby to raise the bell from the murky depths. This they achieve which sets a sequence of events spiralling out to affect all the characters and ultimately destroy the community at Imber Court.

Not only does the novel nod to realism it is also packed with symbolism and bountiful imagery. It reminds me very strongly of another of my favourite books, Between the Acts by Virginia Woolf which, whilst examining different themes, is set in a country house with the same sense of history and tension running through.

I love country house novels - and this is a perfect example. It is solid, balanced, gripping and utterly re-readable. I have an old and very dog-eared copy that has my scrawling notes throughout and bent corners, tea stains and sticky marks where my fingers have been. This copy is not the one pictured above which is a first edition - my pride and joy - that is kept very safely in a cabinet.

This is a book that I can just sink into. Every time I read it I discover something new; I realise something new about one of the characters or see an event differently. From the butterfly on the train to the raising of the bell from the lake there is so much to see and enjoy. I rant at the characters, I sympathise with them, I grieve for them, I misunderstand them and I am frustrated by them but I love returning again and again to find out what they are up to.

I am not sure why but Iris Murdoch does not seem to be as widely read as other 20th century writers. So, in an attempt to get people reading Iris Murdoch I have a copy of The Bell to give away. It is a lovely edition pictured here which was kindly donated by Fiona at Random House. To be in for a chance to win (I will draw a random winner on Friday 26 Feb) simply answer the following question: In which year was The Bell first published? I am happy to post anywhere so don't worry if you don't live in the UK. Good luck!

Iris Murdoch: A Writer at War - Book Review

2010-02-10T22:57:00.000Z

When I was 16 and supposed to be revising for my GCSE's, BBC Radio 4 serialised Iris Murdoch's The Bell. Every Sunday afternoon I would sit down at my desk with a cup of tea, arrange my textbooks in front of me, turn the radio on and sit back entranced. My desk was strategically positioned so that should an unsuspecting member of my family come up the stairs I could quickly bend over my papers and start 'memorising' imporant facts such as how Oxbow lakes are formed (actually I do still remember how they are formed - fascinating, beautiful and I look out for them wherever I go).

This introduction to Iris Murdoch's work came at a time in my life when, like any 16 year old, I was hungry for knowledge, certainty and answers. Suddenly, I wanted to know more - who was this writer? I had never heard of her before so I swiftly demanded that my mother (who has survived two teenage daughters - I don't know how) tell me more. She directed me straight to her bookcase and handed me a copy of The Bell to read. That was it. It started with The Bell and then The Unicorn, then Under the Net, then The Book and the Brotherhood and on it went and on it still goes.

The Bell remains my favourite and is in fact the inspiration for the second part of this blog's name. The first, of course, is a nod to Bloomsbury my favourite area in London and perhaps also to the work of the Bloomsbury Group - particularly Keynes, Forster and Woolf (both Leonard and Virginia) but that is all for another post.

I am the luckiest girl in the world to have been sent a review copy of Iris Murdoch: A Writer at War from Melanie Paget at Short Books. Edited and introduced by Murdoch biographer Peter J Conradi, this collection of letters is absolutely fascinating.

The book opens with extracts from the journal that Murdoch kept when she was part of a travelling dramatic society during the university summer holiday 0f 1939 - when she was 20 years old. This candid yet reflective journal charts the goings on of a group of students during a heady summer with the shadow of a world war casting its uncertainty over them all.

What struck me most about reading this section of the book is how energetic Murdoch was - she threw herself into any challenge, adventure or experience with barely a backward glance which at times made her seem naive in the face of the political situation at the time. The youthful Iris did not share the memories of her elders for whom the first world war took its toll. She is jovial when she recounts the reason why no tickets have been sold for the Northleach show, ".. as we came into the hall we saw one reason - the place was stacked with gas masks. Apparently Northleach is scared stiff & in an appalling state of nerves. [...] they are now in a panic & imagining slaughter and sudden death".

The extracts from her journal show a fun and intelligent young woman who is enjoying herself. Her summer seems idyllic and the reader is swept along with all her boundless joy that she finds in her friendships and experiences.

The middle and last section of the book are the letters that Iris wrote to Frank Thompson between 1940-44 and David Hicks between 1938-46. I couldn't stop reading and re-reading these. Not only do you read a young woman's correspondence to her close male friends during the second world war but you get to dip your toe into her literary mind. She shares with both men her ideas for novels, her ideas about life, about what she is reading and how she is feeling about herself as she questions and ponders upon what to 'do' with her life.

Murdoch exposes in herself that universal uncertainty that people experience in their early to mid-twenties, "Altogether gloom & obscurity prevails about the future. I might try to get some academic job - but that mightn't be too easy & anyway would I make the grade? Heigh ho." At times I want to jump in and tell her not to worry - that all will be well. But, she knows this herself, "Lately various problems have become clear to me - I don't mean the answers - that's too much to expect at 22 (probably at 40 one realises there aren't any answers) - but just the problems themselves."

Her uncertainty and vulnerability are further exposed through her letters to David Hicks - towards the end of their correspondence (once they are engaged) his letters start to dwindle and then cease. Her pleading with him and constant craving for his affection is difficult to read at times - she relinquished power to him and he abused it. Ultimately, he became frightened of her, of her potential, vigour and ambition so he married someone else and Iris flew. He stated as much in his final letter to her "Brain, will and womb, you are formidable".

This book also highlights just how funny Murdoch was - I absolutely love her exclamations and turns of phrase, a favourite was 'Gentle gloom and bloody hell.' Essentially, this book is an interesting read for anyone who wants an enjoyable insight into the workings of the young mind of a brilliant philosopher and author. You don't need to be familiar with her work to appreciate the musings, wit and philosophical ponderings of a budding author in these letters.

I no longer have to memorise facts about Oxbow lakes (which really are fascinating and lovely see here) so I didn't have to read Iris Murdoch: A Writer at War in secret but I did have to re-read it and thumb through the pages like an obsessive. Perhaps I should soothe myself with some light reading on meanders.

Poetry and the Prime Minister - Poetry Live for Haiti

2010-01-30T22:49:00.012Z

Gordon Brown and Carol Ann Duffy at the Poetry Live for Haiti event (taken with my mobile phone so apologies for the poor quality)

I am a lowly creature; I like nothing more on a Saturday than to potter about the house, drinking tea, reading and catching up on bits and bobs that I haven't managed to do during the week. This might sound boring, but to me it is simple luxury as I rarely manage to have such days so I relish my lazy weekends. All too often, however, my lazy weekends evaporate into a burst of outings, chores and general gadding about. My lazy day this weekend was all planned, Saturday was going to be a day of reading, pots of tea and patchwork. But, I found out about an event that I couldn't miss.

I spent this afternoon at Poetry Live for Haiti. Organised by the Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy the event was put together to raise funds for Haiti. The event was a marathon, lasting four hours, during which over 20 Poets from the UK read to an audience who just couldn't believe their luck. The poets included, Dannie Abse, Gillian Clarke, Jo Shapcott, Andrew Motion, Grace Nichols, John Agard, Roger McGough, Elaine Feinstein, Maura Dooley, Robert Minhinnick, Brian Patten and many more some of whom are mentioned here.

I cannot begin to write a critique of their work or the poems they read as almost 100 poems were read out and, frankly, it would require a PHD thesis length of a blog post. All the poets were captivating and I am so grateful to have had the chance to have seen them read their work. I was blown away by Dannie Abse's lyrical and humble words which hung together so clearly and so beautifully. You can hear some recordings of him reading on this website.

Dannie Abse with 'the poets' in the background

Jo Shapcott's poems were wonderfully intellectual, playful and personal but without cliche or pretence and Elaine Feinstein also balanced the personal with a resonating profundity. John Agard stole the show with 'Alternative Anthem' which you can read on this website here if you scroll down a bit.

I do not want to detract from the power, presence and importance of the poetry at this event. However, it has to be mentioned that Gordon and Sarah Brown unexpectedly entered and Gordon gave an opening speech, a transcript of which you can read here. Nothing can hi-jack the poetry, Gordon's speech did not even come close to giving me the rollercoaster ride of emotions that all twenty-odd poets gave me this afternoon. Politics cannot overshadow the beauty and soul-force of poetry. However, I was impressed. Call me naive, call me a sucker but I do not believe that the 'impromptu' appearance and speech was just a PR stunt. Ok, so it's good PR, so Gordon is coming up to an election, so the Chilcott enquiry is taking place at the moment. I was sitting two rows from the front (hurrah for me and my elbow shoving up the stairs) and I saw every movement that man made, I saw his hands shake, I saw him delivering a meaningful and worthy speech for a very worthy cause in the midst of what must be media and political hell at the moment (ahem, having been done up like a kipper by Tony Blair).

Anyway, my blog is not a forum for political views so I am going to move swiftly back to what I know about; words. I am glad that my hermit plans for today were interrupted by the better side of my brain deciding to step out into the crisp, icy day to hear some poems. And I was even more glad when I was walking past the serene and silvery Westminster Abbey and I looked up into the depthless winter sky to see a brilliant, radiant and full moon shining down. A simple and steadfast luxury for modern times.

I am reverting back to my planned lazy weekend so will write the long promised post on the wartime letters of Iris Murdoch which are being published next week and which I was fortunate enough to be sent a review copy of. Lazy weekends should start with a poem so here is one of my favourites from today. Listen to a recording here or read the words below.

The Yellow Palm

As I made my way down Palestine Street
I watched a funeral pass -
all the women waving lilac stems
around a coffin made of glass
and the face of the man who lay within
who had breathed a poison gas.

As I made my way down Palestine Street
I heard the call to prayer
and I stopped at the door of the golden mosque
to watch the faithful there
but there was blood on the walls and the muezzin's eyes
were wild with his despair.

As I made my way down Palestine Street
I met two blind beggars
and into their hands I pressed my hands
with a hundred black dinars;
and their salutes were those of the Imperial Guard
in the Mother of all Wars.

As I made my way down Palestine Street
I smelled the wide Tigris,
the river smell that lifts the air
in a city such as this;
but down on my head fell the barbarian sun
that knows no armistice.

As I made my way down Palestine Street
I saw a Cruise missile,
a slow and silver caravan
on its slow and silver mile,
and a beggar child turned up its face
and blessed it with a smile.

As I made my way down Palestine Street
under the yellow palms
I saw their branches hung with yellow dates
all sweeter than salaams,
and when that same child reached up to touch,
the fruit fell in his arms.

Copyright © Robert Minhinnick 2006

A new baby and a new reading adventure

2010-01-25T21:12:00.010Z

This is a post to chime in a new arrival on the literary scene - my two week old niece. She is the most beautiful baby and has brought so much joy to our family as she is the first baby to be born since I arrived 25 years ago. As the granddaughter, daughter and niece of three women who live, breathe and devour books she has no choice - she has to love reading. It is a legacy that we will bestow (force) upon her and over the past two weeks I have already been dreaming about trips to the library, bookshop and theatre with her.

My sister, I should add, claims that she is Librarian in Chief - oho, how I laugh at this weak assertion. I am planning my literary coup as I write this. She has no idea.

Some of my earliest memories are trips to the library in Chichester, reading with my mother and reading with my sister (who always did excellent voices). There are so many fantastic children's books that I want to read to my niece (if I can send my sister on a fool's errand), many of which I still know off by heart.

I can recite Each Peach Pear Plum in its entirety - not the sexiest party trick, but a party trick nevertheless. One of my ultimate favourites (and I still have this) was The Jolly Postman and, for my favourite time of year, The Jolly Christmas Postman. These lead me on to Burglar Bill, Peace at Last and the First Picture Book by Althea which my sister and I obsessed over. It is now out of print (published in 1978) and it is the most extraordinary book of illustrations and stories. We still have our copy at our mother's house in safe-keeping where it is falling apart. We go through it together now and when I look at a particular illustration of some hedgehogs in leaves I truly feel like I am at home. I am small again and joy and wonder can be found in a simple picture.

My ultimate favourite picture book has to be the very cool feminine tract Princess Smartypants by Babette Cole. I vividly remember my mum giving it to me, and she has called me her Princess Smartypants ever since (she always was sarcastic). Smartypants does not want to get married, why should she? She is rich, beautiful and can do anything. But her father orders that she has to find a husband and a string of weedy, dweeby, wimpy Prince's try to woo Smartypants by completing the tasks that she sets them. Of course, they can't. Her man-eating slugs attack them, her glass tower is too slippery and she is far too good at out roller-skating them at her roller disco. But then Prince Charming turns up and he can do the lot. Will she succumb and marry him? Babette Cole also wrote Prince Cinders which is equally as fantastic and witty. These will definitely be on my niece's bookshelves.

It is so exciting to think of all the book discoveries that she will make, to watch her find joy in words and stories and also to learn from her. Sometimes I feel that as adults we forget to see things for the first time, we miss simple pleasures and we find it too easy to speed through reading experiences. There are few, if any, books that I have revisted over and over again as an adult but I still open my picture books when I go home and I must have read some of them hundreds of times. Obviously, it is easier and more fleeting to read a 20 page, rhyming picture book again and again than it is to read a 400 page novel but the memory of reading those first books is somehow more lasting, prominent, comforting and, ultimately, exciting.

I wonder which will be my niece's favourite and which will be her worst. One of my sister's favourite was Dogger which absolutely scarred me for life as I couldn't bear the thought of losing my cuddly toy. I only hope I don't have to read this to baby at bedtime, although I think the Librarian in Chief will make sure it is on the nursery shelf.

What books were on your nursery shelf? Any that you absolutely hated? Do you still read your favourites? It would be great to know as I am on the hunt for the best picture books around to usurp my sister and steal the Chief Librarian crown - it's going to be a difficult task but I'm not called Smartypants for nothing.

Team Whipple

2010-01-12T20:33:00.007Z

Endpaper for High Wages by Dorothy Whipple, 'Farm Scene', a 1930 dress fabric by Crysede Ltd. Copyright V&A Images

To use Darlene from Roses Over a Cottage Door's phrase, I am a fully-fledged member of Team Whipple. For the one person on Svalbard who does not know to whom I am referring, I will explain. Team Whipple refers to the author Dorothy Whipple who Persephone Books has resurrected and republished after she shockingly fell from favour somewhere between young men who got angry and modernism going postal.

On Christmas Day I jumped out of bed to see if Father Christmas had brought me the one thing, the only thing that I really wanted; the latest Whipple offering from Persephone Books - High Wages. As I rumpaged through my stocking so lovingly put together by my mother, I was after one thing. My fingers reached something smooth and book-like. I pulled out a delightful, grey book with shining endpapers.

The thing is, I couldn't read it straightaway. I had to save it for the perfect moment so I read a couple of other books before settling down on a snowy day with the tabby cat on my lap, a slice of my mum's delicious Christmas cake and, of course, a pot of steaming tea.

Jane Carter is ambitious, resourceful and intelligent. She loves to read, she loves clothes and she loves success. When she enters Mr Chadwick's draper's shop to ask for the job of assistant she sees the chance to escape her stepmother and make a better life for herself. Mr Chadwick hires Jane and very quickly she becomes his best worker. Jane soon befriends Maggie, who also works in the shop, and Maggie's young man Wilfred who works in the library. Wilfred falls in love with Jane as she is interesting and reads, unlike Maggie, and he quietly yearns for her as he knows she does not love him.

Mr Chadwick's business improves with Jane's expertise, he is a wealthy man yet the high society in Tidsley do not accept him into their social circle. He is after all, a shopkeeper. So, when Jane befriends Mrs Briggs the honest wife of a partner in the local cotton business she secures tickets for herself and Mr and Mrs Chadwick to attend the Hospital Ball. The social event of the year oganised by the social queen of Tidsley, Mrs Greenwood.

Mrs Greenwood makes it clear that she disapproves of their attendance and when Jane is assaulted by a young and wealthy man, Mrs Greenwood purposefully implies that Jane is of 'loose' virtue and threatens that she and her daughter, the beautiful Sylvia, will not take their custom to Mr Chadwick's any longer.

Mr Chadwick is beside himself as he respects the social strata and regrets ever trying to ignore it. When Jane tries to defend herself his position is very clear,

""What happened at the ball was no fault of mine, placed as I was. Mrs.
Greenwood has no right to speak like that; she oughtn't to be in a position to
speak like that...'
'Now, Miss Carter said Mr Chadwick, wriggling. 'No
socialistic notions here, please.'"

Despite this incident Jane manages to keep her job and continues to bring good business to Mr Chadwick's. Jane frequently looks outside of her position and sees things that people like Mr Chadwick will never allow themselves. She sees the local eligible bachelor, Noel Yarde and daydreams about him. She watches as he courts Sylvia Greenwood and thinks about what it would be like to move in those social circles. But, after all, she is just a shopgirl.

When Maggie finds out that Jane and Wilfred shared a quick, meaningless kiss she forces Jane to leave Mr Chadwick's. This turns out to be a triumph of fate as she receives a loan from Mrs Briggs to set up her own shop. Jane becomes incredibly successful but more importantly she is an independent businesswoman and Noel Yarde, now married to Sylvia, finally notices her.

As the First World War comes and goes Whipple manages to capture the slow but pervading change that took place in small towns like Tidsley. She examines a moment in British history when social boundaries were shifting, women were emerging from the shadows and shopping would become a whole new experience with the introduction of 'ready to wear'. Clothes are still, to some extent, an indication as to your wealth or social standing. In the early twentieth century they were even more so - they were clear social signifiers. With the introduction of ready made clothing, these clear signals started to wane and the image of the regal, corseted Mrs Greenwood would disappear.

High Wages absolutely lived up to my expectations - Whipple has once again captured the minutiae of everyday life, of the conditions for women and the fact that life does not always go to plan. I like Jane, I easily sympathised with her even when she was so obviously getting it wrong (as we all do). Jane is inspirational - she receives knocks, she is caught in a changing world which is as hard for men as it is for women and she is, to some extent, a slave to fortune. But, through hard work, effort and internal struggle she develops into a competant and liberated young woman.

So - another win for Team Whipple. For the person on Svalbard, Persephone Books deliver. For Whipple-lovers, you won't be disappointed.

A belated welcome to 2010

2010-01-05T20:08:00.006Z

View from The Trundle in West Sussex

It has been too long since I last posted. I came back to London after my week in Sussex refreshed and ready for the new year so I decided to completely overhaul my flat and sort everything out which turned into a week long endeavour rather than the afternoon that I had anticipated. Two trips to Ikea later and I am now sitting at my brand new desk in my transformed bedroom. At long last I have somewhere proper to write! I have no excuses now (theoretically).

This is the first year that I have no official resolutions. Last week, as I was rummaging through a cupboard wondering how it had got so full of tat, I found a crumpled list. It was my New Year's Resolutions for 2009. Evidently, I am no good at fulfilling resolutions as I had spectacularly failed to fulfill any for 2009. As my mood started to droop I realised that I may not have 'achieved' any on the piece of paper I was holding but I had done plenty of other things in 2009 that could easily constitute a resolution. The most important one is this blog.

I started this blog because I love writing and I love reading and I was losing a connection to both of these things through the monotony of full time work, sleep, domesticity and just life after university. I am still finding my way and my voice but this blog helps me to do that. I have loved dipping my toe in to the blogging world and I am so grateful for all the comments since I started. And I am actually staggered that there have been any at all as I thought my only readers would be my mum and sister. Both of whom should take all the credit for this as without them I doubt I would ever have picked up a book in the first place. My sister has been a reading inspiration since the moment she read Peace at Last to me - with voices. And my mum, a dedicated reader, has the best bookshelves in all of Sussex.

The other major achievement for 2009 was that I gained a City & Guilds qualification in bookbinding. It was a year of hard work but was worth every moment as I met some fantastic people who have become good friends and I learnt a wonderful craft which I hope to take further and turn into a bigger part of my life.

So, no resolutions for 2010. I am going to see where the year takes me and when I am clearing out my cupboards in preparation for 2011 I won't have a stark reminder of what hasn't been done - only a year's worth of memories, all of which will be a bonus.

As for my reading challenge to read 50 books - I read 44, which I intend to beat this year! My reading highlight for 2009 was absolutely Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, followed closely by both The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald and Princes in the Land by Joanna Canaan. I am determined to reach 50 this year - perhaps I have made one resolution after all?

The Wedding Group by Elizabeth Taylor - Book Review

2009-12-23T18:26:00.006Z

Sussex in the snow

I made it down to Sussex after joining the commuters at London Victoria station last Friday night in the battle to get to the south coast through the snow and subsequent delays to the rail services. Waiting at Victoria station for over an hour in the freezing cold made me even more grateful to arrive home to my mother's fully stocked fridge, woodburning stove and library for me to 'borrow' from.

In between the various preparations for Christmas and catching up with friends I managed to read The Wedding Group by Elizabeth Taylor. I hasten to add that this is not the diamonds and multi-husbands Elizabeth Taylor but another one entirely - something that I have only recently discovered. The shame.

The Wedding Group is the first novel by Elizabeth Taylor that I have read and I wasn't blown away by it. The story focuses on Cressy who grew up in an artistic community, Quayne, made up of her family and headed by her Grandfather. Cressy is headstrong and is stifled by life in the community so she is desperate for a means of escape. David, a local young journalist, writes a searing piece about the community and Cressy writes to him with a plea for help. He doesn't respond to her so she turns to their cleaning woman for help. Through her, Cressy gets a job in the local antiques shop, which is run by David's friends, and she eventually moves in to the attic.

David starts taking Cressy out to all the places that she has never been to like service stations and diners. He is enthralled by her enthusiasm and naivety and more importantly so is David's mother, Midge. Midge is the stifling presence within David's life, manipulative and controlling Midge lives vicariously through David. David still lives with Midge as his father left them.

Eventually, Cressy and David get married and it all starts to unravel. Rather than breakaway from Midge they live nearby and Midge takes complete control of domestic affairs which induces Cressy to become lazier and lazier. Cressy falls pregnant, much to David's dismay, and they become even more trapped within Midge's web.

Overriding the 'apron strings' issue is the fact that Cressy is lazy and David spoilt. It seems as if all Cressy's energy went into leaving Quayne only to become trapped in a worse situation. The reader is not surprised when Midge takes over the role of parenting their child, when Cressy becomes fat and David starts having an affair. The whole situation is too depressing for words and frankly it is difficult to have any sympathy for any of the characters - as the reader you want to leap in and give them all a good talking to.

Initially Cressy was the hero as she broke free of the chains of Quayne, but Taylor morphs her into a stupid, lazy and irritating woman who strives for nothing for herself, her husband or her child. David is self-satisfied and self-pitying and Midge is a pathological liar, alcoholic and control freak. Not much going for any of them. Taylor seems to have become confused as to what she wanted the reader to experience. To dislike all the characters is not a problem in itself and quite often can make for an interesting read but the threads become tangled and the characterisation is weak as a result.

It appears that Taylor was trying to write something more than just an exposé on the relationship between mothers and their sons but she doesn't quite manage to do this. Quayne was an interesting strand within the novel which I felt wasn't fully pursued and Cressy's character becomes weaker and weaker towards the end like Taylor got lost with her.

The peripheral characters were not developed thoroughly and I felt frustrated as I tried to piece together their involvement and relevance in the plot. I got a sense that Taylor did not fully jump into what it was she was trying to write - perhaps a lack of direction or even confidence - and this affects the experience for the reader. There are so many interesting themes within the novel, religion, family guilt, addiction, sexual abuse, depression, village life, incest, but none of them are fully developed.

Despite this, it was an enjoyable read from the perspective that it made me think after I had put it down and I am definitely intrigued about Taylor as a writer as she attempts to probe the human condition and peel back the layers of family relationships.

Talking about family relationships, it is Christmas Eve tomorrow so everyone will be descending upon us. I am off to test my relationship with my mother as I go and steal more books off her shelves to keep me going for the (few) quiet moments over the next couple of days (she has masses of Virago's). I hope you all have a lovely Christmas full of good cheer, mulled wine, friends, relations and comfort.

A Spotless Rose

2009-12-14T18:58:00.006Z

Chichester Cathedral in the snow, taken by Jane Sanders

Christmas is my favourite time of year, partly because of the music. I love choral music and Christmas is the highpoint in the choral calendar as seemingly endless rehearsals fade into a long span of concerts leading up to the big day. No Christmas holiday would be complete without going to a carol concert and this year I am giving myself two helpings as I am going to the concert at St. John Smith Square performed by the choir of Christ Church Cathedral, Oxford and the carol service at Chichester Cathedral which I go to every year (another Christmas ritual).

Chichester is a magical place to be at Christmas as the traditional Georgian houses display twinkling lights on dainty trees in their windows and the delicious smell of woodsmoke wafts through the streets from the chimney pots above the mad, scrambling shoppers looking for their final gifts. The trees outside the Cathedral are decorated with lights and each year the young choristers help to decorate the tree inside the Cathedral. The carol service draws a huge crowd and everyone jostles inside to get their seats. The population of Chichester tends to be quite civilised until, that is, they want good seats at the carol service. I have to say it is a purely militant operation and the leading perpetrator of scurrying in with elbows at the ready is my Granny. She is a lovely, sweet lady but a lady who knows how to operate.

I enjoy a good belting sing (not sure that the people around me appreciate this) so Hark the Herald Angels Sing and Oh, Come all Ye Faithful are carols that I particularly look forward to as the congregation get to join in. But what is really fantastic is when the choir sings. One year they sang A Spotless Rose by Herbert Howells, a 20th century British composer. It was one of the most beautiful pieces of music that I had heard and it is my favourite Christmas carol. I have it on my iPod and I have to ration when I listen to it or else I would end up listening to carols all through the summer!

The words are taken from a 14th century poem:

A spotless Rose is blowing, sprung from a tender root  / Of ancient seers’ foreshowing, of Jesse promised fruit. /  Its fairest bud unfolds to light amid the cold, cold winter,  /And in the dark midnight.

The Rose which I am singing, whereof Isaiah said  / Is from its sweet root springing in Mary, purest maid.  / For through our God’s great love and might  / The blessed Babe she bare us in a cold, cold winter’s night.

I love the imagery and when the lyrics are coupled with Howells' flowing melody they are made even more beautiful. You can hear a recording here on YouTube by the BBC Singers. My favourite recording is by the Cambridge Singers under the direction of John Rutter. This carol is also a favourite as it combines my areas of interest; somewhat oddly, I have a serious penchant for both medieval literature and music and early 20th century literature and music (don't ask me anything about the Victorians - my knowledge of 19th century literature is sparse to say the least) and this carol brings together the two periods in history that I love. But aside from that it's just a lovely tune to listen to on a cold winter's night.

The Habit of Art

2009-12-12T12:38:00.010Z

A few nights ago I went to see Alan Bennett's new play The Habit of Art at the National Theatre. I am an admirer of Bennett's writing; his dry, subtle humour and piercing observations of human character are masterly. But this, is in an entirely different league.

The play makes use of a well-established theatrical device, a play within a play. The company are rehearsing a play which portrays W.H. Auden and Benjamin Britten towards the end of their lives when Auden is seemingly redundant and living in a cottage belonging to Christ Church college, Oxford, and Britten is struggling to write his haunting opera Death in Venice (made more haunting by Deborah Warner's wonderful production at ENO).

Richard Griffiths who plays Fitz/W.H. Auden is fantastic, especially considering that he came to the part late as Michael Gambon had to withdraw due to ill health. Both the characters of Fitz and Auden, who Fitz plays, are bolshy, opinionated and arrogant men who were highly successful within their creative careers; an actor and poet respectively. They are both in need of constant praise and, most of all, in need of success. Britten on the other hand (who is played by ex-rent boy Henry) is tentative, insecure and highly competitive but is similarly desperate for success.

The tie that binds the parallel plays is the thematic tie of art and the execution of art. Who is the artist? How does the artist create? And, more importantly, who is it who is not acknowledged in the creation of art?

The play that the company are rehearsing is called 'Caliban's Day'. And it is to The Tempest that Bennett, the playwright of Caliban's Day 'Neil' and indeed Auden refer to. Auden wrote a long poem called The Sea and the Mirror between 1942-44, which is a series of dramatic monologues spoken by the characters in The Tempest once the play has finished. Auden converted to Anglicanism which informed the writing of The Sea and the Mirror, as he presented his ideas as orientated by Christian philosophy. He makes it clear that Ariel (creative spirit) and Caliban (bestial worldliness) cannot exist without each other. Auden wanted to correct the blaming of the bestial for the imperfections of the spirit. In the Christian theology of The Sea and the Mirror, man is equally imperfect in mind and body; he is to be existentially anxious until death when he will know wholeness.

In Alan Bennett's play, Auden and Britten both represent this combining of the bestial with the spiritual through a discussion over the creation of Death in Venice which Britten is struggling with due to the insinuation of paedophilia and the subsequent repercussions for the reception of the opera as he is driven by a desire to be loved. Auden acknowledges the need for honesty and the recognition of the importance of bestial urges whilst Britten, driven by the spiritual is repressed and projects disaster onto the acknowledgement of truth.

As this discussion takes place Auden's rent boy Stuart, enters and is asked by Auden what he knows, Stuart answers that he "knows about dicks". Stuart is uneducated, he 'services' the intellectual elite of Oxford for a living and is constantly looking in from the outside. He epitomises bestiality. However, it is to Stuart that both Auden and, eventually, Britten turn to for reassurance. Their creative spirits need the juxtaposition of Stuart and his body. Ultimately though, Stuart's lack of knowledge about music and poetry comforts them as they feed off his ignorance to serve their creativity and reassure their intellectually founded arrogance.

Comparably, the company rehearsing 'Caliban's Day' feed off the comfort that Kay (wonderfully played by Frances De La Tour) the Stage Manager provides. So, thematically across both plays - there is always someone forgotten who was instrumental in the production of art. Caliban is not lauded as he should be but he is part of the artistic process nevertheless as Kay and Stuart know.

Bennett references Auden's poetry, Britten's music and Shakespeare to create a play that exudes both intertextuality and humour. The play is funny - there are enough bawdy jokes to keep me going for a lifetime but more importantly the play is so multi-faceted that you leave the theatre hungry for more. Hungry to research the references and think about what was being said and this is what I loved. Added to that the fact that they played an extract from Britten's Peter Grimes that I adore (Sea Interlude), this play was one of the events of my year. The ending which was given to Stage Manager Kay was reminiscent of one of my favourite extracts from The Tempest in which Prospero acknowledges that the spirits who create, melt into air as they are real beings after all:

These our actors, /As I foretold you, were all spirits, and /Are melted into air, into thin air; /And like the baseless fabric of this vision, /The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, /The solemn temples, the great globe itself, /Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; /And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, /Leave not a rack behind. /We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life /Is rounded with a sleep.

A Christmas Ritual

2009-12-08T18:45:00.005Z

Kay Harker and Cole Hawlings with the Box of Delights copyright BBC Images

Aside from Christmas lunch and receiving a stocking each year, my most important Christmas ritual is watching the BBC adaptation of The Box of Delights. Watching it marks a home-coming, as I dim the lights and snuggle under a blanket with a hot cup of tea to watch it.

It is set in 1934 during the run up to Christmas and Kay Harker is on his way home from boarding school for the Christmas holidays. Whilst changing trains for Tatchester (the local Cathedral city) Kay bumps into an old Punch & Judy man, Cole Hawlings who is keeper of the elixir of life and a magic box, the box of delights. This chance encounter pulls Kay into a series of adventures as Cole warns him that the 'wolves are running' and entrusts Kay with the box in the hope to outwit the evil and power hungry Abner Brown who wants box and will stop at nothing to get it.

Kay's guardian, Caroline Louisa, has invited the Jones children to stay, all of whom become embroiled in Kay's adventures. Kay's world is turned upside down when both Caroline Louisa disappears and he realises that Abner Brown is using the cover of a well respected local clergyman who runs a theological college. The local policeman does not believe Kay's pleas for help, so it is up to Kay and the Jones children to defeat Abner.

Abner is prepared to 'nobble and scrobble' his way through the entire population of Tatchester to get the box - he mistakenly thinks that Cole may have given the box to the Bishop so the clergy are thrown into his dungeon one by one. Preparations for the one-thousandth midnight mass at Tatchester Cathedral are thrown into disarray as Abner and his sinister gang wreak havoc.

Will the one-thousandth midnight mass go ahead? Will Abner and his gang be caught? What happens to the box?

The series epitomises cosy Christmas viewing. All the elements that are essential for a traditional Christmas pepper the series, from Kay Christmas shopping in the snow to dancing around the Christmas tree and the children building a snowman, it diffuses an atmosphere of sheer Christmassy delight. The soundtrack is partly taken from Victor Hely-Hutchinson's A Carol Symphony so snippets from 'A First Nowell' and other favourite carols add to the drenching in Christmas that this series so happily gives the viewer.

I have to confess that I have never read the book by John Masefield which, I feel, should be rectified but I just love the BBC series so much and for me the television series came first which means that when I read the book I will struggle not to see the actors in my head.

This is the time that I start getting really excited about Christmas. Plenty of Advent calendar doors have been opened, the Christmas shopping is done and the Christmas party season is in full swing. At the end of a couple of weeks of work parties and Christmas drinks with friends (I can never tire of mulled wine) I will sink down into my mum's sofa a few days before Christmas, with the aforementioned cup of tea, and watch the Box of Delights to take me back to the delicious childhood excitement that Christmas is coming and magical adventures are around the corner - if only I could find that box.

On Winter, or Christmas part one

2009-12-01T21:44:00.005Z

As I walked to work this morning I caught sight of a sparkling leaf. Dusted with frost, it lay across my path and reminded me of the beauty of winter, which I have tried to show in the following poem.

Winter

The crisp whip of wind lashes,
Stark cold trails blazed by icy tendrils
Reaching through the dark,
To swathe foreign lands
In sparkling ribbons.

Water relinquishes its element as
Crystal splinters of ice mutate
To reflect the darkling sun,
Sinking into premature glory,
In a burst of bronze.

Barren landscapes offer up
Weary berries for visual bounty,
Ruby orbs clinging on to hostile limbs
Shining out through natures contempt,
Waiting to be plucked.

The crisp, cold, bright days followed by clear, starlit nights lead to Christmas - my favourite time of year.

Every year I go home to my mum's in West Sussex and every year we follow the same timetable and I would be devastated (yes, devastated) if anything were to change. I have clung on to my little Christmas rituals for years. Nevermind that I am twenty-five and my sister is thirty-one (and, this year, heavily pregnant - so, surely a grown-up now?) we still HAVE to have stockings. Spoilt? Yes. But, without a visit from Father Christmas I would be seriously discombobulated. It is a little odd that Father Christmas has to visit before I go to bed as he (my mum) goes to bed before me but I choose to ignore this and pretend that Father Christmas is ho ho ho-ing his way down our chimney to deposit my bag of goodies.

An obsession of mine (apart from the continuation of the stocking) is the food. Christmas lunch is my 'meal of the year' as soon as I have stuffed myself senseless and had a recovering lie down, I start dreaming about next year's feast. It is what gets me through each year (I am not exaggerating). Everyone claims that their mother's cooking is the best which is utter, laughable nonsense. My mother's cooking really is the best and when partnered with my granny, well stand back Delia is all I can say. I do intend to do a full write up of our Christmas lunch as it is worthy of its own post.

There are so many things about Christmas that I love. So many, that I will post more on Christmas as Advent progresses.

The V&A Book Club

2009-11-28T12:50:00.000Z

Recently, I set up a book club at work with the help of some colleagues, one of whom you may know as Book Snob. It is very democratic as we all put book suggestions into the hat and we all bring cakes to share around - cake is essential for fuelling literary discussion. Last Wednesdays' choice was Being Dead by John Crace which, although a short book, sparked a lot of lively discussion and I came away with lots of new ideas to think about.

Being Dead is a lyrically written examination of death. The two middle-aged protagonists are murdered in the sand dunes where they first had sex together. They are both scientists, complex characters and die in a horrific way - together. It is this togetherness that is the guiding light within, what would otherwise be, quite a depressing read.

Although, would this be depressing if it weren't for the fact that we are not at peace with death? We cannot handle our own mortality and we tend to move away from confronting our fragility - essentially we are all on our way to the end of our lives. We are powerless over our own deaths as Crace starkly shows us. Crace also highlights the arbitrary nature of death - we never know when our last day will be or how we will die and his character Celice was killed mid-sentence, in full flow and in her prime.

Joseph and Celice are an ordinary married couple going about their lives. Celice is bored and disappointed and she is still trying to find her way through life. Joseph is quiet, a bit odd and loves his wife. He wakes up on his last day with an overwhelming desire to go back to where they first met and romantically rekindle their sexual spark in the location of their first passionate encounter. It is this amalgamation of their ordinariness and their going on a special trip that makes their death, and the manner of their death, more stark as they are cut down in the midst of a sacred and fragile act.

The fragility of their love-making is transposed onto the fragility of their very being - in minutes they are both dead and nature, science and ultimately fact, start to take over, but perhaps it is not as depressing as it may seem. Joseph and Celice are united in death:

Joseph's grasp on Celice's leg had weakened as he'd died. But still his hand was touching her, the grainy pastels of her skin, one fingertip among her baby ankle hairs. Their bodies had expired, but anyone could tell - just look at them - that Joseph and Celice were still devoted. For while his hand was touching her, curved round her shin, the couple seemed to have achieved that peace the world denies, a period of grace, defying even murder.

It is the 'period of grace' which is presented to the reader throughout the novel. Their bodies are not sanitised by our rituals of death such as cleaning, make-up and disinfectant. Instead, Joseph and Celice are allowed, for a time, to blend with nature - to become part of the natural processes of life and death.

The book is at times an uncomfortable read, Crace goes into the detail of decomposing bodies at great length (maybe I just have a weak stomach) but the novel has stayed with me and made me consider my own mortality and how I think about death.

I would never have chosen to read this book had it not been for the V&A Book Club; which is entirely the purpose of a book club - to encourage us to pick up books we wouldn't have done ordinarily. I try to keep my reading horizons broad but, I admit, I do read a lot of early twentieth century literature so the book club has led me down a new reading path and I am looking forward to our meeting next month.

The bell chimes again

2009-11-21T13:21:00.026Z

The Radcliffe Camera, Oxford

Firstly, apologies for my absence. The past two weeks have flown by and I have not had a minute to spare and any seconds that I have found have, of course, been spent reading. Once I was over the flu, work and life took off and I am currently doing two part-time courses at City University which are enjoyable but with a full time job, blog, friends and family something is going to be neglected and sadly, it has been Bloomsbury Bell.

In the midst of the chaos I did manage to go away to Oxfordshire for the weekend for flu recovery and an escape from the madness of my diary at the moment. We visited the new Ashmolean which, was truly stunning and the perfect escape from the driving wind and rain which greeted us on the morning of our trip. The museum does not only provide a refuge from the weather but from the hustle and milieu of the Oxford shopping streets which, on a Saturday, were heaving.

The new galleries are light, spacious and full of the Ashmolean's wonderful collection which spans centuries of archaeology and art. Instead of a warren of gloomy galleries all leading further into the bowels and depths of the building, the new galleries invite panoramic views, space and light so you can stand in a gallery and see into many rooms at the same time as this photo shows.

Walkways pepper the building so you catch glimpses of other visitors in various parts of the space.

I particularly liked the paintings galleries as they have a great collection of medieval art and also a room dedicated to the Pre-Raphaelite movement which included this stunning portrait of Jane Morris, entitled Reverie, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

The muted, autumnal colours and thoughtful pose of Jane Morris make this portrait utterly enchanting. I have always wanted pre-raphaelite hair, but sadly I have poker strait, boring hair which refuses to conform to any sort of style. So, standing in front of this beautiful portrait in the Ashmolean my mind did not soar to higher plains - I was thinking about my hair.

Once I had moved on from my vain navel-gazing I found The Hunt in the Forest by Paolo Uccello which is an extraordinary study in perspective as it completely draws the viewer in to the centre of the action. The colours are still so vibrant considering it was painted in 1470.

During the trip I found a rival for my favourite library - previously written about here - as we discovered the village of Bampton which has the prettiest little library that I have ever seen.

I can easily imagine spending hours in there with the rain pattering on the window and the cosy cardigan wearing librarian stamping and cataloguing books. The library was closed when we arrived but I had a good look in through the windows and saw comfy reading chairs and a delightful childrens area. Paradise.

Lady Lazarus

2009-11-08T19:31:00.009Z

Lady Alexandra Curzon (Baba)

For the past few days I have been bedridden with one of those seasonal viruses which make everything except sleep and watching rubbish telly, impossible. The title of this post alludes to the title of Plath's poem Lady Lazarus but I thought it was fitting as I had been reading so much about the upper classes before I fell ill. Thankfully, I have been well enough to read today and have continued to be gripped by Anne De Courcy's biography of the three Curzon sisters, The Viceroy's Daughters.

Irene, Cimmie and Baba were the three daughters of Viceroy Curzon and were born during a time when the British upper classes were at their ruling zenith. Irene was born in 1896, Cimmie (Cynthia Blanche) was born in 1898 and Baba (Alexandra Naldera) was born in 1904. Their mother Lady Mary was the daughter of an extraordinarily rich American, Levi Ziegler Leiter. Due to Leiter's wealth all three Curzon sisters were heiresses of a vast sum of money.

The biography charts their lives and is a fascinating insight into the lives of the wealthy during the early twentieth century. Cimmie was the first wife of Oswald Mosley, the leader of the British Union of Fascists, and the book delves into both the rise and demise of this murky political party. The lives of the three sisters are set against the backdrop of the wider goings on within society at the time, as much to contextualise their lives as because their lives were entwined with many political leaders of the day.

What startled me was the extent of the bed hopping that occurred between the higher levels of society. They were apparently insatiable in their extra-marital appetites. It seems that as long as no one openly spoke about it, anything went.

This is a fantastic read to transport you to the glamour, glitz and gossip of the first half of the twentieth century and was exactly what I needed to help me recuperate.

Invitation to the Waltz by Rosamond Lehmann

2009-10-29T21:06:00.004Z

Dancers at The Cafe de Paris in 1932

When we were teenagers, my best friend and I would spend hours excitedly preparing to go out to a party or nightclub. We would spend an entire afternoon in her bedroom going through boxes of make up deciding what to use. Clothes would be tried on, discarded and tried on again as we attempted to find the perfect party ensemble. In a flurry of perfume, hairspray and glitter we would listen to saccharine pop and dream about the perfect boy that we would meet during the perfect evening.

We would arrive at the party with our expectations full to the brim. Bursting with nerves and excitement we would enter the room and search for people we knew. Gradually, people would start dancing and I would slowly fall back down to earth. Tugging at my ill-fitting clothes and looking for a quiet corner I would scan the room and see people pairing off and realise that actually the party in my head was a different place. The best part was sitting in my best friend's utility room eating a bowl of Alpen, dissecting the evening before heading upstairs to a bed that her mum had put a hot water bottle in. I would snuggle down under the duvet and store my dreams for the next time whilst feeling a little bit closer to them coming true.

Invitation to the Waltz tells the story of Olivia Curtis who is invited to attend her first dance at the age of seventeen. Like myself, and all teenage girls, she excitedly plans what she is going to wear and takes the red material that she received for her birthday to the local dressmaker to create something dazzling for the dance. Olivia is a thoughtful girl and unlike her sister Kate is not so comfortable with her appearance. Kate spends time thinking about and planning her appearence with an air of expertise whereas Olivia awkwardly tries her dress on back to front and pours too much perfume on to her hair.

The dance is hosted by the Spencers who are local aristocracy. Lady Spencer's jewels dazzle Olivia as she "was handsomer even than Queen Mary, in the same sculptural style, but of a more classical cast of features. A gown of silver brocade moulded her opulent but well-controlled contours; a parure of diamonds and sapphires set off the imposing architecture of her bosom and a tiara flashed above the severely carved wings of her grey hair". Olivia dances with a succession of old men all playing to her sympathetic nature and between dances she anxiously aims for the safety of the cloakroom unless she is intercepted by another ill-suited partner.

As her sister Kate finds the perfect boy at her perfect dance, Olivia grapples around through the various representatives of masculinity present at the dance. She encounters the poet Peter who is paranoid, drunk and vulnerable. She dances with Tim the young man who was blinded in battle in the first world war and she has an altercation with the roguish, wealthy and arrogant Archie. Finally, Olivia meets Rollo Spencer out on the terrace with whom she feels at ease for the first time during the night. He is honest, charming and, irritatingly, attached to Nicola. Eventually, Olivia falls asleep on a chair as she waits for her sister to finish dancing.

As Olivia is able to recount the entire evening to her mother with youthful and innocent enthusiasm, her sister Kate is detached. Through the establishment of an understanding with Tony Heriot she has left Olivia behind, "I've left it all behind me. She looked at Olivia lying back on the settee, her eyes black and small with sleep. We won't be able to talk over the dance, exchanging every detail for hours and days. I can't share tonight with her. Olivia's too young." The dance is the catalyst for change for both the sisters, their relationship with each other has shifted as Olivia too realises that Kate has gone down a path which Olivia cannot yet follow, "I'm left behind, but I don't care. I've got plenty to think about too."

Lehmann's portrayal of a young girls' first dance pierces to the heart of the experience. The social anxieties, the pressure and the excitement are all enmeshed. Olivia is thrown into a social melting pot between the sexes for the first time and slowly she starts to learn about herself. It is here for the first time that she notices a class difference between herself and her friend Marigold Spencer "The friends she flew to join now were not their friends. They were those who would tread with her the prosperous, mapped road of coming out, whose mysteries and allurements were to be the natural setting of their days and nights." Olivia realises her middle-class status for the first time and what this will mean for her.

This novel is a beautiful and insightful account of a young girl poised on the edge of adulthood - slowly testing herself in the wider world but still able to flee back to the comfort of childhood. As I dipped my toe in to the water of parties and clubbing, I still longed for the bowl of Alpen, my cuddly toy cat and the comfort of a hot water bottle at the end of the night. And it is this aspect of being in between, of waiting, of being ready but of not being ready that Rosamond Lehmann perfectly portrays.

On being published

2009-10-26T13:30:00.001Z

The Persephone Books endpaper design for High Wages by Dorothy Whipple

I have finally received my copy of The Persephone Biannually through the post which is not only exciting because I love reading the Biannually but because in this edition of the Biannually I have been quoted in the 'Our Bloggers Write' section! I found out last week from Rachel at Book Snob and was immediately bursting with excitement as it was completely unexpected and made my week. But I had to wait for days and days before my copy came through the letterbox. At long last it arrived and I frantically ripped open the plactic wrapper like a mad woman and there it was - in print. My quote is happily next to lots of other quotes from familiar bloggers such as Simon at StuckinaBook, Claire at Paperback Reader, Claire of KissaCloud and Rachel at Book Snob.

Once the excitement of seeing my little quote in print faded I was able to settle down and read the Biannually. I am now completely over excited by the publication of Dorothy Whipple's High Wages. I cannot wait to find out what happens to Jane who works in the Draper's shop. Whipple, is fantastic at characterisation and bringing the ordinary, everyday, monotonous and tedious aspects of humanity to life with a view to dissection. She is highly moral in tone and a tad all-knowing but you can sink in to one of her books and look over her characters shoulders as they battle with ordinary aspects of life during the early twentieth century. History books leave out the 'small things' so it is to writers like Whipple that we turn to gain a sense of what went on in the domestic world; what went on in everyday life. I cannot wait to get my hands on the latest Whipple offering from Persephone Books.

Highgate Cemetery, High Tea and books

2009-10-25T10:11:00.010Z

Highgate Cemetery taken by Wendy Keel

This week has been incredibly busy and tiring (hence no blog post) and I have just sat down to catch up on all the things that I should have done earlier in the week.

Yesterday I went to Highgate Cemetery with Rachel from Book Snob. We finally made it to the Cemetery after having experienced a bit of an epic journey. Firstly, Archway tube was closed for engineering works so I had to get off at Highgate tube (apparently nowhere near the cemetery) and then catch the number 134 bus down Archway Road. We met at Archway tube and set off for the Cemetery - we merrily hopped on to the bus only to alight and realise that we were in the wrong place. Essentially, we had gone back the way we came so we were back up Archway Road when we wanted Highgate Hill. We then got the bus back down the road. I can now hold my head up and say that Rachel and I are the only people in the world to have caught the number 134 bus three times within the space of 30 minutes. We are now experts on the Archway Road.

After all our bus riding we decided that we were too late for the 11am tour so we would have to go in to some charity bookshops to kill some time until the 12pm tour. Rachel found a stash of bargains and, despite my book-buying ban, I bought two books for 40p. I thought that it was no longer possible in 21st century Britain to buy anything for under £1 but I got two whole books for 40 pence! I found a copy of Those Fragile Years by Rose Franken and No Drinking, No Dancing, No Doctors by Martina Evans who was a Royal Literary Fund Fellow at my university and who I went to see once a week for writing advice. She is a lovely woman and I am very excited to have found her only novel (she is a poet) as I have been looking for it for a long time.

So, our book buying done we walked up the hill to the cemetery (having given up on buses in the area). Highgate Cemetery is one of the most beautiful places that I have ever been to. To say it is atmospheric is an understatement. We arrived as it was just starting to drizzle and it looked stunning in the murky gloom of a drizzly autumn afternoon.

I have not yet read Audrey Niffenegger's novel Her Fearful Symmetery which features the cemetery and has sparked a lot of interest in the place. This is something I will rectify as soon as possible especially as Rachel at Book Snob and Claire at Paperback Reader rate the book so highly.

Walking around the cemetery you can easily see how the place can spark stories within the imagination of any writer. Not only are there the life stories encapsulated within every tomb but the place itself lights the imagination and triggers literary possibilities. Our tour guide was wonderful but I just wanted to wander off the whole time and spend hours reading every single head stone and tomb and I am sure that I am not the only one. The cemetery is so much bigger than I had expected.

The Victorians managed death in a really interesting way. Every aspect of death was ritualised, from the funeral service, to mourning and the carvings on the tombs themselves. Our tourguide explained the meanings behind some of the symbols which was fascinating. A broken column on a tomb is representative of someone cut down in their prime, a torch upside down is life extinguished and a wreath is the gift or achievement of resurrection through death. There were also many statues of angels above peoples tombs. Essentially two types of angel were depicted; the triumphant angel conquering death and ready for the afterlife and the sorrowful angel. In some sense I felt that death for the Victorians is what sex is for us in modern Britain. Whereas sex was the taboo in Victorian society it is death which is the taboo for us. Apparently, visiting Highgate Cemetery was a regular day out for many Victorian Londoners and their families even if they were not visiting a particular grave. Our tourguide said it would have been a bit like Kew Gardens with lots of brightly coloured exotic plants.

One of the most interesting parts of the tour was going into the catacombs which are essentially a series of corridors within which were shelves where the coffins were placed. It was really cold and dark in there and you can see the coffins in their compartments. Obviously, my imagination turned to the contents of the coffins which spooked me a little. It is a slightly odd thing to see coffins stacked in neat rows. I felt a bit lonely for the corpses as it is literally being left on a shelf. But when their relatives were alive the catacombs would have been lighter with oil lamps burning and you could go and visit your relative and, I guess, have a chat.

After we burst back in to the light and the tour was over Rachel and I decided that we were absolutely in need of a reviving cup of tea. We found High Tea of Highgate which is a really jolly little tea room that serves homemade cakes and a lovely variety of teas.
I had a slice of Lavender cake with a traditional afternoon tea and Rachel had a Scone with jam, clotted cream and some sort of Orange tea which shockingly I cannot remember the exact name of. I have a real penchant for floral flavours. Rose, violet, geranium, lavender, all of them together in one go - I am in love with anything floral tasting so I immediately went for the Lavender cake. I have to say the sponge was not as good as my mum's but it was still delicious and 'lavendery' enough for my floral requirements. The tea was superb and just what I needed after a tramp about the cemetery.

The interior decor is gorgeous and the crockery is suitably mismatched and floral. It only has tea, a selection of other hot drinks and cake on the menu so don't go expecting anything suitable for lunch unless, like us, you are perfectly happy with cake for lunch.

I am now off to prepare for another mad week - this will teach me to do two evening classes. It is Colm Toibin's fault.

Dreaming Spires

2009-10-18T10:44:00.013+01:00

Yesterday I went to Oxford with a group of friends from the City & Guilds Bookbinding Course that I recently completed. It was the loveliest day as the early winter sun was peeping through the clouds, showering golden light on the wonderful university buildings.

We went to an exhibition at the Bodleian Library called 'An Artful Craft: Fine and Historic Bindings from the Broxbourne Library and other collections'. The exhibition examines the book as an object valued for more than its functional purpose - the book as an object of beauty. The Broxbourne Library was compiled by the diamond merchant Albert Ehrman (1890-1969) and is comprised of more than 1,500 bindings which were presented to the Bodleian Library by Albert's son John, in 1979, in memory of his parents. Albert Ehrman bought his first rare book in 1919. He collected early printed books and his primary interest became the stylistic and decorative features of their covers.

The majority of the books on display in the exhibition are examples of exquisite gold tooled covers. Gold paint was used to decorate the covers of books in the early Middle Ages. Later, during the 14th and 15th centuries, Islamic craftsmen heated metal tools and used them to make impressions in leather in gold and silver leaf. This technique reached Europe and became the dominant technique for the decoration of fine bindings.

What I love about books is that they are valued as much as material objects as they are for the ideas and stories that they contain. Books were used as symbols of power - the exhibition contains fine bindings presented to Elizabeth I and Cardinal Wolsey as exquisite and expensive gifts. In aristocratic houses finely bound books would be on display for all to see - they were a symbol of wealth. Books carry sentiment; we collect books for their covers as well as their content. I collect Virago Modern Classics, Persephone Books, first edition Iris Murdoch novels and early edition books published by the Hogarth Press. I don't just collect these books for their content, I collect them because I love their design.

I wasn't permitted to take photographs in the exhibition so on the right is a photograph that I took of a postcard. It shows a gold-tooled binding for Cardinal Wolsey - the stamped blocks of gold show Tudor badges and St. George. This is believed to be the earliest English gold-tooled binding as it is dated 1519. The binding is astounding and to think that this book has survived almost 500 years is mind-blowing. The book contains various Latin texts; books were not originally decorated to represent the content within as the object itself carried independent status.

I love early bindings and there were bindings in the exhibition that contained texts which dated from the 12th century. One of the earliest bindings in the Broxbourne Library was bought by Albert Ehrman for £8,000 which is a lot of money today but when you think how much that would have been in 1951 when he made the purchase it makes you realise just how much Ehrman spent on his collection and how much the collection is worth now.

This binding was one of my favourites in the exhibition and contains the Poems of Henry Constable. It dates from 1930 and was bound by Sybil Pye. The binding is made up of inlays of leathers of different colours. It is wonderful as it is an early twentieth century style, Art Deco, and it is great to see examples of books bound by women as there were few women binders. Sybil Pye was one of the most respected binders of her generation.

The exhibition is free and is on until 31 October so go and see it if you can as bookbinding exhibitions are sadly few and far between. I often wonder just what treasures are stowed away in academic libraries up and down the country that we rarely ever get to see.

After the exhibition it was time for lunch so we wandered around the Radcliffe Camera to the Vaults and Garden Cafe which is in the vaults of the University Church of St Mary. I really recommend this cafe as the food is always freshly cooked, relatively inexpensive, warming on a cold day and the vaulted ceiling is stunning and dates from 1320.

After lunch we went for an afternoon stroll around Christchurch Meadow which is one of my favourites places. Cattle were grazing in the meadow which is situated in the centre of the city. It is a peaceful space and you can walk around the meadow following the river, watching punts and rowing boats bobbing along the Thames. The trees were all turning bronze and golden and the dappled light filtered through the remaining leaves and fell at our feet.

As we walked the sound of the bells drifted over to us and called us back to the melee of the city on a Saturday afternoon. The High Street was jam packed with shoppers all bustling along for their next purchase and of course I couldn't help but join in so I went to the fantastic Blackwell's bookshop on Broad Street whose top floor is a secondhand bookshop.

The shop opened in 1879 and is a book lover's paradise. I went straight up to the secondhand section and was absolutely spoilt for choice as they had so many fantastic titles in stock. My resolve not to buy any books until I have seriously dented the pile of books in my flat waiting to be read fell by the wayside completely and I found myself with an armful of books (some Christmas presents) darting towards the cashier before I had time to think sensibly. I have an addiction and it is literally taking over my life as I am having to manoeuvre myself around the piles of books around the flat. But I have decided that I am beyond help so I am carrying on with my crazed book buying.

I picked up some great bargains and added to my VMC collection.

So, I only bought four books for myself. I am very excited about reading Molly Keane's Young Entry and I love the cover of Naomi Mitchison's Travel Light which shows a detail from the Unicorn Tapestries in the Metropolitan Museum, New York, which I have been longing to see for a long time.

A great Saturday spent in Oxford. Now I am going to confront the pile of books waiting to be read with a pot of tea and a few (packets of) biscuits.

A Secret Hideaway...

2009-10-14T20:49:00.003+01:00

'It rained outside so we camped inside'

Chanters House, Devon, England 2002 © Tim Walker

This photograph by Tim Walker reminds me of making camps indoors with my sister when we were little. Some days I still feel like putting a sheet over a table and hiding; how wonderful would it be to camp in this library? A library would be a dreamy home.

The first whip of winter

2009-10-13T07:30:00.000+01:00

The Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh. Saint Rémy, June 1889.

The other night I felt the first whip of winter and was glad at the thought of all the cosy nights ahead of me. The night skies at this time of year are clear, limitless, crisp and full of sparkle. However, as I live in London the light pollution hampers my star-gazing so I turn to the wonderful poet Alice Oswald who takes me to the night skies and familiar evening smells of woodsmoke and leaves every time I read her poem A Star Here And A Star There which is from her collection Woods etc.

the first whisper of stars is a faint thing

a candle sound, too far to read by

the first whisper of stars is a candle sound

those faraway stars that rise and give themselves airs

a star here and a star there

the first whisper of stars is that faint thing

that candle sound too far away to read by

when you walk outside leaving the door ajar

and smell the various Danks of Dusk

and a star here

and a star there

you walk outside leaving the door ajar

and on by one those stars bring you their troubles

and a star

those deafmute stars - Alkaid Mizar Alioth -

trying to make you hear who they once were

and a star

here and there

and

here and there the

start of a

Phad Merak Muscida - it's like blowing on a ring of cinders

all that sky that lies hidden in the taken for granted air

it's like blowing on a ring of cinders

the crackle of not quite stars that you can hear

when you walk outside leaving the door ajar

and smell the various Danks of Dusk

and here and there

the start

of a star

someone looks up, he sees his soul growing visible

in various shapes above the house

he sees his soul tilted above the house

all his opponent selves hanging and fluttering

out there in the taken for granted air

in various shapes above the house

star

he sees a star here and a star there

and a star here

and a star a star

here and there he sees

there flies that man they call the moon,

that bone-thin man, his body almost gone

star

there he flies among the stars,

that deafmute man, urgently making signs

among those first faint stars

those whispered stars, their meanings almost gone

Poem taken from Woods etc. by Alice Oswald

published by Faber and Faber 2005

Book Review - Howards End by E.M. Forster

2009-10-11T21:40:00.007+01:00

Howards End examines the cultural inheritance of England. Forster was writing at a time when England was changing; the development of urban conurbations, the motorcar and mass production are just a few changes that E.M. Forster observed as having impact upon the English landscape.

My favourite passage within the novel is the following and captures many of the novel's themes:

‘England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole Island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world’s fleet accompanying her towards eternity?’

‘Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands,’ this line clearly portrays businessmen and politicians; the Wilcox’s. Henry Wilcox, is at the forefront of financial power, he seems wholly materialistic and encourages all forms of technology, change and modernity. Henry Wilcox is one who has ‘moulded her’ and this we witness through his disregard for rural traditions. He built a garage ‘to the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in what used to be the paddock for the pony.’ This indifference to the preservation of rural England is made more poignant a few chapters later when it transpires that Mrs Wilcox loved the paddock more than she loved the garden. This demonstrates a depressing, prophetic vision of England. One in which we see the paddock, turn into a garage with a motor-car and therefore the rural England with long-established traditions is destroyed by ‘the civilization of mechanical appliances.’

In stark contrast to the Wilcox vision of England as a powerful force for change, there is the vision of an England represented by the house ‘Howards End,’ and people who represent the creative imagination. The Schlegals are in opposition to the Wilcox’s. They have ‘added nothing to her power.’ They belong to the world of culture and sustain England’s intellectual life. The Schlegals have ‘seen the whole Island at one…sailing as a ship of souls,’ in other words they are able to make a connection at an individual level. We clearly see this through Margaret and Helen’s relationship. Through their values they embody and represent the novel's epigraph, ‘only connect.’

Whilst the Schlegals have not added to England’s power, they have enhanced the various visions of England. They have seen ‘the whole Island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea.’ The vision of a ‘Jewel in silver sea’ is wealthy imagery. This is the perception of the Schlegals towards England, it has been made wealthy by others and they shall enjoy the vision of its wealth. Margaret states that the Wilcox’s ‘keep England going.’ She acknowledges a connection between the Wilcox’s and the future of England.

The Wilcox’s realities of class, money and power conflict with the Schlegal’s representation of self-realisation through their relationships with each other. Margaret Schlegal in particular is a representative of the humanistic ideal. Helen also embodies this to a certain extent and the foremost example of their humanist tendencies appear in their relationship with the poor Leonard Bast.

Leonard is their project; the liberal Schlegals promote his cultural aspirations and try to connect with him through these. Despite their passion to enable him to come aboard their ‘ship of souls,’ he becomes a theoretical case, ‘Helen at one part of the table, Margaret at the other, would talk of Mr Bast and of no one else, and somewhere about the entrée their monologues collided… and became common property…After the paper came a debate, and in this debate Mr Bast also figured.’ The Schlegals lose their connection with him as a human individual, which is paradoxical as they truly care for people above all else, ‘It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people.’ Margaret’s prophetical statement becomes increasingly poignant as the novel develops. Howards End becomes more important to Margaret than Leonard Bast or even her husband Henry Wilcox.

The Schlegals are half-German which introduces the theory that they do not seek possession and ownership of England as the Wilcox’s do. They are unattached, Helen uses Germany as a refuge when England and the Wilcox’s impose too much power over her. The Schlegals are visionary with regards to England, their discussion groups and interest in ‘causes’ illustrates this. They theorize and connect with each other in order to promote their liberalism and their liberal dream for England.

Howards End starts with a vision of England that centres on Mrs Wilcox. Helen’s letter to Margaret describes this, ‘trail, trail went her long dress over the sopping grass, and she came back with her hands full of the hay that was cut yesterday.’ And further on we hear the narrator state ‘she seemed to belong not to the young people and their motor, but to the house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One knew that she worshipped the past.’ These images promote England’s rural past and Mrs Wilcox embodies a vision of England that is being eroded by the mechanical, powerful and modern ideals of her husband. Mrs Wilcox’s vision of England is connected to the earth and to her house, therefore her constant walking in the garden and smelling of the hay.

Henry Wilcox’s power conflicts with Mrs Wilcox’s vision of Howards End being left to Margaret. Howards End needs ‘accompanying … towards eternity’ if it is to survive. Referring back to the introduction, Mr Wilcox’s power is threatening its survival and Mrs Wilcox recognizes Margaret as one of the ‘brave world’s fleet’ who will protect the house. The conflict between power and vision leads to a form of unification at the end of the novel. Margaret creates a home for both Henry and Helen, and Mrs Wilcox’s vision is achieved.

Forster portrays a vision of national continuity within the passage, ‘with all the brave world’s fleet accompanying her towards eternity,’ which presents the ideals of harmony. It is a vision untainted by power. Vision and creativity will ‘continue towards eternity’ whilst characters like Margaret are able to mediate with those in power, as Helen points out to her sister ‘but who settled us down? … You!’ The novel ends in a similar way to its opening with Helen's idyllic description of Mrs Wilcox, it promotes a continuation of the pastoral ideal, ‘ “The field’s cut!” Helen cried excitedly – “The big meadow! We’ve seen to the very end, and it’ll be such a crop of hay as never!”’

We have a winner...

2009-10-06T23:12:00.000+01:00

I am really pleased that the winner of the 2009 Man Booker Prize is Hilary Mantel for her novel Wolf Hall. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it and it is absolutely on my list for another read soon.

Last night I went to the Southbank Centre to hear the Shortlisted Booker Prize authors read from their nominated novels and answer questions from the audience. Hearing the authors talk was fascinating and gave me a real insight into the creative process of novel writing and how differently people set about the task.

J.M. Coetzee was not there as he remained in Australia and Sarah Waters was unwell so could not attend. Hilary Mantel was so interesting to watch as whilst she read from an extract of Wolf Hall she gesticulated wildly and acted out the reading through her hands and arms. She is incredibly witty and gave considered, honest answers to the questions.

I was really interested by Simon Mawer's reading from The Glass Room, a novel I have not yet read and also Adam Fould's reading from The Quickening Maze. I have to confess my mind wandered during A.S. Byatt's reading from The Children's Book which might be a sign that it is not going to be my cup of tea. However, A.S. Byatt herself was gripping, she seems a very formidable character but occasionally flashes of softness shine through the external hardness. She, like the other authors, was incredibly witty and a memorable quote from her was her talking about her Finnish translator "who read my book on the telephone [meaning iPhone I presume] whilst riding a bike on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela." A.S. Byatt was highlighting her astonishment at the way technology is changing reading, publishing and writing.

When asked by the audience if they had read each other's work they looked a bit sheepish as none of them had read each other's except A.S. Byatt who had read them all and said that she could honestly say that they were all exceptional and that she was in very good company. Simon Mawer admitted that he needed to put some distance between himself and the Booker Prize process before he would pick up all the shortlisted novels. Adam Foulds said that it would be like thinking about his girlfriend's ex-boyfriends, that they were all wonderful in ways that he could not match!

The novelists were also asked what they would be thinking during the five minutes before the winner was announced - all of them agreed that they would be finding the experience very surreal. A.S. Byatt said she would be "numb", Simon Mawer said "relief that he would not be facing the flashing camera bulbs", Hilary Mantel said she would need to look back on that time to be able to process it fully.

An audience member asked them about characterisation and if all their characters were completely made up - Simon Mawer answered that his characters are aspects of himself, he is playing a part many times over and A.S. Byatt agreed with him up to a point and said that she has little demons within herself through whom she looks out through her characters eyes. Adam Foulds and Hilary Mantel had based their protagonists on real people within history, John Clare and Thomas Cromwell so they hadn't entirely invented their characters.

When asked about modern authors as celebrities Hilary Mantel stated that when an author is sitting in front of a blank screen trying to get the next sentence out and being fully aware that they are only as good as their next sentence, they are not a celebrity, they are a writer. I agree with her as the act of writing is hardly enjoying the state of being famous for these authors, it is hard work.

Winning the Man Booker Prize has launched Hilary Mantel's name into a few more households, but will she now count herself as a celebrity? Considering her answer last night, I doubt it. However, the OED says that the word celebrity originates from 'celeber' meaning 'frequented or honoured', so is Hilary Mantel a celebrity in my opinion? Yes, because she has been honoured and deservedly so.

Book Review - The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge

2009-10-03T12:00:00.003+01:00

Last week I wasn't very well - just a seasonal cold but having the sniffles made me long for comfort. I wanted comfort food (fish pie), comfort television (Sense and Sensibility with Kate Winslet and Emma Thompson) and comfort reading. I had my fish pie and watched Sense and Sensibility but I couldn't find suitable reading material until my Mummy rescued me.

Mum gave me a 'red cross' parcel full of goodies and at the bottom I found a copy of The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge and I snuggled into my sofa, under a blanket and started to read.

First published in 1946, The Little White Horse is a wonderful children's novel that tells the story of Maria Merryweather and her adventures when she goes to live at Moonacre Manor. The book opens with Maria Merryweather in a carriage with her governess, Miss Heliotrope and her King Charles Spaniel, Wiggins. Recently orphaned, Maria is on her way to live with her cousin Sir Benjamin Merryweather at Moonacre Manor in the village of Silverydew somewhere in the West Country.

Maria arrives at Moonacre and thinks that it is 'so beautiful that it seemed hardly to be of this world'. She arrives when the grounds are covered in moonlight,

"And for a fleeting instant, at the far end of a glade, she thought she saw a little white horse with flowing mane and tail, head raised, poised, halted in mid-flight, as though it had seen her and was glad."

Miss Heliotrope could not see the little white horse and from this moment on Maria is determined to see the horse again to prove that it is real. Maria settles in to Moonacre Manor, Sir Benjamin is welcoming and loving and she and Miss Heliotrope find that they enjoy living there. Before long, Maria starts to unravel some of the mysteries and she finds out that the sadness that hangs over Silverydew is caused by the Men from the Dark Woods who steal their livestock and terrorize Merryweather Bay.

Every generation a Moon Princess comes to live at Moonacre Manor and it falls to her to defeat the Men from the Dark Woods - whose evil behaviour is the result of a long, long feud between the Merryweathers and the Cocq de Noir family. So far, none of the previous Moon Princesses have succeeded as their own pride got in the way. Maria discovers that to defeat the Men from the Dark Woods she must enlist the help of a pauper whom she loves. Handily, she loves Robin the local shepherd boy and together with help from Wrolf the dog/lion, Periwinkle the pony, Zachariah the cat, Wiggins the spaniel and Old Parson the old parson, they set out to lift the gloom from Silverydew for good.

This is a completely romantic fantasy novel for little girls and is a book I would have adored as a child. As an adult I utterly loved it as reading it is true escapism and you have to suspend all belief in anything remotely plausible to go along with the adventure. It is heavily descriptive and the detailed writing brings Silverydew to life so it is a feast for the imagination. It is a little dated but this adds to the charm of the book - the material is nostalgic and reading this over sixty years after publication the nostalgia is even more prominent. Silverydew is an idyll and Maria learns what none of the other Moon Princesses could learn, to be good and selfless.

The Little White Horse truly is comfort reading at its best; escapsism, fairytales, adventures, romance and good triumphing over bad.

Bookbinding, jam-making, apple harvesting and candle dipping

2009-10-02T18:00:00.007+01:00

I harbour fantasies of retreating to some isolated idyll where I spend my days bookbinding, illuminating manuscripts, making jam, harvesting apples from my orchard, reading, dipping candles and feeding the hens. Last year I thought I had better do something about making this happen. So I enrolled on to a bookbinding course.

After a year of hard work, some tears and a small amount of blood I have finally received my City & Guilds Certificate in Bookbinding. I did the course at City Lit which is an adult education college near Covent Garden. The course was wonderful - every Tuesday night I would plod along to college after a day in the office and I would stitch, glue and bind to my heart's content. I hadn't done anything remotely 'arty' since I was fourteen so it was a daunting task to put together a portfolio of supporting work alongside the actual books I was making. I found that I was able to tap in to a part of my brain which I had no idea was there and create books from scratch that, if I do say so myself, are not too shabby - well, you can turn the pages.

I cannot sew a button on but I can sew a multi-sectioned book and I think that is far more necessary.

My favourite book that I bound during the course has to be the Persephone Books edition of Cheerful Weather for the Wedding by Julia Strachey. Nicola Beauman very kindly gave me the unbound textblock for me to bind. The result is below.

I wanted a cover that was reminiscent of summer and the red and gold motifs on this paper reminded me of a barley or wheat field about to be harvested. Inside the endpapers are metallic burgundy to match the spine cloth. Frankly, my effort is not as beautiful as the dove grey Persephone Books themselves, but how can they be beaten?

Below is a selection of some of the other books that I made during the course.

Above shows the inside of

Cheerful Weather for the Wedding
The book above and below is a multi-sectioned slipcase binding.
Above is my binding of the Folio Society's edition of
Daphne Du Maurier's short stories, Don't Look Now and Other Stories
My first notebook

The out of control 'to be read' pile

2009-10-01T22:22:00.005+01:00

My pile of books waiting to be read is now so enormous that I am struggling to find anywhere to put them. For now they are living on my desk which, oddly, is right by our front door so visitors are met with a barrage of toppling books as soon as they enter. Despite this, I am seemingly unable to curb my book buying habit even though I really should finish reading everything I already own. But I find it really hard to resist bargain books in secondhand bookshops and charity shops so the pile is growing and rather than a one in, one out policy it seems to be ten in, one out (this has got worse since Rachel at Book Snob introduced me to charity shops near our office). Added to this is the problem that when I have read a book from the 'tbr' pile I have nowhere to put it as all my bookshelves are bursting.

Anyway, below are the books from my 'to be read' pile that I aim to read in October:

Book Review - Frost in May by Antonia White

2009-09-28T20:44:00.006+01:00

Antonia White

I went to a Catholic convent school from the age of seven to sixteen. The fact that I am not Catholic was irrelevant to the military nuns drilling us in the 'art of confession' and obedience. I don't know which was worse, the fact that in an all girls secondary school we were not allowed tampon dispensers in the toilets because "the use of tampons means that a girl is no longer a virgin" or the Bronco toilet paper. If you don't know what Bronco toilet paper is you never need to know and you are a very lucky person. Rumour has it that Bronco manufacturing ceased in the late 1980s - I was at school until 2000 - but the nuns had an attic full of the stuff along with boxes of soap left over from when the school was a laundry for 'fallen women'.

I cannot believe, therefore, that I have only just picked up and read Antonia White's novel Frost in May. This hugely autobiographical novel is succinct and compelling. Fernanda Grey's father is a convert to Catholicism and the novel opens with Mr Grey taking his daughter to the Convent of the Five Wounds to start her Catholic education. A naturally spiritual and imaginitive child Nanda struggles to feel equal to her peers who are from wealthy Catholic families. Not only is her family not wealthy, they are not Catholics. This pushes Nanda to become completely indoctrinated and to spend considerable time worrying about her vocation, on her first night at the Convent she prays:

Nanda felt a wave of piety overwhelm her as she knelt very upright in her bench, her lisle-gloved hands clasped on the ledge in front of her. "Oh dear Lord," she said fervently in her mind, "thank you for letting me come here. I will try to like it if You will help me. Help me to be good and make me a proper Catholic like the others."

Nanda settles in to life at the boarding school. The nuns are a constant presence of routine, discipline and instruction and Nanda starts to find reassurance in this. However, Nanda cannot quite suppress her imaginative and passionate self. She gets caught reading literature that the nuns do not allow and she makes close friendships with a small group of girls. This the nuns do not encourage as it is a self-indulgence to have close friends. Self-sacrifice is a recurring theme and is something that, like any young girl, Nanda cannot always achieve.

The self-assurance of the nuns that they are truly conducting God's work is startling and, for me, a memory. They deny the enquiring mind and censor all correspondence between pupils and the outside world; between parent and child. The nuns are not bad women, they are genuinely trying to save the souls of their pupils and to raise good Catholic women. But for Nanda, the saving of her soul by Mother Radcliffe leads to a personal tragedy that the reader knows will have repercussions for years to come.

'"I am only acting as God's instrument in this. I had to break your will before your whole nature was deformed." Nanda glanced at the nun's face. It was pale and controlled as usual, yet lighted with an extraordinary, quiet exaltation.'

Book Review - Someone at a Distance by Dorothy Whipple

2009-09-17T21:44:00.005+01:00

Autumn is my favourite time of year for many reasons. I love the crack and sparkle of bonfires, the smell of woodsmoke, the crunch of leaves underfoot, frosty mornings and conkers. I love walking through London and looking in at the activity through the warm, lit windows. Autumn is the season of red, gold, brown, green and orange; my favourite pallette. But, ultimately, autumn is the perfect season for reading as I can huddle on my sofa under jumpers and blankets with a big mug of tea, the lamp on and the cold outside. It is the season for cosy reading and there are no better books for hours of cosy reading than those written by Dorothy Whipple.

One of my favourite novels by Whipple is Someone at a Distance; beautifully published by the wonderful Persephone Books. Someone at a Distance follows the North family as their world is spun by the arrival of Mademoiselle Louise Lanier, a young and beautiful French woman who has been employed by Ellen North's Mother in Law as a companion.

Ellen North is married to Avery, they have two children, Hugh and Anne. They live in a beautiful house in a quaint English village. Ellen manages the household and raises the children, Avery goes and works hard to earn the money to maintain the North's happy home. Ellen is that rare and unfashioable woman, a very happy housewife. Her love for Avery is shining and constant, her children are well mannered, happy and joyful. Ellen is grateful for her home and family and then Avery's head is turned.

The girl was so beautifully finished: the cool suit, the white Juliet cap on the smooth dark hair, the white lawn blouse - all exactly right.

Louise is youthful and vain, she takes endless care of her appearance and she hasn't had two children and doesn't know the tiredness resulting from managing a family. Ultimately, she is sexy and flirtatious. Avery is bored and Louise is there to entertain him when Ellen is busy in the kitchen or garden or at the shops. Louise plays a skilful game and Ellen finds herself out of her depth.

As Avery succumbs to the charms of Louise, the family is torn apart. Ellen is steadfast and resolutely believes that her husband will do the right thing and put his family first. Avery is weak, indecisive and selfish. He finds himself carried along by the excitement that Louise promises before thinking through any consequences. Before long his actions are irrevocable and he has to face up to the choices he has made. It is a stark realisation indeed for him to consider what he has lost. As Ellen slowly builds a new life her love for Avery remains constant.

Dorothy Whipple's final novel was published in 1952 and is a gripping account of a middle-aged man's folly and the repurcussions that occur. Whipple's novel is a searing examination of human frailty and there is a distinct moral message as Avery North and Louise Lanier get their come-uppance. But overriding this, is a sense of hope. Hope for Ellen, a genuinely good woman whose tale has been told so many times by so many people throughout time. But it is Dorothy Whipple who recounts this tale with insight, honesty and clarity which combine to create a unique portrayal of a deceived wife and foolish husband.

The endpapers, pictured above, borrow from the autumnal pallette and this is absolutely a book to read when the rain is pattering on the window, the fire is glowing, the cat is asleep and the hot cup of tea warms your heart as Ellen learns that,

Life is like the sea, sometimes you are in the trough of the wave, sometimes on the crest. When you are in the trough, you wait for the crest, and always, trough or crest, a mysterious tide bears you forward to an unseen, but certain shore.

Teaser Tuesday

2009-09-15T10:21:00.004+01:00

Quote a couple of spoiler-free sentences from the book you’re reading to tempt others.

The talk ran on herbaceous borders, hens, and parochial treats, the roads, the rain. There were shakes of the head over the bad manners of the young people, the deterioration of the servants, the sad state of England.

The Rector's Daughter by F.M. Mayor

Book Review - Brooklyn by Colm Toibin

2009-09-14T21:39:00.005+01:00

Brooklyn by Colm Toibin

Having set myself this challenge I am very, very slowly working my way through the longlisted titles for the Booker Prize. So far, I have only read three out of the thirteen titles. Although I have until 6 October I am juggling a full time job and, of course, other books (no excuse, I know) so I am not sure if I will succeed. Still, I am determined to read them all at some point even if I do not meet my deadline.

The Booker Prize shortlist was announced whilst I was on holiday in Suffolk and I had just finished two of the longlisted titles - one that made the shortlist and one that didn't. Unfortunately, Brooklyn did not make the shortlist and, frankly, I was really disappointed about this.

Set in Ireland and Brooklyn in the early 1950s Brooklyn follows Eilis Lacey as she struggles with post Second World War Ireland, a country suffering from a poor economy and few jobs - sound familiar? Despite her qualifications and hard work Eilis cannot find permanent employment and, as all her brothers have done before her, she leaves the country. Her older sister and mother openly encourage her to leave making it clear that they want a better life for her and Eilis finds herself on a boat to America, mostly out of a sense of duty to her mother and sister.

Once in Brooklyn the local Priest, Father Flood, arranges employment for Eilis in a local department store. Her days fall into a new routine as she goes to work and returns in the evening to a boarding house full of similar Irish girls. However, Eilis is suddenly struck with homesickness and loneliness as she tries to adjust to her new life. As an act of kindness Father Flood enrols her onto some prestigious evening classes so that she can qualify as a book keeper, something that she was aspiring to be back home in Ireland.

As Eilis works hard she finds happiness which is affirmed when she meets Tony at a local dance in the Parish Hall. Eventually, her life moves away from her life in Ireland and Eilis becomes more and more at home in Brooklyn. Through hard work and determination she is able to realise opportunities for herself that were not possible in Ireland. Her relationship with Tony becomes more and more serious, until disaster strikes at home and she is called back to her mother and the small town of Enniscorthy.

On her return, Eilis is aware that she is no longer just plain Eilis Lacey, her time in Brooklyn has made her glamorous and mysterious. When an old flame reappears Eilis has a difficult decision to make between her old life and her new, free life; duty or personal choice.

Colm Toibin's novel is certainly one of the best that I have read this year. It's subtle power is gripping and the simple, entrancing language carries the reader along so that Eilis's decision is a weight for us to bear. Eilis is a true heroine, she steadfastly works hard to improve her life and tries to make the most out of difficult situations. She is honest and embodies a simplicity which is admirable - her head is not easily turned but she is ambitious.

Running alongside Eilis's experience is the examination of a variety of cultures coming together and living side by side for the first time. Brooklyn in the 1950s is portrayed as a melting pot of the Irish, Italian and Afro-Caribbean communities. Communities ebb and flow together as they struggle to leave their old lives behind and pursue the American Dream without forgetting their heritage.

Toibin manages to encapsulate so much within a short novel - only 250 pages - but he does so through a simplicity which guarantees emotional engagement as human struggles are splayed open for all to see clearly.

I read this book in a bit of a quandary about work, life, the usual. When I finished I immediately enrolled onto two evening classes - a small homage to the power of reading.

East Anglia - books and beaches

2009-09-13T17:48:00.008+01:00

Secondhand Bookshop in Holt, Norfolk

I have just returned from a wonderful holiday in East Anglia. Not only is the area packed full of treasure trove antique shops but there are secondhand bookshops galore. By far the best that I encountered was the above bookshop in Holt, Norfolk. The shop is reassuringly higgledy-piggledy with many wonky floors packed full of books on every subject. The fiction section is at the very top of the building so I busied myself amongst the cobwebs and found many, many gems. A whole host of old penguins and Virago Modern Classics jumped out at me and my budget withered away. Still, seven books for £13.00 is not bad.

I found:

Devoted Ladies M.J. Farrell (Virago Modern Classic)
That's How it Was Maureen Duffy (VMC)
Frost in May Antonia White (VMC)
The Ha-Ha Jennifer Dawson (VMC)
Ordinary Families E. Arnot Robertson (VMC)
A House and Its Head Ivy Compton-Burnett (Penguin)
The Rector's Daughter F.M. Mayor (Penguin)

I have some work to do to catch up with Paperback Reader's admirable collection of the green Virago Modern Classics - but this wonderful little shop in Holt has helped.

As well as antique shops and bookshops, East Anglia has many stunning beaches. Holkham Beach on the north Norfolk coast is one of the most striking places that I have ever been to. If you have seen the film Shakespeare in Love then you will recognise it as the beach that Gwyneth Paltrow walked along in the final scene. Utterly breathtaking.

Holkham Beach, Norfolk

Holiday Reading

2009-09-05T08:59:00.007+01:00

I am going off on holiday for a week in two hours time and have just finalised my reading list for the week ahead. Firstly, I will finish Colm Toibin's Brooklyn which has had me gripped and I cannot wait to read the rest tonight. My other choices are:

Sarah Waters The Little Stranger

A.S. Byatt The Children's Book

Richmal Crompton Family Roundabout

Two Booker longlisted titles and one Persephone - these should keep me going, in between pub lunches and Suffolk walks. And, of course, I may find a bookshop on my travels...

Persephone Books Reading Week

2009-08-25T17:49:00.004+01:00

I am really enjoying Paperback Reader's posts that bring together all the activity taking place for the Persephone Books reading week. I don't have much time to read many this week but I am already picking up lots of ideas for future reading.

Bloomsbury letters to go on sale

2009-08-21T23:15:00.003+01:00

Letters of the Bloomsbury Group. Photo: Gorringes Auctioneers

A collection of letters between members of the Bloomsbury Group and Helen Anrep are to be auctioned on 3rd September. Helen Anrep, Roger Fry's partner from the 1920s until Fry's death in 1934, became a close friend of the Bloomsbury Group members despite not being an artist or an intellectual herself. She was extemely interested in the arts and the letters contain a broad range of topics from gardening to family issues.

The letters are estimated to fetch between £50,000 - £80,000. I am off to buy a lottery ticket.

Cover covet - Penguin English Journeys

2009-08-16T10:32:00.006+01:00

Penguin have recently published a range of books under the title English Journeys - a series of short books celebrating the English countryside. Authors range from Vita Sackville-West to Henry James, Dorothy Wordsworth and Simon Jenkins. Below are some of my favourite covers in the range.

Book Review - The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

2009-08-16T09:16:00.007+01:00

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows

There is nothing quite like the adrenaline rush that you can get from being thoroughly gripped by a good book and being physically incapable of getting off the sofa to do anything else until you have finished reading. This book will stop you from doing any cooking, cleaning, socialising or, in fact, living until you have read the novel from cover to cover.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society is set in 1946 and follows the author Juliet Ashton who is searching around for an idea for her next book. Purely by chance Dawsey Adams from the recently liberated Guernsey contacts her as he has bought a second hand copy of Charles Lambs' essays which were previously owned by Juliet. He wants to know if she can help him find a biography of Charles Lamb as all the bookshops on Guernsey were shut down during the German Occupation. Dawsey mentions that he is a member of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and Juliet's intrigue is sparked. A regular correspondance develops between Juliet and Dawsey and later between Juliet and all the members of the society.

The novel is very funny and perfectly captures British eccentricity as well as examining the difficulties faced by the inhabitants of Guernsey during the occupation with touching honesty and insight into a community coming to terms with irrevocable change. The complexity of both the occupation and human nature is realised and dealt with through wit and sensitivity. From the horror of the war crimes committed on Guernsey to the wonderful tale of a literary society bringing people together and triumphing over adversity, this book will have you utterly gripped.

This is a tale that exalts the power of reading and the somewhat Arnoldian view that culture can be transformative - the L&PPPS not only transforms the lives of the Guernsey inhabitants during the occupation but it transforms Juliet Ashton's life; it gives her an idea for a book and also gives her a new life.

First page teaser - a letter from Juliet Ashton to her publisher Sidney Stark:

Now for my grim news. You asked me how work on my new book is progressing. Sidney, it isn't. English Foibles seemed so promising at first. After all, one should be able to write reams about the Society to Protest Against the Glorification of the English Bunny. I unearthed a photograph of the Vermin Exterminators' Trade Union marching down an Oxford street with placards screaming 'Down with Beatrix Potter!' But what is there to write about after a caption? Nothing, that's what.

An Arundel Tomb by Philip Larkin

2009-08-14T17:00:00.009+01:00

Chichester Cathedral

One of my favourite buildings is Chichester Cathedral in West Sussex. The green, copper roof and elegant spire can be seen from the English Channel to the South Downs and are a beacon of home as Chichester is where I grew up.

Chichester Cathedral houses the tomb of Richard Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel and his wife Eleanor of Lancaster. This tomb was made famous by Philip Larkin as it inspired him to write An Arundel Tomb which was published in his 1964 collection The Whitsun Weddings.

An Arundel Tomb describes the stone effigies of the married couple - who are tenderly holding hands. On first reading, the poem celebrates their 'faithfulness in effigy' and seems to be a proclamatory poem about the longevity of love. However, I always trip over the final stanza and wonder if, in fact, the reality is that they never intended to be bound together for eternity and that Richard Fitzalan and Eleanor of Lancaster may not have loved each other at all. The final line seems to trail off in tone; a weak statement of hope.

An Arundel Tomb by Philip Larkin

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd —
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor’s sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the glass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

Taken from Philip Larkin Collected Poems Published by Faber & Faber

Book Review - Princes in the Land by Joanna Cannan

2009-08-09T08:50:00.013+01:00

A Day in the Life - taken by Dom Cram

Yesterday I spent the day in Oxford. Perched on my rug next to the Thames I idly watched the rowing boats, motor boats, canal boats, punts and river birds parade past. I tried to catch up on some reading but the sound of the bells, river life and picnic chatter was far too distracting and my mind turned to, and agreed with, Hugh Lindsay's romantic desire to,

hear the bells, hear the footsteps, see the shadows move across the cobbles and the red leaves drift and the wind in the scholars' gowns. He wanted to know all day and all night that he was in Oxford.

Hugh Lindsay is married to Patricia Lindsay, a Baron's granddaughter who grew up riding ponies at her stately home of Hulver. She meets Hugh, a poor student and aspiring academic, on a train and they fall into a marriage together - but Patricia had not been trained to sew, cook, clean and manage a household, she knew how to break horses and hunt a provincial pack.

Over time she 'forgets' her old life and sinks into the domestic routine; three children arrive and she,

remained at home, mending, making, ordering her household; and sometimes she went to tea with other such dim disciplined creatures and talked about education and ailments.

Patricia found herself placing all her time and energy into the raising of her children. She made the correct self-sacrifices and nutured her children, providing everything they needed. One dark, cold evening as she was feeling 'older, uglier, feebler' she made her way home to find all three of them waiting for her 'August and Giles and Nicola, her princes in the land'. But as they grow up they surprise Patricia as they move away from her perception of them as children. August, she is sure will go into the army - he gets a girl pregnant, marries her and becomes a refrigerator salesman in suburbia. Giles becomes a member of The Oxford Group, an evangelical movement and he moves to America. Nicola, who 'loves riding' announces she has always hated riding and wants to be a mechanic. Patricia reflects on the people she has raised and sent out into the world, 'And they'd not gone as princes. The Kingdoms she had won for them, they had rejected.' She goes further,

these weren't the children for whom she'd given up fun and friendship,worked, suffered, worried, taken thought, taken care, done without, suppressed,surrendered and seen her young self die.

Princes in the Land, published by the wonderful Persephone Books, is a searing examination of family life, motherhood and coming to terms with children becoming adults. Joanna Cannan poignantly probes the place of an early twentieth century woman within both the home and society. The realisation that a woman's 'job is done' when her children leave the nest is dealt with and conquered as the protagonist goes full circle and rediscovers her youth's passion and adapts herself once more to meet the needs of her grown-up children.

I will be reading this again during the Persephone Books reading week, hopefully whilst perched on my rug, watching the shadows pass across the cobbles, listening to the bells and watching some river life in Oxford.

Book Review - The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

2009-08-06T20:21:00.009+01:00

The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

Many of us dream about setting up our own bookshop. Mine would be full of armchairs with blankets strewn over them for chilly days, it would have standard lamps and floor length vintage floral curtains. There has to be a tabby cat and endless cups of tea. I am not sure that I would make much money from this enterprise as customers would be encouraged to stay, read, talk and enjoy the books with a slice of cake.

Florence Green has a similar idea. She decides to open the only bookshop in the small Suffolk town of Hardborough, where books have not been sold since the last bookseller knocked down a customer, with a folio, after a row over Dombey and Son. Undeterred, Florence buys the Old House and quickly moves in, only to be confronted by the local 'patroness' Violet Gamart who had her sights on the Old House for a local arts centre.

Florence quickly finds that trying to establish the only bookshop in Hardborough is not simple. With the help of the ten year-old Christine Gipping, Florence establishes the Old House Bookshop lending library - but the wrath of Violet Gamart does not waver and is exacerbated when Christine raps her over the knuckles for jumping the queue. The final straw is when Florence and Christine create a window display entirely out of copies of Lolita. A battle of wills ensues and Florence fights the natural and supernatural forces that do not want a bookshop in Hardborough.

Penelope Fitzgerald's novel was nominated for the Booker Prize in 1978 and I can certainly see why. Her portrayal of small town politics, the nuance of local tradition and odd characters is stylish and uses a low-key tone that matches the steadfast yet mild protagonist. Florence Green suffers from forces beyond her control but as the reader is told 'she had a kind heart, though that is not of much use when it comes to the matter of self-preservation.'

Despite the politics, poltergeists and put-downs experienced by Florence, The Bookshop has not muddied my dream of the Bloomsbury Bell Bookshop. And in fact, it might be one of the first books that I will stock.

Fairytales in the 21st century

2009-08-05T21:38:00.020+01:00

The Cottingley Fairies Hoax, 1917

What is the place for fairytales in 21st century society? I ask this because they have been on my mind recently. The current, free, exhibition at the V&A is Telling Tales: Fantasy and Fear in Contemporary Design which explores story-telling through decorative devices. The exhibition is divided into three sections, The Forest Glade, The Enchanted Castle and Heaven and Hell. All three section titles are strong themes within fairytales.

I got home from the exhibition and pulled my dog-eared copy of Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales from the shelf. Doomed love, failed quests and death are all presented as inevitable yet the reader is held to account and asked to look at their own moral code to see how we ourselves can ease the burden of the human condition. Through good deeds The Little Mermaid can gain an immortal soul, which will take 300 years. But children can help shorten this sentence by being good to their parents - for every good child found The Little Mermaid's sentence is reduced by a year.

The new production of All's Well That Ends Well at the National Theatre references fairytales through the set and costume design. The marrying of the fairytale theme with this Shakespeare play works incredibly well. The production team have thrown this play into the 21st century and have placed the audience into the shoes of the small child reading Hans Christian Andersen. In this morality tale, Helena is the protagonist who goes on a quest to win her love, the Count Bertram. She is set a succession of seemingly impossible tasks but it is through the 'trial' of Bertram that she really wins. She is Cinderella, she is Red Riding Hood but ultimately, she is a modern heroine as no-one can beguile her with pumpkins and big eyes.

I also have to mention, as a shoe-lover, that Helena wears the most amazing pair of sparkly shoes I have ever set eyes upon. Oh, to have a key to the National Theatre's Wardrobe Department!

Fairytales have got lighter over the last century, perhaps attributable to Walt Disney. The Little Mermaid that I grew up with was actually the 1989 animated Disney film. She does not die in the end. The lesson learnt was that we would grow up to have whatever we wanted, in this case Prince Eric. When I read the original at university I was shocked to say the least - things are not always going to turn out how we want?! A year later in 1990 Pretty Woman hit the cinema. The modern, self-conscious Cinderella story. Another reminder that dreams will come true. But are we turning back to a darker interpretation of fairytales?

Does the 21st century audience now crave the gritty reality that Hans Christian Andersen so expertly delivered? Are we like the children of the 19th century, in need of moral instruction? Telling Tales at the V&A highlights a reversion to the exploration of mortality through modern design and All's Well That Ends Well does not end on a particularly light note, Helena got her man - but does he really deserve her? I am not sure where 'happily ever after' originated and I don't know how appropriate this line is to the fairytales I have encountered this week.

The Perfect Library

2009-08-05T17:32:00.008+01:00

The library in the Beast's Castle - Beauty and the Beast

I am waiting for the remaining books on the Booker long list to come in to my local library which has led me to think about what makes the 'perfect library'. Should it be dark and musty or bright and clean? Millions of books stacked higgledy-piggledy or all in neat, orderly rows? Let me know about your favourite library.

In Disney's wonderfully saccharine animated film, Beauty and the Beast, the Beast gives Belle this huge library - the ultimate gift. With more books than she can ever read in her lifetime (or if she can, I am really inadequate). Belle was without a doubt my favourite Disney character as she had brown hair, brown eyes and was obsessed with books.

Moving away from the realms of fantasy, my favourite library has to be the University of London Library at Senate House (pictured below). Senate House was built between 1932-37 and was the inspiration for the Ministry of Truth in George Orwell's novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. As an English Literature student I would spend many autumnal days searching through the dusty shelves for books on anything from Woolf to early printing presses. The interior of the library is strikingly early twentieth century with parquet floors and original 1930s light fittings. It is a haven for those in love with modernist literature as the surroundings evoke the contents of the books perfectly. One of my best times at university was spent in the Special Collections room studying the original 1628 copy of The World Encompassed by Sir Francis Drake. A real opportunity for a 19 year old student.

The library does offer membership to non-students, so you can go and explore the literary idyll yourself.

Senate House Library, Malet Street, London