Bloody Vampires

Oh no.  Not another bloody vampire book I hear you groan.  Well, umm, yes.  Sorry about that.  The Twilight saga, True Blood and all the others that seemingly breed unchecked on the shelves have been joined by a new trilogy.  Well, new to me, that is. Kim Newman (a rather glorious eccentric figure himself and an utterly impeccable film buff) and his Anno Dracula series.  It seemed appropriate reading somehow.  It's an English summery weekend in June.  The heating's on, I'm wearing a jumper and the dog is warming my feet. Pimms?  No thanks, I'll have a hot chocolate with a slug of rum in it.  To warm up.
Let me introduce you to the world of London 1888.  Queen Victoria has sensationally remarried to the Prince of Darkness himself - the Wallachian Prince known as Count Dracula. His (polluted) bloodline is sweeping London as more and more people are choosing to 'turn'.  It's quite fashionable really.  Oscar Wilde turned, still hiding his bad teeth behind his hands.  Smoked glasses and the gothic look are affected by the fashioables.   Of course, all that rubbish put about by Van Helsing about garlic and crucifixes doesn't work.  Silver does though, a bullet or  scalpel, followed by ripping the heart (or any vital organ) out of the body. 'Newborns' who are not looked after are horribly burnt by going into the sun and have to go to a sort of Vampire rehab, knows as The Hall.  Some of the 'warms' are sympathetic to the dark side, but gradually London is turned upside down by the Vampires,  In the squalor of Whitechapel prostitutes sell their blood to hungry vampires, and gin sodden sluts tote children around on leads offering up their necks for a bite. A killer roams the streets in the shape of the Silver Scalpel - later known as Jack the Ripper.  But why?  With enough blood puddling the pavements anyway it seems a redundant occupation. There's a rather dapper spy - Charles Beauregard, a vampire patrician prime minister, a wonderful 450 year old heroine vampire Genevieve and a whole constructed world of darkness in the fog ridden streets of London.  Pretty compulsive.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm feeling a bit peckish...

Fairy Tales

Now, I must admit that the re-working of fairy tales with a modern twist never appeals to me.  Too much whimsy and it can border dangerously with magic realism. You know, one minute your protagonist is looking in a mirror and the next minute she's turned into a snake.  Oh no.  Not for me thanks. So this book - well, I say book, but it's an unbound proof copy in the tiniest print you can imagine, has languished for weeks under a pile of books beside my bed.  On the floor, actually, as said bedside table is about to collapse under the weight of far too much printed material (another nudge to buy a Kindle?  No, banish that thought) Anyway, the time came when I had run out of reading material and I reluctantly picked it up.  The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey published by umm...gosh, I don't know...it doesn't say.  I'll google it in a moment and let you know.  But my goodness I'm SO glad that I did.  I had to finish it one swoop. It's wonderful.  It made me realise that I really love anything set in the snow - it's so seductive...and it reminds me of those wonderful Scandinavian and Russian paintings that I adore.  The snow blankets everything, and pillows sharp corners, and people have to stay huddled inside around a fire whilst gazing outside at the icy brightness.  Snow of course covers all things with a virginal innocence, but doesn't cover the sometimes dark secrets that lay lurking beneath.  It's a re-told fairy tale indeed, one of a childless couple that one winter builds a snow child that comes to life.  Of course, like all fairy tales the poor snow child comes to a sticky end - usually through human love, or the start of Spring... but this is a no nonsense tale set in the harsh landscape of Alaska and I knew that I could rely on the author not to stray into whimsy or mirrors turning onto snakes... My heart was lost to the tale of the middle aged couple struggling against all odds in that snowy landscape, beating out a hand to mouth living. Then the flight of fancy and a much needed break of grinding habit leads them to make a snow child one frosty evening... the rest is pure magic. (Reagan Arthur Books)

Language of Flowers

Aren't librarians nice? And most publishers, too.  I was at The Reading Agency Roadshow which was held at Brighton library (an opportunity to pitch new books to libraries) and at the end of the day the generous publishers gave some books away (or perhaps they just didn't want to carry them home - no - banish that unworthy thought) And I was given The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh published by Macmillan.  Now, clever, clever Macmillan have also published a little handbook as well by Mandy Kirby with a forward by Vanessa to accompany it.  Double whammy huh? But well worth it.  Enchanting.  I loved it.  The novel is fascinating, but the concept of the Victorian language of flowers bought up to date is charming.  Of course, the Victorians didn't actually make up bouquets telling a story (of a love affair - natch) but they were used as talking points on a dinner table, or a conversation piece on an over mantle.  Geranium? True friendship.  Marigold? Grief.  Nasturtium?  Impetuous love.  Moss? Maternal love. Violet?  Modest worth. Periwinkle? Tender recollection.  Awww.... Roses of course had many, many meanings depending on the colour.  So I leave you with....

Marvellous Party

Don't, what ever you do, read Redeeming Features by Nicholas Haslam in one sitting.  You may be tempted to, but don't.  You'll be exhausted.  Honestly.  It's like going to a giddy cocktail party that you can never leave.  One more enticing nibble, maybe another of those prawny things and half a glass of champagne and a quick chat to that fascinating man who's wearing a rather divine paisley shirt tinkling on a piano and you'll make your goodbyes.  Two hours later and the room is even more crowded and somehow you're drinking a Manhattan and agreeing to go on holiday in a villa share in rather a marvellous undiscovered island somewhere in the Adriatic. 
When you finally tear yourself away, you have to go and lie in a dark room and sip ice cold water for a few hours and then feel that your life up and till now has been rather dull indeed. 
It then give you time to wonder if maybe it would have been all so different if a) you had been born a pretty gay boy with a sparkling wit, a good eye for the finer things in life b) you had gone to Eton and c) had you been born into a very wealthy family....
The names alone in this book make for delirious reading. At a random name check (p135) there are Arthur Jeffress, Nicolette and Alastair Londonderry, Chips Cannon, Peggy Guggenheim, Marchesa Casati, Max Ernst and Alexander Calder.  On one page. One.  Page.  I.m still reeling.  There are some great jokes and some scurrilous stories, too (Did he ever get sued, I wonder? Or are they all too grand to care?) And irrefutable proof, according to our Nicholas, that Wallis Simpson was a hermaphrodite. (Her lady's maid was bemoaning the fact to another maid that although Wallis had beautiful silk underclothes there was 'always a little urine stain.  There.  On the front')  Gosh.
I've been to a marvellous party.

And now, if you'll excuse me I simply have to go and lie down.

As sure as eggs are eggs

A clutch of freshly laid eggs were delivered to me yesterday by Mr B who keeps bantams in his garden.  The Girls, as they are known, practically have their own web site, so popular are they.  They are indeed splendid creatures and have regular spa days chez Mr B. I was pretty bird-phobic till I met them, but they have won me over with their endearing habit of 'pock pocking' calls of greeting and being very fond of being stroked till they fall into a pretty feathered coma of contentment in your lap. 
Anyway, I got to thinking about all things hen-like in books and a remarkable thing arose:  All clearly bonkers people have, at some time, lived in a hen house. In fact and in fiction.  I adored the story of Lady Gladys, who had one of the first nose jobs that went a little awry.  She had demanded a nose based on a classical bust, and it was duly done but filled with wax, so that she could never sit in front of a fire lest it melt (which apparently it did).  She had great beauty and wealth and married into the aristocracy but it all went horribly wrong when she lurched from charmingly eccentric to completely batty and retired amongst the hens.  Chips Channon saw her once on Bond Street and doffed his hat and was about to greet her, when she froze him out with an icy sapphire stare.  Then of course, there was Great Uncle Ulick who is drafted in to partner a Molly Keane heroine who to her shame, is splattered with chicken manure as it is rumoured, and she suspects it is true that he lives with his chickens.  And Ma Kettle - oh my goodness, the star of The Egg and I.... You have been alerted Mr B. Stay out of the hen house!

World Book Night

Well, I am quite aware that some of you, well, thousands of you went to Trafalgar Square to hear starry authors (amongst them the perfect poppet that is David Nicholls and the sublime Margaret Atwood) but here in Brighton we made do with Brighton Library.  And being Brighton is was... well, it was somewhat different. We had performance poetry about dog poo, we had pirates, we had a 90 year old woman reading her first book that she'd had published last week into a non-working microphone and a blind woman was emoting in Children's Corner to a group of spellbound kids.  There was also Shedman (don't ask, I haven't got a clue.) Oh yes, and there were the Library Whisperers - a group of thin young men in dodgy looking raincoats who accosted you to 'whisper' about their favourite books, but they were all a bit too nervous and congregated in the Green Room eating kit-kats.  Our brave author, Andrew Kay read aloud from his favourite book (My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell) straining to make himself heard over the unprecedented noise and chaos of the library.  And jolly well he did too.  There were storytellers who had 3 minutes each, and a lovely woman who had written the Brighton Encyclopedia.  There were book give-aways that were eagerly snatched up and a very cute looking scruffy white dog that got a lot of attention (I think he'd got an agent by the end of the evening).  Fun, chaotic, noisy, and quite bonkers.  The saving grace for me was that people had been asked to fill in a questionnaire about books and I leave you with the best comments that I saw. Q: "What do you like best about books?" A:"They are nothing like life ...(they are better) Quite right too.

Marmite

Love it loathe it.  Personally, I love it. Thinly spread over warm toast with butter.  What's not to like? Umami to the nth degree. And I was given some marmite chocolate to try a few months ago.  Sounds horrible.  T'was delish. But I was breakfasting with six Germans, one Dutchman, a Norwegian and a lady from Kenya last weekend and I saw their reactions. Good grief.  International relations had never looked so rocky. Moues of distaste rocketed around the table.  They had to be distracted by a 7 mile muddy walk and a country pub, where thank goodness, Harvey's ale redeemed the taste buds. 
Books can be the same, I know.
Lord of the Rings? Well, I'm with CS Lewes.  'Not another f****** elf?" he was reported to have uttered as Tolkien read aloud another chapter to the prestigious Inkies.  I struggled through it when I was about fourteen I think, only because it was the book at school and it was too dreary to have to pretend that I had read it when I hadn't. Oh dear. Hobbits Schmobbits. Who cares? Yes, I know it was all about Nazi's and evil spreading over the land, but really... I also felt the same about Melvyn Peake. Smike.  Gormenghast (which I do think about every time I go past Lancing College, which isn't that often) what a sprawling turgid page turner that is. Awful.  Just awful. The TV adaptation was just abut bearable, but even that... Other massive bestsellers have left me cold too. But then of course, others that have never been out of print can still grip me.  Forever Amber? Oh, yes please... the attention to detail, the account of the plague, the theatres, the royals, the inns and the streets of London have me gripped every single time.
Some bestsellers, just like Marmite, provoke a strong response.  Which is about the best an author can hope for.