Times change – thankfully

Phil: It’s a funny old world. Facebook reminded me that it’s two years since the great bogroll shortage. Two years, and it’s already receding into our memories.

Having a blog allows for interesting looking back. A couple of years ago, we were getting into the first Covid-induced lockdown. At the time, we had no idea what was ahead. The press was full of doom, the government were flailing around with limited data and none of us know what the future looked like, or even if there was a future to look forward to.

Candice wrote how it all seemed like an apocalyptic science-fiction story.

I tried to be funny, and then stopped again.

When people bang on about the war, they often say it’s important not to forget, and that’s a little bit true about the pandemic. OK, it’s not fully over, but most of us have managed to get back to our normal lives. Although there is a facemask in my bag and the pockets of my most-worn jackets, it takes a very busy train for me to put it on. When I spot someone masked up, it now seems unusual.

Another part of me wants to forget. It was a horrible time. I remember walking by kids’ playgrounds locked up and covered with tape instructing youngsters to stay away. There were rules that most of us stuck to. Sitting in the Nolan garden, clutching an umbrella in the rain, chatting through her patio door because I wasn’t allowed in the house wasn’t exactly a high point, especially now we know that those in charge had decided the same rules didn’t apply to them.

“May you live in interesting times” is (according to Google) a Chinese curse, and having lived through some, and still living through others, it’s easy to see what they mean. Interesting times are best kept for novels and films. I’ll stick to boring ones, where I can relive those moments as memories.

The Tea Ladies of St Jude’s Hospital

Three unlikely friends. One chance to save the community. It might just be the perfect blend…

The Marjorie Marshall Memorial Cafeteria is at the heart of St Jude’s Hospital. Staffed by successive generations of dedicated volunteers, for over fifty years the beloved cafeteria has been serving up a kind word and sympathetic ear along with tea and scones.

Hilary, the stalwart Manageress, has worked her way up through the ranks; Joy, the latest recruit, is driving Hilary mad by arriving late every day; and seventeen-year-old Chloe, the daughter of two successful surgeons, is volunteering in the holidays and bemused by the older women.

But when they discover the cafeteria is under threat of closure, the unlikely trio must put aside their differences. As they realise the secrets and sorrows they have in common, the women grow closer – but can they bring the community together and save the day?

Phil: Here’s an interesting problem. I enjoyed this book – it’s an undemanding romp and fun along the way – but all the time I was puzzled. Where was it set?

St Jude’s Hospital is the obvious answer. But where is this? Which country?

It’s one where they spend money in dollars. Healthcare is a business, but the money has the Queen’s head on, and people aspire to work for the BBC.

For a long while, I wondered if this was a British book that had been partially translated to an American scene (the dollars bit). It wasn’t until the end that there was mention of thanking the Australian publisher – of course! That would also explain the house with storage space underneath it too. Not something we tend to have in the UK, and if we do, we call it a cellar.

The other issue is that the main characters are all really interesting women, but we don’t really get to work that out until halfway through the story. OK, we figure out that Chloe doesn’t really want to be a doctor pretty early, but her endless water-guzzling had me assuming some sort of eating disorder, which it wasn’t.

Hilary has suffered a divorce, and more importantly, a fall from grace, when her husband (who turns up very briefly late in the book) turns out to be bankrupt, their life of luxury being a sham. Her relationship with her sister is fascinating, and a little under-explored. She also can’t use email, which infuriated me as I think someone who lived like she did would be a lot more tech-savvy.

Finally, Joy is really the centre of the story, and we learn of her loss and how she deals with her late husband. This was possibly the least satisfactory area – she talks to him and seems to interact, but we eventually learn this is all in her head. I like my narrators to be honest with me, but this might just be my very literal take on things.

Despite reservations, there’s a fun book here. I just wish someone had put a kangaroo in the first few pages so I knew where I was.

 

Traaaactor!

Phil: This is the trouble with writing. One minute, you are sitting in a nice, warm office chatting about ideas for your first novel, and the next (OK, 12 years later) you find yourself waiting around in the cold for the local Young Farmers group to pass with their festive tractor run.

The thing is, since writing the tractor chase in Kate vs the Dirtboffins, I’ve got a bit interested in farm machinery. Not as interested as I am in trains. Or boats. But I have collected a small number of models of the Lanz Bulldog tractor, hero of the chase. And I find there is something about the different types of tractor over the years that appeals to the nerdy part of my brain. I’m pretty sure I never envisaged this when writing chicklit!

And the festive parade was brilliant. Roll on next year.

How words get good

We take a break from Kate vs Showbiz, for a quick trip to Stratford Literary Festival.

One of the best things to come out of our writing efforts, is that we’ve taken to visiting literary festivals. I’m still proud that we actually appeared at one (was it really 2016?) but mostly have enjoyed going along and listening to other people.

A busy calendar precluded my literary entertainment for either of us this year, but I did manage to fit in a lunchtime session called “How words get good” by Rebecca Lee.

Based on the book of the same name, the author has worked in publishing at Penguin Press for over 20 years – and this is the distillation of her experiences.

Basically, if you want to know who does what and how in the book world, then it’s an excellent read. Working in publishing, it’s especially interesting to me as the truth is, I fell into my job and don’t know that much about the nuts and bolts other than the bits I look after.

The festival session provided an excellent taster with some fun anecdotes, but mainly served its main purpose, propelling me towards the bookshop!

The book is a bit like a rich chocolate cake – lovely, but I read it in short chunks as I don’t want to gobble too much down in one go.

Along the way, we get to look behind the curtain at how things are done in the book world. For example, did you know that James Patterson doesn’t write his own books? Apparently, he maintains a stable of ghost authors to whom he delivers a detailed plot outline, and then provides feedback as they knock out the words. I guess that in the publishing world, this is well known, but not among the readers.

There’s also an explanation of the various roles in a publishing house showing how each hones the text until it becomes a finished product. The way I describe it sounds very dry, but this is a very readable book, perfect for anyone who likes books in more than just a casual way.

Personally, I was fascinated to reach this entry, spotted in the index:

Parker, Phillip M., and his 200,000 books. 58-59

It seems that Mr Parker (not me, I only have one L, and my middle initial is S) has a computer that writes books for him including the epic Containers of Fromage Frais. Good for the Amazon receipts, but surely lacking soul…

 

 

Merry Christmas!

Traditions – where do they come from?

Phil: Every year, when the Christmas decorations come out, I open a box and build a pair of Lego Elves.

I’ve done this every year, for, ohh, four years.

Yes, it’s a tradition. Just not a very old one. My annual trip to London for beer with some mates usually left me with spare time before we met up and once I accidentally ended up on the Lego store. There, I thought it would be nice to buy a Crimbo decoration, and the first was the Elves.

Since then, a bauble with Lego presents in has joined the tradition, and another small Santa who looks a bit creepy. Each is dismantled after the season and made up again in December. Sadly, Covid has put a stop to beers, but the elves continue.

The world is full of traditions. La Nolan always watches Nativity in the run-up to the season. Others drape themselves with greenery or go out singing carols at inocent people.

Traditions quickly take hold and you are told “This must happen, it’s traditional.” That’s why officials in the House of Commons wear weird clothes.

Of course, all these traditions had to start somewhere. They weren’t traditional once upon a time. I suppose, like my festive Lego, they provide something familiar in an ever changing world. A comfort blanket perhaps.Christmas is especially full of tradition – and every family has their own, from who gives out the presents, to the food served at different times to the post-lunch games (or not).

Me? I like harmless traditions. To which end, I decided that if I can’t go to London, I can still add to my festive Lego collection.

 

Well, it’s traditional – innit!

Sidenote: This is our 900th blog post. While the writing might have taken a bit of a back seat recently, we keep plugging away with words. Practise makes perfect after all.

Aren’t librarians helpful people?

Phil: A few weeks ago, I mourned the loss of the library I used to visit as a child. Well, last night I took a trip to the replacement.

Part of a “community hub”, it is smaller than the old place, but has (I am assured) just as many books. OK, the children’s area is a lot smaller, but there are other spaces in the building that can be used, and anyway, when I was a child, the only children’s area was full of books. No mats and beanbags for storytime for young Phil! (Grumble, brumbe, youth of today don’t know they are born etc…)

Anway, one fascility not currently available, is the magic machine that checks books in and out. It seems that the new machines haven’t arrived yet, despite the project to build the place taking a couple of years. That was awkward, because I was there to return and renew the books I borrowed from the old place.

Despite it being 20 minutes to closing time, one of the librarians took my books into the office and did it all for me. If there was a fine to pay, nothing was mentioned.

She then went on to check and renew my account, hopefully so I can finally use the on-line renewal system.

I think it must be in a librarians’ DNA to do this. Presumably something checked at the job interview.

Someone pointed out that libraries are the last public space you can enter wehre no-one expects you to spend any money (unless you really want to). I guess that must appeal to people who just like helping others with something as important as reading, and searching for knowledge. And long may it be so.

You’re probably asking why there isn’t a photo of the library at the top of this post, well, it was too dark for the building and I don’t like taking shots of the inside while there are people there.

However, as part of the new hub, there is a cafe. So I bought some cake (it’s compulsory for this blog) and chose the one that looked like a muffin with the poo emoji on top. It’s actually a choux bun with chocolate, and very nice too. A definite asset to the library.

Worse, for my waistline, to get there I have to pass a fish’n’chip shop. The aroma on a dark evening explains why I enjoyed a chip buttie for tea…

Farewell to MY library

Phil: I went to the library on Monday. Nothing unusual in that you might thing, but I went on a mission.

You see, the library I have known all my life, is closing down. When the doors closed at the end of that day, they would open no more. The walls won’t resound to the sound of children enjoying being read a story. No longer will adults browse the shelves, wondering where the pages of a good book would take them in the next few weeks.

OK, I’m being maudalin. The library isn’t really closing, it’s moving to a new community hub around the corner. There will be a cafe, multi-puropse sports hall and meeting rooms you can book. Outside there is parking and a children’s playground. It’s next to the shops – pretty much everything our little town can offer all within a few feet.

But I had to go and pay one last visit. I’m sure the new place will be lovely, but it won’t have that airy 1960s feel of the old library. More to the point, it won’t be the one I spent hours chosing my books from as a child.

I know things have to move on. When I borrow books now, they are placed in a machine to book them out to me, something that would have seemed like magic back in the 1970s, and young Phil would have been desperate to have a go with it! No little card wallets nowadays. No librarian stamping the date in the front of each one either. Lot of stamps meant I’d borrowed a popular title, and you also knew when the books were due back, something far easier than logging on to the library website, which is what you have to do now.

Just for old times sake, I wanted to borrow some more books. My reading has been hopeless recently. Maybe the impending fines will make me buck my ideas up a bit.

My choice were a couple of “grown-up” books, becuase they appealed to me. And Five on a treasure island, because when I was a kid, I read all the Famous Five books, mostly from this very library.

I’ll miss the old place. Libraries are the last public spaces you can visit and no-one expects you to hand over money. Books will still be available for loan in the new community hub, that is a very good thing, and I’m sure a new generation will become as nostalgic about it as I am about MY library.

Now, can someone lend me a pile of cash? There’s a nice looking 1960s property coming up for sale nearby, and I think I’d like to live in it. There are even enough book shelves…

The Man I Think I Know

Ever since ‘the incident’, James DeWitt has stayed on the safe side.

He likes to know what happens next.

Danny Allen is not on the safe side. He is more past the point of no return.

The past is about to catch up with both of them in a way that which will change their lives forever, unexpectedly.

But redemption can come in the most unlikely ways.

Phil: I’ve been rubbish at reading recently. Too busy. Too tired. I just want to slump at the end of the day. I know I’ll enjoy doing something different, but I just can’t be bothered.

A rare train ride presented me with some time to crack open this book. 48 hours later, I’d finished it. The words slid down as easily a glass of chocolate milk. (You many sustitute your own drink of choice, but I like chocolate flavour milk.)

Mike Gayle tells the story of James DeWitt, a high-flyer brought crashing down after an incident in a nighclub. Left badly mentally scarred, he needs looking after. His parents have taken on the task, but they are stiffling him.

Danny Allen is also damaged, and has thrown away the benefits of a “good” education. He doesn’t have anything to look forward too. In desperperation, the DSS force him to become a carer, and through work, he meets James.

What follows is a story of redemption and recovery. Most reviews make the point that the book centres on a caring male freindship and that’s true. Very few female characters play much of a part. Normally, this would be seen as a bad thing, or at least odd, but here it’s perfectly natural. There’s no love between the main characters, but a mutual need.

It also exposes a sad fact – some people end up working in care homes because they have no other options. It’s badly paid hard work. Sadly, society doesn’t value a person who ends up wiping anothers backside. Yes, many people will be drawn to a “caring” profession, but others just find themselves at the bottom of the pile and really shouldn’t be there. It’s a subtle, but savage inditement of how little we care about those who need help either through age, or disability.

This is feelgood reading, but with a message. You are rooting for all the characters pretty much from the start. Mike Gayle dangles a few mysteries, such as the incidents that caused James and Danny to be where they are in life to keep the interest up, but never over-eggs this. You are reading because the writing is good, not to resolve the false jeapordy. Everything is written in the first person, which means James has natural sounding, slighly odd, disjointed speach, but it never gets in the way.

There’s a lot of pride involved, something appropriate to male characters. Both need help, but don’t want to reach out for it. When they do, mainly through the goading of the other, their lives start to imporove.

There’s a message in there.

Superstitious me

Phil: I wasn’t going to write this blog post. At half past seven, I messaged Candice to say, “Oops. Just switched the computer off and realized I haven’t blogged. I need to pack so will do it tomorrow. I’m sure no one will mind!”

I was serious. There’s a lot to pack for tomorrows work, and I had been on the computer quite a bit. The sensible thing would be to chill, get an early night and write something wonderful when I got back home.

So how come I’m typing this at twenty past nine in the evening?

Superstition.

Knawing away at me as I watched The Great British Bake Off, was the thought that if I didn’t write a post, somehow this would bring me bad luck. Something would go wrong tomorrow.

Now, I’m a bit of a nervous driver anyway. I instinctivly caveat any discussion of the future with “if everything goes OK” or “all being well” if there is a journey involved by car. Bring an aeroplane into the equation and I’m refusing to think about the future, because if I do, I’ll jinx it and bad things will happen.

I know lots of people try to tidy things up before going on holiday, so I’m not completely alone, or mad. We all worry about things and then try irrational ways to control them. Just some of us are worse than others.

I’ll “touch wood” for luck, but not in any serious way. Ladders don’t bother me.

But trying to make a deal with fate – I’ll write this blog but keep me safe and make sure my cameras work properly – is daft, I know it is. But then that’s the nature of irrational thoughts – they are irrational.And those little routines we develop to placate the gods of fate, maybe they are just warm, friendly moments that calm our nerves. But then that would make them rational things to do…