The book-signing

Yesterday was Book-signing Day, so Ms Fab and I found our way to Ely, avoiding drainage ditches and wrong turnings. After praying to the God of Parking Spaces, (distantly related to the God of Green Traffic Lights), we found a space that was within walking distance of the cathedral, and was at a good angle for not scraping paint off the adjacent car. 

We had a meal and, after arguing a bit over who was paying the bill, we joined the queue outside the cathedral. The sun was out, the cathedral was looking pretty spectacular right next to us, and we spent a happy hour or so people-watching. There were lots of women with fabulously coloured hair, and we wondered how colourful we could go without getting told off at work. We planned who to mug for their shoes and tried to have a nose at the books people had brought to be signed. 

There were 1200 people going, so the girl in the bookshop told us, and only 138 of them were in front of us. I know this because, as we went in, we were each given a raffle ticket which gave us our place in the book-signing queue later. We managed to get great seats not far from the front, and enjoyed a talk, a question and answer session and two readings from Neil Gaiman. The book that was being promoted was The Ocean at the End of the Lane, but he also read from his upcoming children's book, Fortunately the Milk... , which was very funny and which will be bought the second it's published. 

Queuing for the book-signing took a while, but Ms Fab and I spent the time criticizing the modern statues (Jesus, over the pulpit, looked sadly like an Eastern European puppet, we decided), and recommending books to each other. As the queue wound its way into the choir stalls, we admired the carvings and wished we had Mr Chaos with us to translate the Latin that was beautifully inlaid around the tombs. 

(Photo: Ely News)

Irritation of the evening was a self-important little man who kept pacing up and down the aisle saying, 'Please, COULD you all just keep to one side? Just in case....' In case of what, he didn't, or couldn't, say. It was a bit pointless, as we were already lining up nicely, in a typically English fashion. Ms Fab and I thought he was just after attention and tried to think of official questions to ask that he wouldn't know the answer to. We decided that he'd probably wanted a clipboard or set of keys but wasn't important enough. After his third pacing, Ms Fab was getting fidgety - she's not one to take orders without asking why and then arguing with you. I started wondering if she was going to get us thrown out, but we'd finally reached our destination. Books signed, we managed to find the car park and arrived home just before midnight. 

It was a rather special evening. Being surrounded by 1199 people who like the same books as me was brilliant. Ms Fab has planned a new wardrobe based around other people's shoes and I finally got my signed copy of Neverwhere.

Ely and the Fens

This morning was spent on a recce to Ely Cathedral. Author Neil Gaiman is doing a talk there on Tuesday evening, for which Ms Fab and I have tickets. Unfortunately I had no idea how to get there. I've been to Ely a couple of times but, as a passenger, I didn't pay attention to the route. So picking up tickets was a good excuse to find out the way, as well as spy out car parks and pubs with nice food.

Ely Cathedral

Ely is in the Fens, an agricultural area with a fascinating history. My Yorkshire Grandad thought the Fens were one of the most beautiful places he'd been, but for me they're rather bleak and unwelcoming. He loved them partly for the 180 degree skies - he had bad claustrophobia and thought all that space was wonderful. 

Driving through the Fens in the Winter terrifies me. The black Fenland soil is constantly being eroded by the wind, and the roads are often several feet above the fields. Some of the roads dip and lean alarmingly - add this to deep drainage ditches either side and it's place I try to avoid in icy weather. 

The Winter Fens feature in the children's book Tom's Midnight Garden, by Philippa Pearce. One of the characters skates from Cambridge to Ely during one of the harsh Victorian Winters. It was a popular sport at the time, with speed-skaters travelling from Europe and America to compete in races. They wore 'Fen Runners', which were just blocks of wood with blades on them, screwed to the bottom of their shoes. (It's amazing what you learn doing a Children's Literature course...)

Fen Runners

Anyway, I now know the way to Ely. All I've got to do now is remember to take the tickets with me and not end up in a drainage ditch. Here's hoping....

Stereotyping drivers and buying books

Son Number Two and I drove into town this morning to buy trousers for him and books for me. We whiled away the journey by listening to music and playing 'Who's driving that car?' a made-up game that defames and stereotypes fellow drivers. The idiot in a Mercedes, who was needlessly hassling drivers and breaking the speed limit was, we decided, listening to Muse as he drove and ate at a very expensive sushi restaurant last night. He then spent the evening watching a pretentious film that he didn't understand. We thought he was probably a 30-something sales rep who was a bit of a plonker. The angry-looking girl coming the other way in a yellow mini was, we thought, listening to Lily Allen, had just split up with her boyfriend and thought all men were bastards. 

The Holiday Book has been bought. It's The Gift of Rain, by Tan Twan Eng and is set in 1939 Penang. It's not actually that long, at a mere 503 pages, so I bought another couple of books to make up the shortfall. This may break Holiday Book-buying rules, but rules are there to be broken and all that...

One of the other books I bought was Howl's Moving Castle, by Diana Wynne Jones. 'Who is this for?' demanded the rather nice, Jack Black lookalike who served me. 'Me,' I confessed, wondering if I was going to get a reminder that it was a children's book. But no, with a look of rapture on his face, he told me the book was 'like all the best fairy tales you've ever read, rolled into one, with added magic'. When he added that all the descriptive bits gave some people headaches, I was determined not to be one of those people. Then he said, 'Let's see what discount we can sort out here.' By then, I had already mentally divorced The Husband and become a bookseller-stalker, especially when he gave it to me half price. The book, that is. 

I started reading Howl's Moving Castle while Son Number Two was trying on jeans in Next. It starts: 'Chapter One, in which Sophie talks to hats,' so I think I'm going to like it. 

Holiday reading

I have to admit I've done very little during these school holidays. When friends ask what I've been up to, I'm tempted to make things up, because the honest answer of 'reading and writing' makes me sound like a five year old. I will have to vacate the armchair soon, though. It is time to buy The Holiday Book. 

I had Holiday Book rules as a child: they had to be non-fiction - because I hardly ever read non-fiction and thought I should do from time to time - and I had to limit myself to one carrier bag-full. I also had to buy a book from wherever we were going, that was relevant to the area. I must have been a real pain to go on holiday with. Luckily, my parents have always read a lot, so didn't mind being dragged around every independent bookshop in Britain. I remember reading a biography of St. Bernadette Soubirous and wondering if I would see visions of the Virgin Mary in the caves of Yorkshire. I was about ten years old, so can probably be excused this idiocy. (I was also afraid of being possessed after reading The Exorcist at the dead of night with a torch, when I was thirteen, which was less excusable. My parents never banned me from reading any books, so I read some dreadful rubbish and scared myself silly. They thought that being allowed to choose my own reading material would teach me to be a discriminating reader. They were right, although my father's Leslie Thomas paperbacks also taught me a few lessons...) Holidays in Wales provided the best books. I blew all my holiday money on a hardback copy of The Mabinogion which, many years later, provided The Daughter's name. 

Nothing to do with today's blog - it was 

just put on facebook by a friend and I liked it...

Anyway, Holiday Book rules now are that I take one book, which is by an author I've never read before, and has to be the longest book by them that I can find. This means I have to go to a proper book shop, rather than browsing Amazon. I've had a couple of disasters. Anathem by Neal Stephenson was amazing to start with, then I got confused by the made up language and fed up with checking what words meant in the appendix. That was the holiday I gave up and bought the whole series of Anne of Green Gables, as I'd not read it as a child, and spent every evening sobbing into my wine glass. Successes have been The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, which has to rate in my Top 10 books ever, and the quirky Thirteen and a Half Lives of Captain Bluebear by Walter Moers, which is just wonderfully silly.

I just hope the Friendly Book Guy in Waterstones doesn't ask me if I need any help. It's not very intellectual to say I'm just looking for a 'big book'. 

  

They do have amazing staff in our local Waterstones. One wonderful lady found a book for me when all I could remember was the picture on the front cover. Perhaps I could ask for advice: 'Excuse me, I'm after a really good book - about anything, by anyone. About a thousand pages?' It's worth a try...

Rain, reading and, umm, really annoying tourists

After several weeks of sky-high reading figures, it seems my suspect friends from Slovenia and Russia have finally deserted the blog. While it's a wow to see I've had a over hundred visitors a day, I know the majority of them are just zaps from other computers, so don't actually mean a thing. And I resisted the temptation to click on their links. I don't have the money or the energy for what they're promoting. 

Not an awful lot has been going on here. The Daughter has moved house again. I think she's on a mission to try out every house-share in Cornwall, but has now settled for a rather gorgeous town-house, to be shared with three good friends. Son Number One has been celebrating the girlfriend passing her driving test, and Son Number Two is painting a neighbour's fence in between rain storms (yes, we're back to the traditional British Summer). It's just started pouring again, so he's no doubt running down the road and will soon be in for his third change of clothes this morning. 

Yesterday morning was spent at the doctors' surgery. The whole morning. I was only there for my annual asthma check-up, which takes all of five minutes, but I spent over an hour in the waiting room. Waiting. Luckily, I always have a book with me, so my hour was passed more pleasantly than those who just had to stare at the carpet. Being English, we sat there in total silence, with just occasional sighs from those checking their watches. 

My book was a new one, and it was so enjoyable I was quite disappointed when it was my turn to see the nurse. It was a book I bought because I liked the title: Notwithstanding, by Louis de Bernieres. (There should be an accent over the penultimate 'e', but I've never worked out how to do that.) The book is wonderful. It's about an English village 50-odd years ago, and the eccentric people that live there. It's a really easy read, and perfect for stopping you getting cross when your appointment's an hour late. 

Unsurprisingly, after reading for an hour, my blood pressure was 'excellent'. The nurse also said my weight was 'wonderful' (phew...) and my waist measurement was 'perfect', which made me wonder if she was reading from the wrong end of the tape, but I'm not complaining. 

It then took me nearly half an hour to drive the five miles home, as we are in the middle of holiday season. Tourists, combined with the usual tractors (we live in an agricultural area), probably upped the blood pressure slightly. I know tourists bring money into the area, and I'm pleased we live in an area so nice that people want to holiday here, but why do the majority never know where they're going? They slow down at every turning, and I can imagine the snippy conversations going on in the car: 'Not this one, I said "second left", didn't I?'

I know this because we do exactly the same when we go on holiday. Apologies in advance to all those who live in Cornwall. 

Treasure hunting

The Husband has been bustling about importantly this morning as he's been involved in a local radio treasure hunt. As Parish Council boss-person, he was contacted last week, and asked if he could hide a clue that was part of a Sunday morning show in which a presenter drives around the county getting 'help' from listeners who phone in. The clue was to be hidden in the Jubilee flower bed, made last year to appease the royalists in the village. 

Proving that it's not just primary school children who drag a friend along to stop them feeling nervous, The Husband called for Mr Up-The-Road on his way to meet the radio presenter. Excitement was heightened by the fact that this was not just any old radio presenter - this was the tv weather girl who adds a flutter to many middle-aged men's hearts around here. 

Son Number Two and I listened to the radio show from home, as 'helpful' people phoning in sent the treasure hunters up the wrong roads and gave very bizarre instructions. Knowing the location ourselves, we were able to pour scorn on the assistance offered and knew we could have done much better ourselves, if we had not been sworn to secrecy. 

The treasure hunters were half an hour behind schedule, due to all this helpful advice, so I wondered whether The Husband and his BFF had disappeared off down the pub, but they were there when the weather lady appeared, grabbed the clue and leapt back in the car, leaving two very disappointed and heart-broken men by the side of the road. Before they sadly left for home, they were told that someone would phone one of them for a short interview later. 

This caused a reappearance of their inner ten year olds, and they had a few minutes of, 'You do it!' 'No, you do it!' before deciding that Mr Up-The-Road's wife could do it, as the Jubilee flower bed had been her idea in the first place. 'But you can tell her,' Mr Up-The-Road told The Husband, nervously. 

He did so: 'Hi, the radio station will phone you in the next half hour for a bit of an interview. Got to rush - I'm playing cricket. Bye!' Mr Up-The-Road made himself scarce by hurriedly going out to paint his shed, a job he's been putting off for several years. 

I don't think the future bodes well for either of them...

Books and bronzes

My new course books have arrived, and I've got that feeling, the one I get at the start of each course: I chose the wrong course and don't know how on earth I'm going to get a decent mark. I thought I would get ahead with the reading, but I'm going to need a new dictionary first. The study guide recommends a couple - one on sociolinguistics and the other on stylistics. They're £50 from Amazon and I've already spent £50 on the two set books, so that's not going to happen. Oh well, I muddled through Children's Literature okay, so hopefully I'll pick things up as I go along. 

Help!

I have spent a fair amount on extra Uni books over the past couple of years, but that's because the subjects appealed. The History of Childhood? That would be an interesting read anyway. The Art of Benin? I really didn't need that book, but the pictures were sooooo gorgeous. Don't tell The Husband...

The Benin Bronzes: the only bit of 'The Arts Past and 

Present' that I actually remember. Oh, apart

from the fact that Milton Keynes is meant to 

be the spiritual centre of the UK. Hmmm...

If I did have a spare £50, I'd begrudge spending it on dictionaries. I'd use them a handful of times, then they'd sit on a shelf or be donated to a charity shop. I buy books that I'll use for years. It's one of the reasons that I don't get books from libraries - I want to keep them to read again. Maybe I won't re-read them for several years, but they'll be there for when I'm in the mood for a particular story or author. A book has to be truly dreadful for me to get rid of it after the first read. 

I've just started reading a Young Adult series which I'm ashamed to say I'd never heard of until recently. Tomorrow, When the War Began was a film I accidentally caught on Sky a while ago, then Son Number One accidentally ordered the book instead of the DVD. Unable to find something I felt like reading, I stole it from him and then had to order the rest of the series from a guy on ebay. Apparently it's mandatory school reading material in Australia - a bit like Lord of the Flies is here, I suppose. Anyway, I'm on book four and it's not bad. 

And on the subject of books, on my 'About Me' page on the blog, I wrote how I'd really love a signed copy of Neverwhere, by Neil Gaiman. I'm going to get one. He's doing a reading from his new book, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, at Ely Cathedral later this month, and Ms Fab and I have tickets. He's also going to do a massive book-signing so, my quandary is: do I get him to sign my tatty, well loved, falling apart paperback, or do I buy a brand new one for the occasion?