Once upon a time, in a blogiverse far far away...

There was a person who regularly posted. That was about a year ago.

Then the ebhil curse of the drinking classes (or even glasses, I assume) got in the way.

Then she got her library shipped from home and trapped herself in her front room with some over-ambitious Ikea self-assemblage. After devouring three packets of rye crackers with only mustard ease things down, suddenly MDF looked rather tasty, and she managed to nibble herself free through a week spot in the backboard...

Only to decide that a holiday was the solution to all ills. So off she went (by train, metro, foot and ferry) to a remote mountain hamlet in Crete where she fulfilled a life's ambition and learned to milk a goat. There are pictures. She wasn't very good at it. It was cool. There was no electricity. Unfortunately, she had to come back by plane and is now scarred for life by the "complimentary" meal served to console her for missing her connection in Athens. To say nothing of the hotel room and its lovely view of one of the city's finest roundabouts.

It's been so long that I almost forgot my password...

...perhaps, this should become the greatest ever blog of excuses for not writing blogs?

Except I don't think I have the stamina and determination for that either. Or else, those trivial minor details of life get in the way. Like work... and the other stuff. What was it again? Oh yes. More work.

Anyhow, this is probably not the best place to go into detail about the truly disgusting ex-summer-cold-now-officially-diagnosed-hay-fever that I have managed to develop. My doctor knows that it is hay fever owing to the subtle nuances of my mucus coloration. I know it is hay fever because a) it won't go away and b) no one else is as miserable as I. Oh woe.

But of course, along with hay fever comes hay fever remedies. Teeny tiny pills. Counsel that I should cycle more in open fields. Advice that I should cycle less in open fields. Recommendations that I should source local Praguish honey and ingest it for its local pollen qualities. Earnest discussion about the healing properties of natural yoghurt, dried figs and industrial-strength quantities of vitamin C. Lavender pills. Horsefly tincture. Snorting of fresh water. Of salt water. Cold team.

But will anyone shut the ****y window?

Still not ded yet...

...just continuing to be a little preoccupied with learning a long list of names of animals in Czech. And some other stuff

This is of course, very handy since I now get to have really good conversations with Mrs. Jana:

"This vikend I wented to the zooooological park-u."
(This account of my extra-curricular activities is in fact a tissue of lies, constructed purely for the express purposes of showing off my animal-naming skills. Alas. I feel that Mrs. Jana and I will never have a true meeting of souls until the day arrives when I can describe my real freetime activities in Czech lessons.)
"Good. Did you see any animals?"
"Yes. I saw a giirraffe."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"No."
"I saw a giraf-?" Her head shakes slowly.
"Girraph-?" More shaking.
"It's not giraffe?"
"No. You did not see a giraffe."
"I didn't?" Hang on... wasn't this my fictitious account of my artistically-enhanced-for-language-lesson-purposes weekend?
"No. You saw another animal."
"I did?" But they have giraffes in Prague zoo. I have seen them on posters.
"Yes. Another animal."
"Ummm... I saw a tygre?"
"No."
"No?"
"No. You also did not see a tiger."
I am beginning to feel stalked.
"Really?"
"Yes. The tiger is too easy. The giraffe is also to easy. You saw another animal."
"Ohh..." My mental lightbulb goes "ding!". Giraffe in Czech is žirafa. The "ž" is pronounced like a French "j". Tiger is an even greater cop-out since it's tygr.
"I saw a rheeenouserousooos."
"Rhinocerous."
"Rhynouceros."
"Good. Talk about the rhinocerous."
"Um... it is big."
"More."
"It is more big."
"Bigger."
"Yes. The rhynouceroos is bigger."
"Bigger than?"
"Umm... the rhynouceroos is bigger than... than... a cat?"
"No."
"No?"
"No. Cat is too easy. What else?"
"Umm... the rhynouceroos is bigger than a moose. Mouse."
"Good. What else?"
"It is bigger..."
"No. Not bigger."
"It is not bigger..."
"No. It is something else. It is more dange..."

(The discerning reader might have noticed some time around the second "bigger" that we are also reviewing the comparative and superlative of adjectives. Sadly, I didn't catch on until about now. It's tricky. They get prefixed and suffixed. If those are words.)

"Dange... Dange... Oh! I know! It is more dangeroose... It is more dangerooose... thaaann... aaaa... pig!"
"Good."
"It is also more expensive than a pig."*
"Excellent. Now. Tell me about the pig."

ad infinitum, or at least ad fortyfiveminutum

*This is, in fact, a cunning linguistic joke based on a well-known, hardcore Czech saying about something being "as expensive as a pig". My colleagues who taught it to me find it hilarious when I say it. Especially when I preface it with the classic and extremely pervasive Czech expression of astonishment/shock/disgust, "ty vole!"**. Taxi drivers find it it less amusing at about 1 in the morning.

**"Ty vole!" is probably worth a whole post of its own. Learning it opens whole new worlds of expressiveness. Well, at some point. Maybe.

Under here?

I'm sure there's a subtle meaning here that escapes me...

Underwear. Genuinely a cause for astonishment. Particularly for wearers of the ladies' brand, "LovelyGirl", it would seem.

But perhaps some translation is in order. The debonair (you can tell by the scooter) gentleman to the left has doffed his mohair cardigan and matching driving gloves to casually enquire of his charming companion, "Ty nosíš lovelygirl?". This is Czech for "Are you wearing lovelygirl?"

To which insightful query, she shyly responds, "Ano!!!" or, "Yes!!!"


But I'm sure that the many dedicated followers of fashion who patronise this blog are anxious for a closer view of the tattoo on the gentleman's stomach, in order to more closely inspect such a tasteful and aesthetic example of body-art.

(Apologies for photo quality - I had to take the picture through a shop window)

That weather? It's a cultural thing, see...?

So spring has unsprung, to put it mildly. We've gone from balmy, sunny 15-degrees-and-a-light-breeze T-shirt weather to freezing and snowstorms in about 2 days.



This is all the more bizarre because the Easter markets are out in full force, with bunting, decorated eggs and ribbons a-go-go, all now covered in slushy yuck and a fine dusting of snow at higher altitudes. Sigh.

Thought for the day

When scheduling rather pleasurable activities such as a trip to see the latest big, showy, blockbusting musical at the cinema and a visit to the hairdresser's for a much-needed trim, on the whole, it is perhaps preferable to ensure that these happen in the reverse order to that given above.

Particularly when the the film is Sweeney Todd and the stylist likes to talk about how much she "loves the cutting"...

Catch-up photo, the first.

pre-Christmas, but not by much, and not in Prague

Once upon a time in Birmingham*, they built a new shopping centre on and around the site of an old marketplace. And both the old marketplace and the new shopping centre, and a shopping centre created in the 1970s that no one likes to talk about much, were called the Bullring. And outside the new shiny mall, part of which looked like a giant silver alien beehive hairdryer, they placed an 8-foot bronze statue of a bull.

And to this shopping centre, the mighty Selfridges came from far-off London to open a new department store so that humble folk from far and wide (or at least the ones in Midlandcestershire) could obtain those sturdy, shiny yellow plastic carrier bags with dramatic black writing and thereby declare (in a not-terribly-subliminal-way) "Behold! I have (expensive) style!"

And to the basement floor of this department store of marvels, came an American sweet company. And they opened their only European store with much fanfare and rejoicing for they were able to help the inhabitants of Midlandcestershire, and their visiting relatives, to fulfill their ultimate destiny. And their destiny was, of course, to obtain limited edition Hershey's Kisses and gobstoppers the size of tennis balls. And the crowning glory of this marvellous achievement was an 8-foot statue of the bronze bull made out of jelly beans, and priced at £20,000.

*not the one in Alabama, more the Midlandcestershire area of the UK...

*Blushing...*

List of shamefully pathetic blog avoidance excuses:

1. The (mythic) dog ate my blog.
2. I forgot my password.
3. The (mythic) dog ate my password.
4. Mrs. Jana has become crazed with power, and the consequent outpouring of homework has burned out what little of my brain cells remain after their usual daily abuse.
5. Mrs. Jana ate the (mythic) dog.
6. Fried cheese. In fact, it really should be held accountable for more of the world's problems, in particular the weirdly chewy plastic stuff rolled in orange breadcrumbs that is sold as the veggie alternative to the dodgy-sausage-in-a-bun post-evening's-entertainment snackerel from stalls in Wenceslas Square. Actually, the stalls are also open in the daytime, but I suspect that only crazed tourists, blinded by the lust for cobbles and driven mad by over-exposure to the bong-bong-bongs of that clock, think this is a good idea in broad daylight.
7. It's too cold.
8. It's too hot. (weather is v odd at the moment)
9. (Mythic) aliens ate the (mythic) dog, cold with some (mythic) pickled onions.
10. Oh dear... ten. Nope. Just not happening.

Sadly, none of these are actually true except the last one, and I suspect that things will remain erratic for a wee while. But will try catch up with some photos.

The Return of Mrs. Jana. v.2.0 (The ReWenge)

Due to various complicated reasons, the most complicated of which was probably laziness on my part, and not much helped by the inherent difficulties of the conditional mood, I haven't had Czech lessons with Mrs. Jana for over a year now. (my very, very, very bad).

All that changed one rainy day a couple of weeks ago, when, propelled by one of my more feeble-minded and naïve New Year's resolutions, she relaunched herself and exploded smack-bang in the middle of my normally innocent weekly round of activities. Thunder would have probably rolled quite ominously, if I had not forgotten my words-for-discussing-the-weather in Czech and so pretended not to notice. Besides, I was mesmerised by her steely will (not steely wool - that's still in a cupboard under the sink for cleaning the oven) and savage glint in her eye.

The first lessons have concentrated on revision. They went a bit like this:

Mrs J.: (in Czech) "Today we are discussing nouns and adjectives. What are the 3 genders and how do they decline?"
Me: (in Czech) "Huh?"
Mrs. J.: (in Czech, but more slowly) "Today… we… talk… about… nouns… What… are… types… of… nouns?"
Draws three columns on a blank sheet of paper
Me: (in English, but with a fake Czech accent) "Ummm… Maskulin*? Feminin*? a Neutr-- Neutr-a-..."
Mrs. J. shakes head, ominously.
Me: "Neutraa--- uum??"
Mrs. J: "Good. Now, what are the endings of these nouns?"
Me: "Uhhh… Feminin* je (Czech for "he/she/it is") '-a'"

Bets firmly hedged at this point, on the grounds that many languages that have genders tend to consider words ending in '-a' to be feminine. Except those Italian Andreas, of course, on whose situation we shall briefly touch later, although probably not when their over-protective signifcant others and loved ones are looking.

Mrs. J.: "Good. Now, what are some other feminine endings?"
Me (weakly covering frantic thinking with awkward smile): "Ummm… -ka?"
Mrs. J.: "Yes. But this is like -a. What other endings?"
Ping!
Me: "Wait! Wait! I know this! -kyně!" (It's pronounced -keenyeh. Or somehow like a reverse "quinoa", but less posh, and not so much of the Karen Blixens/Happy Valley set.)
Mrs. J.: "Good."
Birdsong. The sun comes out.
Me: (now on a roll) "And maskulin* je… without "-a" and without vowel! Je konsonant*"
Angel choirs (theologically speaking, neutrum, I believe) bellow with joy.
Mrs. J.: "Except for?"
Me: "Errr.. Honza?"
Mrs. J.: "Yes. Honza je logicky maskulin. Logically masculine**."

Delirious cheers and rapturous applause all 'round. Big bunches of flowers in gratitude to the angel chorus, with regard to whom I refuse to embroil myself in a debate vis-a-vis masculinity, logical or otherwise. That is clearly a job for those men with beards, tonsures and well-polished pins.

Mrs. J. (cont'd): "Also maskulin are some words that end with -ska." (She writes this down with some emphasis.) "And for neutrum?"
Me: "Words with -e… and -o."
Angels faint with delight.
Mrs. J.: "Good. And what about adjectives?"
sccrreeechh… angels exit, genderstruck

And so the lesson rolls on…

Mrs. J's verdict at the end of my ordeal by revision? "You have remembered a lot. This is good. But it is nothing to do with you, of course. It is only because of my teaching that you have remembered well."

She's right of course. Mrs. Jana is always right.

PS. Other Mrs. Janas are also available. But that is another story, for another time.

*Note. These are not real Czech words, but they are real Czech endings. Handle with Care. Do not attempt to use in the comfort of your own home without the assistance of a specialist.

**Other note. Still making these grammatical words up. But Honza is quietly confident that he is far more than logically masculine, although of course this is always a rather nice option to exercise on alternate Tuesdays in the Fitness Centrum whirlpool.

ETA: another few words.

And now featuring one of my absolutest favoritest book series that I read last year

Don’t mind me – I’m just warming up my blogging muscles - such as they are.

I’m not the sort of person who deliberately catalogues what I read in any particular way. It’s more that the vast and growing-ever-more-mountainous-yet accretion of books in my room has a life (and a structure) of it's own. Regarding the first, flatmates have speculated on the leporine breeding habits of the common or garden liber fictionalis (sic[k] - and sorry to any latinists). At least in such close quarters. And doesn't all the noise keep me awake at nights?

But as regards the second, on the Great Paperback Mountain, if you know how to read the topology, patterns emerge... Duly extracted from the third pile of paperbacks in from the left (spines out) at the back on the top shelf of the Bower of Bliss that is my incarnation of A Well-Known-Swedish-Modular-Furniture-Flatpak-Company's birch-effect "Mötesplats"* model I offer for consideration Laurie R. King’s "Mary Russell" series.

Except anything that follows is going to be crap, because whenever I try to explain my adoration for this series, I am woefully ineloquent. I end up talking like this, “They're really, really good. Promise. Seriously. They're soooo goooood. Wait - please don’t read the back cover. It's much better than that, really. You’ll like it. You might love it. Please stop reading the back cover. It's not like that. I promise. Well, okay a little. Yes, it is Sherlock Holmes and yes, he is married. I've just made that sound really weird. But it’s not. Well, okay, he is a lot older than her, but I just sort of channel Sean Connery and it helps. But it's like all about their meeting of minds...

"Wait, wait a sec before you put it down. Please? Yes, that one has Kipling’s Kim in it. But he’s a great character she really makes him her own. Anyhow, they're all sort of inter-textual and each book is like a homage to these classic genres of popular fiction. You know the Gothic mystery, and the Locked Room mystery… And they’re really cool, because she’s a feminist, and there are these ideas about the outsider the observer and how she makes her own place, because she’s half English and half American and Jewish. And she’s a theologian. So she questions everything and doesn't accept the way society would try to limit her. Oh. Okay. Not really your thing. Try this Meg Cabot. A cheerleader has her head chopped off and put in a saucepan.”

But secretly? Secretly, I want to be Mary Russell when I grow up. Just like I want to be Harriet Vane when I grow up. Not for the events or the mysteries or the men in their lives, but for the thoughtful and even (ungrammatically) thinking way they live their lives.

Actually, I owe a huge thank you to Marianne McA who recommended this series to me, and hooked me by way of an extract from the first of the books, The Beekeeper’s Apprentice. I can do no more, it seems. Alas. So don’t pay attention to my witterings – go read the extract.

*(koff) not a the name of the real product - their word means "shop assistant". This word doesn't and I like it better.

Edited to update links. My bad. Thanks Suisan for spotting this.

brrrrr

If it's blurry, it's only because my hands were shaking and my legs were numb. Does anyone know if they make flannel-lined jeans?

J., who is visiting from warmer climes, is looking rather chilled, but bearing up well, and appreciating the excuse to drink warming grog, warming hot honey liqueur, warming hot cider, warming hot wine and eat warming hot trdlo, warming assorted cookies and warming fried cheese. Now we're looking forward to the pre-Christmas Open Air Slaughter of the Carp.

Czech informants have also confirmed that some families still take home said carp and keep them in the bath for a few days as an alternative (something to do with filtering out the muddy water). Fortunately, we only have a shower, and I have laid down strict rules about the acceptable use of the washing machine after Ye Grate Fludes, I II and III, and Ye Majorre Delyuge IV.

CleaR! Bzzzp! Bzzzp!

"Hey, so have you got done your Christmas present shopping yet?"
"No."
"Oh."
"And it's already too late for some. Unless I order online locally."
"That's okay. Look, you can order the Philips HeartStart Home Defibrillator with Slim Carrying Case from Amazon.com. only $1,275.00. Free shipping within the contiguous US."
"Not bad. They were saying the paper the other week how the exchange rate was getting more favorable."
"Yeah. You could probably get the storage cabinet as well."
"Nice. It's very clearly labelled."
"Only 4 in stock, mind you. Better get one soon."
"But if I order the HeartStart Defibrillator without the Slim Carrying Case for only $1,249.00 I can get the Free Philips HeartStart Home Automated External Defibrillator Adult Training Pads Kit instead."
"What a dilemma."
"Yeah. Maybe I'll just send those biscuits instead. The ones with vanilla filling."

Updates

Flatmate update:

She came, she collected, she went.

Have a new one now and am focussed on lowering my expectations mightily. I'm anticipating achieving suspicious serial killer behaviour by Wednesday (insert joke about muesli here).

Weather update:

Snooooolluussshh. But cold. The hat with the earflaps has come out of storage, and I am monitoring the incremental plummet of the temperature on the way into work via the digital display in front of the pet supplies store.

Edited to add: except for today, when it went up again. But there's snow in the mountains this year, and people keep sneaking off for mid-week skiing sessions

24 hours in Berlin update:

The only thing that it is possible to obtain in the big shopping mall atop Berlin Hauptbahnhof (I now call it Hbf for that air of Teutonic coolness) that I cannot buy here are fist-sized Dunkin' Doughnuts and fragments of The Wall. Instead, enterprising urchins supply the souvenir-hungry tourist with historic cobbles "from the streets of Old Prague", and we have endless variations on the twisty-sweet-bread theme, but while many are filled, none are fried.

Weird to think that only twenty years ago the sight of a Coke bottle was a novelty, and that a lot of the people I know here can still vividly remember the arrival of the first MacDonald's in Prague. But they did have little brown plastic hand-held video games of a fox/wolf and a duck. It seems a little like a parallel universe where the playmobil figures were machinists and miners, rather than doctors and firemen.

Back in Berlin, luckily for me, B. showed stunning resourcefulness in eventually locating me so I didn't have to take the last train back on Saturday and instead got my 24 hours in Kreuzberg.

DVD addiction update:

Six Feet Under. Blimey it's good. And I think I have a whole 6 seasons to catch up on. Woohoo.

Blogger language update:

It's gone back to Czech.

Mrs. Jana update:

It seems a second Mrs. Jana is hoving into view on the horizon. I will know more the weekend after this one.

Date update

I ate dates in Berlin. Also a persimmon.

SpiegelimspiegellegeipsmilegeipS

Might be better to pretend that I published this about two days ago - it will be easier all round, and make me appear organised and consistent. Ahem

The Athenian Murders - Jose Carlos Somoza

I find it hard to believe that I have never unleashed the chains on my abiding and unspeakable desire for this book here before. But that's what the mighty power of the search engine shows. Shock. Horror. Smothered yawn. Be afraid. However, I re-read it recently, which makes it count in this mini festival of bookstravaganzic delights, allowing it (the mini-fest, that is) to live another day.

But enough of this introductory flimflam, I hear my inner monkey editor cry, speak more of this unspeakable love. For yes, this book contains innumerable shades of the love that dare not speak its name. Inter-textual love. Academic twistiness and japery of the driest kind. Philosophical shadow puppetry. Flagrant abuse of literary meta-jiggery. Tricksiness a go-go. I love it all with the unholy passion of a thousand geeky monkeys. The ones that are otherwise busily making rude shadow animals, sun-bathing and short-sheeting the Platonic bed.

For verily, these are Ancient Greeks of whom I write, or rather of whom the author writes and from whom I steal jokes. Smart koulourakia to a man, right down to their dusty ankles (except the one in the bath).

Well, actually, it is more that these are Ancient Greeks upon whom the author uses the character of the Translator to write or comment. Or their ideas. Except these might be copies of the original copy of the ideal first idea. And anyhow, what about those lions? See what I mean? This is book which defies anyone, least of all a lowly blogger armed only with the dubious merits of the English relative clause to shove its translated-from-the-original-Spanish-self into a halfway decent summary. It's a tricksy book about Ideas, lightly glazed with a few corpses, a sinister subplot (or is it?) and finished off with an anti-sleuth. I think the Salon article explained it best, and the Guardian review is more entertaining, which leaves me to only do my worst.

Basically it features:
Death
Murder
Poison
Bodies
Wolves (or lions)
Greeks (ancient)
Academics (ancient and modern)
Philosophy (mostly Greek and ancient)
Ideas-with-a-big-I. Bigger I. No, a really big I.
Texts. (not the SMS kind)
Budding insanity
Reality. (Jim)
Footnotes. Le sigh. Les bambi eyes. Le sigh.

A quick scan of the Amazon and Salon reviews, which are proper reviews with plot synopses and everything a prospective reader could desire, indicates that this book is of the love-it-or-hate-it Marmite type. I'd agree, although I'd add to my review overview that despite the inclusion of footnotes and such it's closer to Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next (not Nursery Crimes) books than Terry Pratchett, but not at all as cheerfully bonkers and far more menacing and introverted. Thursday Next's rather disturbing great-uncle professor who lost tenure under the darkest of clouds as written by Borges (he comes back later), perhaps.

A scan of the the reviews of the "urrggh, Marmite, blech"-type shows that this isn't the book for readers who just can't abide Umberto Eco and writers of his ilk. But I think that if it's just Eco's prose style that puts you off, rather than his content, it's worth looking at this book, purely on the grounds that Eco can leave the unwary reader feeling trapped in the coils of his rococco prose. Somoza's style (and oh, how I long to write Samosa's style) is less elaborated than Eco's and more lucid. The disorientating, clever twistiness remains, but I didn't feel as if I were also being showered with the shredded contents of a gilded thesaurus by a million pudgy putti.

The other thing to add to the review overview is that I wouldn't read this book looking for the next historical whodunnit à la grecque. Thither lies disappointment. There's a murder, but that's not really the whole point, and the ending isn't exactly Christie.

On the other hand if deep-down, you secretly rather enjoy following digs and snide asides as academics wrangle over obscure points and interpretations via cross-references and footnotes, even though you know this means you are turning into your father (hairy ears and all) you will probably enjoy this. Besides, it's a book about books, playing with other books.* If you like it when an author constantly pulls the rug out from under your feet, even if it's technically cheating (or at least, making up the rules as he goes along) read on.

For me, the best part of the book is sitting back, relaxing and letting the the author, or narrator, or translator or whoever mess with my mind. He or she or it or whoever might make things up. He might even take the piss a few times. But even though I've read it a few times now, this book invariably leaves me with the oddest combination of two very distinct, and yet long-winded feelings:

1.I get the buzz that normally happens when the stars align and somehow I'm able to work out a series of clues for a cryptic crossword.
2.But at the same time, it leaves me genuinely unsettled. Not in the the "AAa! Whatwasthatnoise? AAAaa!" way, though. Instead, it's in the "But what if I go to sleep and it turns out that this life is really something/one dreaming and then who/whatever is dreaming wakes up while I'm asleep and what happens then????aaaahhhh!!! No wait! What about what we see in the mirrors!!! aaah!!!!" kind of way.

Best to put it like this - it's one of the few books that actually made me think it might be a good idea to read some more Borges. One of these days. As long as there's enough coffee.

*Except they didn't really have books in those days. Or novels, as Salon points out. Probably they didn't have philosopher-detectives too, but at least there were libraries and monkeys. There were no monk-how do you know? you were too busy contemplating the exercise non-outfits of those ancient greek athletes. I WAS NO-- And anyhow, My mind was SO COMPLETELY on higher thin- do you know what people think when you stick a footnote like this at the end of this kind of review? Especially one where you name-drop Borges, TWICE. I'll tell you what they think. They think, "What a pretentious tw--"

Bishbashbosh

…aka brief impressionist sketches of some recent (in the last year) book encounters. Still not reviewing them properly, I might add, and will likely be annoyingly nonspecific or focus on minutiae to the exclusion of all else.

The Privilege of the Sword - Ellen Kushner

I almost don't want to write anything about this book and why I love it with the unholy passion of thousand raging monkeys. Partly because I'd never heard of the writer or the book, and picked it up at random, unhyped, undusted and lonely off a "recent releases" bookshelf in a sci-fi/fantasy bookstore. Then I forgot about it completely for 6 months. So I started it with no expectations.

The course of true love went something along these lines: p.1, "ehh?" p.2, "er… not…so...su..." p.3 "re?...about thisoneohmygodmustkeepreadingohwowohwowAndAMadDuke!ooohwowohwowiloovveeyooouuboookyoulovelyboookdon'tennddmustn'tfinishnevereverenddddoohnnooopleeeaaassse! Swoon."

In other (real) words, it's the sort of YA fantasy novel that gets it somehow perfect. Perfect in that impossible, magical way that adult books simply cannot manage. I just want to hug it to myself and read it over and over. Talking might spoil it. The thought of breaking up the magic into digestible chunks of detail and peeling away at plot and character analysis makes me want to cry. That's how my Grade 5 English teacher killed My Family and Other Animals.

So I don't want to hype or vaunt or trumpet the praises of this book at all. I just want to leave it lying battered and well-loved in the corner of a bookcase at a friend's house so that you can pick it up at random on a rainy day. So that you can curl up with it in a warm, quiet corner at the top of the house. So that your flannel-clad and fuzzy-socked self can look out the window and see the rain-washed day outside when the world taking shape in your head becomes too bright to bear. So that you end up eating all the stale nuts and the squashed half-packet of digestives that were left out from yesterday's tea because absolutely the last thing you want to do is stop reading, get up, prepare and eat a proper meal. So that you can fall in love, too.

If you want to know what it's really about, there are proper reviews to read at Amazon, and also chez ames. As for me, I've managed to track down and acquire two other books by the same author. The only problem is that I can't yet bring myself to read them because I'm so worried that they won't have the same effect as this one.

Too embarrassed to call it anything but number seven

The thing is, someone else recently told me about one of their former flatmates, the pinnacle of whose appalling behaviour was his attempt to drive out P. from his council-provided splendour with twin offensives in the form of poor personal hygiene and flamboyantly noisy live-in lovers squatting on the sofa. This was followed up by a pathetic attempt to steal P.'s identity and thereby claim his benefits.

The plot was foiled by the aforementioned vociferous and as it turned out, spurned and vengeful lover Revealing All, and I mean All in the menswear department of Dickens and Jones. But it was the seventies, it might have worked.

I am now a little embarrassed at my previous description of my erstwhile flatmate's behaviour as "appalling". A trifle annoying perhaps. A mild social solecism. And of course, now that my own level of righteous anger has faded to mildly pissed off, I feel guilt and ashamedly petty about my own actions.

To sum up, I returned home after a week away to find a message that read, "I have decided I hate it here. I have left work and moved back home. I need to know what to do with the keys. Don't worry about paying me back for the rest of this month's rent."

This would be the person who had agreed that because of her lack of deposit and general uncertainty about life, the universe and tram times she would give me a definite 4 weeks notice of her plans to vacate or pay the difference. The one who had organised her entire life here (including a fall-back career and alternative Friday job) in advance from the other side of the world before arriving. The one who had never lifted a finger to do any cleaning and kept her own store of toilet paper in her room, since it seems that short lets do not dust or have a communal attitude to personal hygiene products (although other people's DVDs are another matter). The one who left only three days before next month's rent was due, which would make it a three days rent-but-no-tenant-bonus. Ice creams are on me.

A few weeks later, no sign of the keys in the post, but a further message, "My friends are coming to stay in Hotel XYZ for the weekend. Please take the things I left behind around to their hotel for me so they can bring them back for me. Don't bother about the food or anything, just the clothes, shoes and bags."

These would be the clothes that had been left in dirty piles on the floor (now laundered) or mildewing gently in the washing machine on my return. With shoes and everything, the enormous canvas holdall allocated to the task weighed about 20 kilos (44 lbs.) and would have required a taxi to deliver.

Gentle readers, I said no.

Today falls on the last day of the weekend of the visitation and I have not taken the items around. The weather is bad, the taxi drivers are angry, the hotel has steps. Twenty navy-blue, canvas kilos of guilt are weighing on my conscience with fraying straps.

Im Not Dedd Yet.

But I'm in some kind of doldrums, where I'm paddling furiously but don't seem to be getting anywhere fast.

Anyhow, in my "to blog" list appears the following:
1. Extended posting extravaganza on "The Colour Purple", including why I spell it wrong.
2. Some really good series books I've read lately (like, in the past year).
3. Spreading book love to a bunch of standalones too.
4. Kyrse of the Whamphyre Pt. 3278, rev.7a, or "If I skim read the LKH releases in hardback in Borders instead of buying them, it's a) not tight and mean, and b) doesn't count in the rotting of grey matter stakes (like calories from food you don't like, or eat standing up. Pun unintentional.).
5. Sausages.
6. Things that people miss in the Czech Rep. with a very long digression by a French person on seafood.
7. The Appalling Behaviour Of My New Ex-Flatmate Who Has Done A Runner. And she seemed so normal, too.
8. Should I get flying lessons?
9. Does anyone else always look to see who's listed in the copyright of a book?
10. House. Better in small chunks as otherwise, you see the joins.
11. Hair. Tralalala.
12. Greetings (not Hallmark).
13. Burčak. Drink it before it brews. It's cultural.

14. I'm hungry.

Problem is of course, that the more I don't write about them, the more I don't want to write about them. So I think I might jettison some of the trivia, and when someone takes this bloody grindstone off my neck (nose has slipped) I'll just do number 1.

Oooohhhh, ye'll take the high road...

Warning: This post is also going to be another one of those definitely-not-a-book-review-picky-harridan-spouting-bad-puns rants. Not a review, 'cos then I'd be adding my 2p/80 hellers to Amazon instead, and talking about characterisation and plot and whatnot, but 42 others have done this, with the average rating coming out pretty… average. Which would be my opinion, except for, well, what follows. Bear (hurhur) with me.

There's an episode in one of the Paddington Bear books (and I googled until I was getting very red-faced from some of the sites that did appear, but couldn't find the name) where the marmalade-munching bundle of good-yet-furry intentions goes to Scotland Yard to report a crime. Confusion, mishaps and hard stares ensue, followed by a swift resolution and a warming mug of hot cocoa. Awww...

But there's a clue to my dismay at my latest commute book here, because Paddington Bear lives with the Greens at 32 Windsor Gardens. This is located in Notting Hill. That would be Notting Hill, London, England. Like the film and the carnival. It's quite posh, actually. But the key point? Is the "England" bit. Note how it's not "Scotland". Scotland is a long way on paws (although not as far as Peru).

But of course, Paddington is anthropomorphosized bear, so perhaps we shouldn't rely on his sense of orientation. After all, who knows what kind of funny practices he might have picked up in Darkest Peru? That supra-cranial stash marmalade sandwiches is definitely suspicious.

So take the case of the most famous dope-addled detective of them all, Sherlock Holmes, who famously puffed on his pipe at 221b Baker Street. Again, in London, England. Where he would periodically show up his rival in detecting, Inspector Lestrade, who worked for Scotland Yard. Presumably also in London unless he had a very fast horse.

But shockingly (perhaps it's a cunning ruse to lull local criminal masterminds into a false sense of security by convincing them that the police have moved and are busy looking for nefarious deeds elsewhere) the Metropolitan Police Force, who police Greater London, have an HQ called, "New Scotland Yard". In England. Not Scotland. There's a big triangular sign in front that goes round and round and round and round... I've gone past it on the bus (yes, a red double-decker one).

Or perhaps it's just that 180 years ago, the public entrance of the police HQ was in Great Scotland Yard, and London being London, the name stuck, even after it moved few times (but only within London). What this says about Londoners, I'm not sure. It's probably not flattering. At least they stuck the "New" on at the beginning. Anyhow, keeping the name wasn't so much about foiling dastardly villains, but dastardly villainous filing. (oh help)

So if, say, a writer of contemporary romantic suspense were to feature a psychotic serial killer going on a mad rampage through the modern-day Highlands, I'm pretty damn sure that the local laird (uuurrgggh) wouldn't be calling for and/or dodging the attention of Inspector MacTypecast from Scotland Yard. There's that whole 12-plus hours journey on a very dull motorway with nothing but boiled sweets and local radio for sustenance for one.

Instead, Laird MacTitebreeks o' Leathern (uuuurrggh) would be enjoying a visit by representatives of the Northern Constabulary CID. Probably a whole bunch of them with forensic investigators and everything. Maybe a task force in fluorescent vests. Maybe even a secret subdivision of the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency staffed by a brotherhood of vampires. Ian Rankin probably knows best.

Someone, somewhere is very glad I dumped that business about UK police ranks and how they're referred to in the vernacular.

In case anyone was looking to for the terrifyingly-long first draft mentioned elsewhere...

I have to apologise because I did promise elsewhere that I would attempt to tame the unfeasibly long first draft of my commentary-thing on The Color Purple and present it, nicely trimmed (possibly with lavender ribbons) in manageable chunks here this weekend. And I really did mean to. Had it all planned in my head and everything.

Problem is that I'm over HERE. And the laptop is over THERE. And the back-up server with all these personal doodads and mumblings is JUST A BIT TO THE RIGHT, NO WAIT, UP A BIT… LEFT… LEFT… NO! RIGHT! RIGHT! But the whole thing was just too huge for me to reconstruct over the weekend, so guess what this week's filling-in-the-gaps project will be? By next Sunday, there will be something along these lines, 'kay?

Pause.

Then I started an entirely different rant, but that's another post for another time. Probably about 5 minutes from now.

Crrrracked.

So last weekend, still in the grip of my emotional maelstrom, and made reckless by a clutch of last month's unused food vouchers* I went a little wild and experimental in the bio-food emporium owned by the 7th Day Adventists (closed on Saturdays - it's very disconcerting. No trading on Sundays is still the norm here for smaller shops).

I should probably add that as a tree-hugging, muesli-crunching, hemp-sandal-wearing herbivore I am a regular patron of this and other bio-shops. It's just that I normally confine my purchases to things I recognise and know how to cook. You know where you are with tofu - it's not usually going to do anything more vicious than wobble alarmingly and take on lurid hues when it's past the sell-by date. And green leafy stuff is pretty much universally manageable.

But all those little bags of dried things can be a little intimidating, and most of the powdered stuff comes hand-labelled with vocabulary that doesn't feature in my "Czech Step-by-Step". They frown on the sniff test in there, too.

However, novelty is a many-splendoured thing, and last Sunday the "novinky" section was filled to the bursting with little (recycled) plastic pots of crackery-biscuitty type things. So after much deliberation I picked up box of "orange-lemon-ginger flax rolls". Sounds yummy. Mmmmm…

Luckily, as a small child I used to eat paper, so the principal texture and flavour didn't come as a total shock. And then, the flax seeds added a certain je ne sais quoi to the whole chewing experience which can only be described as "mucilage". (Is that a word? I have done that thing with soaked flaxseeds as a substitute for egg whites but was never very convinced by it.)

But I did learn the Czech for "Slowly dehydrated at 48 degrees centigrade for several hours to preserve health and vitality." And this made me realise that rather than delighting in biscuitty-goodness itself, I was basically eating the mummified husks of biscuits. The only thing is that I'm not sure if they're meant to reincarnate of their own accord or if I need to stand under a pyramid holding a razor and a dead mouse first. Pass the natron.

*Is this a Czech thing? Because pretty much every company here seems to pay a small fraction of your salary in food vouchers. Just like luncheon vouchers, but they're far more widely accepted, and you can use them in most restaurants, cafés and even supermarkets… Rules and checkout ladies permitting