Forgot the title...

The scene: a dark corridor. A high door in a steel frame, red padded leather. A darker corner beside the door. Stealthy scritching.

“Oh hello. You can’t be…?”

Scritch.

“No… Surely not… That was years ago.”

Unobtrusive bounce.

“Really, it can’t be. But you look so familiar: eight legs, round brown body. I mean, how many of you can there be? Besides, I’m sure I recognize that left foreleg.”

Left first front foreleg twitches.

“It’s the music, right? I mean, last time you were in the corner of the loo. Now you’re by the door. Or… Are you here to say goodbye?”

…

“No, I’m just being silly. I mean, it’s been years, and besides, that one’s very purpose was to terrify me by threatening to run over my toes in the middle of the night.”

Waggle.

“What do you mean, you were only joking? How on earth was I supposed to know it was a joke?”

Chachachachacháá

“It is you. That is so weird. But really, could you stop the Czech laughing? It doesn't really tell me it's funny. It just sounds creepy.”

…

“You’re right. I’m sorry, that was mean. But it does sound sinister. Really. Maybe it’s the accent on the "a"? Look, I’m sorry about all the hoovering lately. And the mop of death to cobwebs. It’s just, I need my deposit back, you know?”

Scornful bob.

“Oh. Yeah. The music. That is kind of annoying, I know. But the internet’s been cancelled, and I’m left with what’s on this knackered laptop.”

Resentful twitch.

“I agree. I mean, I don’t even understand why it has to be the soundtrack to Glee. I guess it’s fun? And Mercedes’ voice is pretty good.”

…

“But you’re right, it’s pretty irritating the 6^th time around. And the Imogen Heap was making my voice weird.”

Baleful leg waggle.

“So… will you miss me?”

Twitch.

“Um. I’ll miss you? I mean, I’ll miss this flat. It’s been lovely.”

…

“I mean, I’ll really, really miss this lovely flat. Spiders, weird scritching and all.”

…

“I guess I’m supposed to be missing the amazing cultural opportunities, the buzz of life in a glamorous Central European city?”

Bob. Bob. Waggle. Bob. Bob.

 “It is beautiful. Absolutely drop dead beautiful. And new location is… well… it means comparisons are pretty painful.”

Scornful twitch.

“And I never really did take advantage of the many cultural opportunities. I mean, I hardly learned any Czech. I never learned to like beer or dumplings, or the finer nuances of Czech wine and Slivovice. I don’t own any interesting antiques, and I haven’t developed a deep knowledge of Czech landscape artists of the 19^th century, or Nationalist poetry, or similar. Basically I’m a failure when it comes to living abroad.”

Backleg sproings a filament.

“But I’ll miss it. I’ll miss it so much.”

Sproing. Sproing.

“Odd really, since it was supposed to be such a short stay. Five months… Seven years… I guess I’ve done a lot of growing? That’s good, right? That I took advantage of the growing and learning stuff?”

Sproing.

“You’re right, I could have grown anywhere. But I guess if you have to grow, it’s nice to do it somewhere pretty. There’s something very special about being able to walk somewhere beautiful and brush up against a memory. Good or bad.”

Sproing.

“But really, this move is good generally. Better job, closer to family, old friends, and so on. Nice to be back somewhere where I understand things easily, where things aren’t quite so hard.”

Waggle.

“Just that nothing is ever wholly good or wholly bad. Sometimes you have to give things up. Even really nice things. And it hurts even when it’s the right thing to do.”

…

“God, I’m going to miss it.”

In which some things are typed upon a keyboard. Which is progress.

Interestingly, Google has not forgotten that I exist, although I may have forgotten it exists?

It's all very existential, I'm sure.

In the meantime, and in the spirit of truth, harmony and justice, gently nudging along my blogging muscles*, here's a straightforward extract from Peter Ross' The Curious Cookbook which is a collection of historic recipes with editing and commentary. Because of course, my life can only be improved by knowing how to roast a swan, make cock ale, porpoise with wheat porridge, and that once upon a time a pastry case was called a "coffin".

So without further ado, here, verbatim is "Triumphs and Trophies in Cookery, to be used at Festival Times, as Twelfth-day, &c." by Robert May in "The Accomplish't Cook", 1660. Because clearly this man is a master of the art of party-planning in a way that Ms. Pippa Middleton can only dream of being.

Make the likeness of a ship in paste-board (cardboard), with flags and streamers, the guns belonging to it of kickses (odds and ends), bind them about with packthread, and cover them with close paste proportionable to (modelled in) the fashion of a cannon with carriages, lay them in places convenient as you see them in ships of war, with such holes and trains of (gun)powder that they may all take fire; place your ship firm in the great charger (serving dish); then make a salt round about it, and stick therein egg-shells fill of sweet water.

Then in another charger have the proportion (model) of a stag made of course paste (pastry), with a broad arrow in the side of him, and his body filled up with claret-wine; in another charger at the end of the stag have the proportion of a castle with battlements, portcullises, gates and drawbridges made of paste-board, the guns and kickses, and covered with course paste as the former; place it at a distance from the ship to fire at each other. 

At each side of the charger wherein is the stag, place a pie made of coarse paste, in one of which let there be some live frogs, in each other some live birds; make these pies of coarse paste filled with bran and yellowed over with saffron or the yolks of eggs, gild them over in spots ...being baked, and make a hole in the bottom of your pies, take out the bran, put in your frogs, and birds, and close up the holes with the same coarse paste... Being all placed in order upon the table, before you fire the trains of powder, order it so that some of the ladies may be persuaded to pluck the arrow out of the stag, then will the claret-wine follow, as blood that runneth out of a wound. 

This being done with admiration to the beholders, after some short pause, fire the train of the castle, that the pieces all of one side may go off, the fire the trains, of one side of the ship as in a battle; next turn the chargers and by degrees fire the trains of each other side as before. This done to sweeten the stink of powder, let the ladies take the egg-shells full of sweet waters and throw them at each other. 

All dangers being seemingly over, by this time you may suppose they will desire to see what is in the pies; where lifting first the lid off one pie, out skip some frogs, which make the ladies to skip and shriek; next after the other pie, whence come out the birds, who by a natural instinct flying in the light, will put out the candles; so that what with the flying birds and skipping frogs, the one above, the other beneath, will cause much delight and pleasure to the whole company.

Now that, Ladies & Gents, is a party.

Stretching

The scene: An English-language bookshop, somewhere in Prague.

The players:

The bookshop salesperson, earnestly pretty

A well-spoken customer, elegantly dressed

A new customer enters. She appears to be constructed entirely from wool.

Salesperson: Hello, can I help you?

Woolly customer: No, no thanks. Just looking.

Removes enormous fuzzy hat and begins to unwind two layers of scarves. A nose emerges.

Salesperson: Ok, just let me know if you need some help.

Woolly customer: Yes, thanks.

Leans casually against a bookcase in an effort to push her right arm towards her coat buttons. Attempts to look nonchalant.

Well-spoken customer: So anyhow, I was saying to P. that next time I came we simply had to review this. It's quite extraordinary, and so very moving.

Salesperson: Yes, of course.

Well-spoken customer: But of course, I really should have come on Friday not on the Saturday, so I'm very sorry about that.

Salesperson: Really, it's no trouble at all.

Well-spoken customer: Well thank you, dear. And heavens isn't it cold? We've had eleven metres in Bucharest, if you can believe it, and it's been minus 16.

Meanwhile, the woolly customer catches sight of her hair in the glass and discovers that the removal of her hat has back-combed random sections of hair into three poorly-executed fuzzy quiffs.

Tries to smooth hair down. Removes gloves. Tries to smooth hair down again. Realizes she has a choice between looking mad because of mad hair, or looking mad because of her attempts to de-madden her mad hair. Decides to remove all her outer layers and leave her hat on.

Pauses in satisfaction at clever resolution of seeming insoluble dilemma.

Salesperson: It's been very cold in Slovakia too. Minus twenty or twenty-one I think.

Well-spoken customer: Heavens, that's terrible. It's supposed to be moving here too.

Salesperson: Yes, it's already getting quite cold.

Well-spoken customer: And later, moving towards England.

Salesperson: Next month I hear.

Woolly-hatted customer worries that the wearing of a solo outdoor hat indoors might appear vaguely trendy and hipster-esque. Wonders if the armload of woolens is sufficient to counter this impression. Remembers that anyhow she is now closer to the mad cat lady age anyhow. Wonders if she should get a cat.

Well-spoken customer: Anyhow, dear, I really must be off now. Thank you again very much for your help.

Salesperson: It's not trouble at all, thank you. Here are your things.

Well-spoken customer: Goodbye dear.

Salesperson: Goodbye.

Well-spoken customer leaves in a blast of cold air. Woolly-hatted customer wanders over to the cookbooks and thinks about stew. Somewhere, an espresso machine grinds on.

Sweeping up

So, now that we have that dreaded catch-up question post out of the way, what else is new?

Well, there’s all the various scandals, storms and tempests that have been going on in the corners of blogland that I used to frequent, and occasionally lurk in. Here is a totally scientific and accurate statistical assessment.

1. 1,394 internet squabbles over who has the right to review books.

2. 2,587.6 arguments about the fairness of “mean” reviews, and whether the only criticism permitted should be constructive, helpful, and gently eased by the presence of fluffy chubby cupids and rainbow unicorns.

3. 982.92 monologues about why Bad Reviews Are Good For You and should be swallowed by authors, preferably whole and before breakfast, rather like castor oil.

4. 1,187.3 monologues about why Bad Reviews Are Not Your Business If You Are An Author. If Bad Reviews did not exist, tender, delicate and easily-led readers would otherwise fall for the seductive wiles of Harriet Klausner & co. These fiendish producers of uniformly sunshiny reviews have but one foul aim. They are trying to convince Poor Innocent Readers that Every Book in the World is Brilliant, Wonderful and Amazing.

This is of course, all part of a plot to ensure that Poor Innocent Readers lose significant chunks of their lives lurching from one ill-penned book to the next, constantly lured on by yet another review promising, “The greatest Secret Virgin Doctor Billionaire’s Sheikh’s Secretary’s Love Child in the Magically-Endowed Camper Van novel to ever exist, both now and in the hereafter.” The sunshiny review producers are doing this because

a) they lack critical faculties

b) they aren't actually reading the books they review

c) they are in it for the free books, even if they are crap

d) they are succumbing to the dominating cultural norms inculcated by the patriarchy that women must always be kind, sweet and nice and never say anything nasty to anyone.

e) they are a bit odd

f) all of the above

5. Some stuff that I mainly skimmed about why ebooks rule. See 2 posts below for the why of the skimming. Anyhow, death to paper. Death to paper publishers. Death to the old model of publishing. Oh, but it must be CHEAPER. Blabla long tail, blabla wisdom of crowds. And stuff.

6. A frustrating number of competitions, largely useless to me as I live outside shipping distances. That said, I tend to regard said competitions with a largely unbothered eye, since I don’t particularly worry if the book I’m reading carries the signature of the author (unless maybe the author is Eric Hobsbawm). The frustrating part is more the way the frenzied posts clutter up the more entertaining blogs.

7. Breath by breathless tweeting and live-blogging from assorted conferences and whatnot. Again, geography.

8. 35,843 arguments about what constitutes either acceptable romance, or acceptable tools of romance marketing. They kind of blur after a while, presumably due to shock value.

9. Some people who write blogs now have published, or will be publishing books (paper or otherwise). Good on them. More importantly, does this mean they are allowed to blog any more? Or only on certain posts? Discuss, or just pull it out as an ad hominem argument in the middle of any of the kerfuffles of your choice.

10. The thrills and excitement about a hot new YA author making the rounds and everyone writing about how they are so much MORE than just YA, and why YA is the bestest ever and we should not be ashamed to read YA because really it’s better than some of the other things that are published. It probably is, but I don’t see how this becomes a moral question.

11. Jean M. Auel has published a new Clan of the Cave Bear Book. Suppressing my suspicion that we have another Virginia Andrews on our hands, I am compelled to cry out with unmitigated prehistoric pleasure. Long Live Ayla, the Mother of All, the Creator of Everything, the Inventor of the Bra! She who will invent the internet and dining-table centerpieces of ochre-glazed pinecones! After she tames the dinosaurs and turns them into ostriches! Long Live Dongelar! Long Live his most significant asset! Long live the improbably-named cave lion, Baby!

12. Fan Fiction. Le Scandal. Le Kerfuffle. Le Distress. Les up-mixeds wacky relationships that ruin your reading of the original text forEVAH. Never more can I read the Big Book of Dinosaurs. I am forever plagued by the memory of that disturbing piece of fanfic involving the pachycephalosaurus and the procompsognathus. And the velociraptors. Oh the humanity.

Enter, pursued by a bear

Once upon a time there was an evil auntie who had a blog. First, she was a fake auntie, then a real auntie, but always there was the blog.

Sadly, the evil auntie had a job, and as the years progressed the job sucked up more time and energy. And so the blog withered and dwindled.

However, it had not been wholly forgotten by the evil auntie, who would occasionally drop by to see if it had been infested by spambots, or turn around post ideas in her mind. But the actual writing of the actual post, well, that was always going to be trickier.

However, as is the wont of evil aunties everywhere, this evil auntie was somewhat bloody-minded and couldn’t quite give up the idea of the blog. And so she eventually returned. And thus, the most evil entry to date came about. The dreaded, fearsome and horrific catch up question post.

1. Where have you been?

A. Busy. Stuff. Slow internet. Work. More work.

2. But geographically, where have you been?

A. Prague. Still Prague, more Prague. Some holidays.

3. Gosh, you must be older now.

A. Yes.

4. And that monkey? You know, the one that, er…

A. Monkey? What monkey?

5. Umm… that monkey? You know, the one that got bored with writing Shakespeare sonnets, and… er…

A. …awkward pause… I think you may be confusing me with someone else.

6. Yes, yes of course. No monkey. So Prague? Still? Wow, you must really like it? Job going well, that sort of thing?

A. There has been that world economic crisis.

7. Ah, yes. Haha. So, um… what have you been reading?

A. Cookbooks.

8. Oh, FF’s sake. Now you’re really being bloody-minded.

A. I’m interviewing myself in a virtual vacuum, and vaguely annoyed by the fact that I felt the need to euphemize my language. Of course I’m bloody-minded.

Next time: the dreaded what-have-I-missed post.

The story of last month (mostly)

Look! Ebook
Look! Ebook
Ebook! look!

This nice e-book!
This nice e-book!
I cannot read
This nice e-book!

Do you like,
E-ink displays?

I do not like this,
Ebook haze!
I do not like
This ebook maze!

Would you like it
PDF?

I would not like it
PDF.
I’ve said this to you,
Are you deaf?
I do not like
This ebook maze
Although I like
E-ink displays.

You can buy A
or PM.
Would you like it
DRM?

I cannot shop A
And PM
I do not like this
DRM
I do not want it
PDF
I’ve said this to you
Are you deaf?
I do not like this ebook maze
Despite their nice e-ink displays.

Please download our
Free software.
A table here lets
You compare.

No free software.
No questionnaire.
A or P M
No DRM
I do not want it PDF
I said before, are you quite deaf?
I do not like this ebook maze
Despite their nice e-ink displays.

Would you? Could you?
On a MAC?
Encrypted files,
Ever hack?

I would not
Could not,
On a MAC.

You must find your
PID.
Then plug in the
USB.

I cannot find my USB!
Nor anywhere my PID!

I clicked the link for free software
But these devices cannot share.
Why can’t it read acsm?
Sod this bloody DRM.
I’ve lost all these old PDFs
Why did I change IP address?
I’m lost inside an ebook maze
Seduced by nice e-ink displays.

A Palm! A Palm!
A Palm! A Palm!
Could you, would you,
On a Palm?

Not on a Palm! I cannot see!
Not on a MAC! No! Not for me!

I downloaded the new firmware
No memory! None left to spare!
I like to read things now and then -
Reboot connection, yet again.
The plastic case does not impress -
I click and wait for its refresh.
I fear how fast my temper frays,
Sharp shocks can harm e-ink displays.

Hey!
In this shop!
Here in this shop!
Would you, could you, in this shop?

I would not, could not,
In this shop.

Would you, could you,
Amazon?

I can not, CAN not Amazon!
Geography bars tech’s new dawn.
Interest here may start to dwindle
In the distant light of Kindle.
Not in this state. Not with this card.
Two years to wait. Why is this hard?
E-hopes have turned to e-dismay
Dust forms on my e-ink display.

You do not like
This nice ebook?

I do not
Want this
Ebook pain.

Could you, would you
Join th’e-club?

I would not
Could not
Join your club.

Why not try out
With ePub?

I will not, still not, join th’e-club
I want to read books in the tub.
My favourite books I pass along
In ebook world, this would be wrong.
I’m geographically constrained
The books I want, I can’t obtain.
I do not want to tweak software
Converting files makes me despair.
I do not have a shiny MAC
Encrypted files, refuse to hack.
I do not like this ebook maze
No love left for e-ink displays.

I do not like
This strain.
Ebook.

I will no longer
Take a look.

You do not like them
So you say
Read here! Click there!
And you may.
Click here and you may, I say.

Look!
If you will let me be
Once more I’ll try
You will see.

…
…
…
Beep
…
…
Whirr
Whirr
…
…
Boop.
...
...
Grrreee-
-oop
…
…
Bing!

Hey!
The download worked. Take a look!
I’ve found and filed my first ebook!
And I can read it in my bed
And it can bookmark what I’ve read.

And I can read it on the train
And in the dark, but not the rain.
And I can buy, A or PM
Although I still hate DRM.

So I will read it in my flat
And I must stick to this format
And I must read on my PC
Until I find my PID
And I still hope one of these days
Won’t just admire e-ink displays

At last I've read
My nice e-book!
IT
Degree
I should’ve took.

(with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

Strangely wistful

"Hello."
"Hello, Evil Auntie Peril. This is AYSAVMCL speaking."
"Hello, Attractive-yet-shy-and-very-married-Czech-landlord. Why are you calling apart from a strangely unsettling attempt to freak me out by introducing what seems to be a chick-lit-like element to my unsuspecting blog?"
"I do not understand."
"Oh yes, I forgot that you are very literal, which leads to some very awkward silences if I don't concentrate on the meaning of the actual words I am saying."
"Maybe it is bad connection?"
"No, it's okay, AYSAVMCL. How can I help you?"
"I am outside your flat. Can I please enter to read gas meter?"
"Sure, no problem."
"I will only go just inside to look at gas meter."
"Yes, that's fine."
"I need to check it today, but I will only look at gas meter."
"That's okay."
"So I will go now into your flat, and just look at gas meter in toilet."
"Of cou-- No. Wait!"
"I am entering your flat now."
"No! AYSAVMCL! Stop!"
"I am sorry, I could not hear what you have said because of noise of the key."
"AYSAVMCL! I forgot to say! There is a spider!"
"I don't understand."
"There is a spider in the toilet! You must be careful!"
"It is okay. I will only check gas meter."
"No. You don't understand! A big spider!"
"Yes, yes. This is fine. I am checking gas meter no-- arrrrgggghhhh!!!"
Crunch. Crunch. Sinister laughter.

...or, in a Clue: The Movie-style alternate ending:

"Yes, yes. This is fine. I am checking gas meter now."
Crunch. Crunch. Rustle.
"The number is 6945833002. This is very good. Thank you for respecting my request about control of the thermostat in colder weather. I have killed the spider for you. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."

Back again

It was a dark and stormy night. The sound of footsteps shuffling across the kitchen floor could scarcely be heard above the swish of the rain. The click of the bathroom light was hardly heard above the monotonous whoosh of the wind. A thick silence filled the flat.

“AAAARGGHHH!!!”
Waggle.
“AAARRGGHHH!!!”
More waggling.
“AAARRRGHHH!! You’re back! You were gone!”
Bounce, bounce.
“Go! Leave! Begone!”
Bounce. Waggle. Bounce. Pause. „Nerozumím.” A slightly cynical bounce.
“I banished you! I made the typhoon winds of death with the floppy bottoms of my pyjama trousers at you and you scuttled away. Then I hoovered up your web. Several times. And mopped the floor to remove scent trails and spider germs. In case you use scent trails. You were gone!”
„Nerozumím.” Defiant bounce.
“What do you mean you don’t understand? Of course you understand. I will make the typhoon winds of death again. Understand this, you eight-legged freak!”
Wwwhhhhhffffff. Flap. Flap.
Bounce. Bounce. Snicker.
“Damn. Wrong pyjama bottoms. Can we talk about this?”
„Mluvte česky.”
“What do you mean, ‘Speak Czech’? Have you been talking to Mrs. Jana? You’re a spider. Spiders don’t get to be picky about language choice, especially when they invade my loo.”
„Mluvte česky.”
“No. I refuse. And stop with the Czech speech marks. It's annoying. Like your legs. Get out.”
„Mluvte česky. Or I will crawl on your pathetically exposed big toe.”
“AAARGGHH! No! Gerroff!”
„Chachá!”
“Now you’re being weird. Just because ballroom dancing is strangely popular here, and still an extracurricular activity pursued by many teenagers as part of a well-rounded education is no reason to be making laughing noises in a knowing dance-referenced way.”
„‘Ch’ is like loch. This is how Czechs laugh. Stupid foreigner.”
“I know that. I am trying to distract you while I reach for the loo brush. Stupid spider.”
„Co? Co že?”
Swish. Splat.
„Áááááá!”
(slightly muffled by the wooden door lintel) „At last, my revenge is complete! This door corner is forever mine! Never again will you be able to blithely visit the toilet in the middle of the night, with carefree unshod feet! Know this, stupid toilet-brush-wielding speaker of inferior Czech! I Vill Be Back! Chachachachachá!!!”

Oh crap.

Hunk mail

I found this letter while I was clearing out the recycling. Could have sworn I asked these guys to take me off their mailing list.

Dear Beautiful, Wonderful Ladies

Outside today the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, and the birds are singing. It’s a beautiful day, and one that we treasure, just like we treasure all of you. We treasure your beautiful souls and your beautiful womanly natures, just like we know you treasure our souls and our beautiful manly natures.

This treasuring of each other is especially important in these difficult times. The world is experiencing a global economic crisis. Times are hard for everyone, even those gifted with natural panther-like grace and hard-edged masculine lines.

And because we are deep, and our hearts are as big as our manly chests (they would be bigger, probably, except that because of biology our hearts have to be inside our chests), we feel. We feel with every sinewy fibre of our beings the feelings of others. This is called empathy, and it’s a beautiful, wonderful gift because it means we share your joys, we share your laughter, and we share your beautiful sparkling tears.

But this gift, like the six-foot bejewelled sword that Loynz wields as he strides manfully through the lush grass, has two edges. It can cut us, and when it does, we bleed.

We feel so deeply the deep pain and anguish of anyone who is not blessed with the personal resources we are blessed with. We are choked with unspoken, yet deeply-felt, emotion when we hear of beautiful, wonderful ladies forced to downgrade their habitual choice of personal grooming aids. We clench our fists with barely concealed rage at the thought that out there, there are ladies, some already sadly cursed with a taste for ill-fitting leisurewear, who must compromise themselves (but never their shining integrity) in order to finance their dry-cleaning bills.

Remember, dear beautiful wonderful ladies, WE CARE.

One of the deepest griefs we feel is that there are so few of us, and so very many of you. If we could, we would reach out and personally help every single one of you at this difficult time. But to do this, we would have to be many more than we are now. And that would make us less unique and special, which would mean that somehow, the magic would be gone. And that would be a great tragedy, because as Abz said only the other day, “What the world needs now is love, sweet love,” and our love is the greatest gift we can give to the world.

But it’s so hard for us because we know how much you need us at this difficult time. And because we love you all, and want to show you our love, we have decided to help by sharing with you knowledge from the immense store of wisdom we have learned over the years. Wisdom that will help you to weather the storms of life. And this way, with every step you take in this magical journey called life, you will think of us, and how much we love you, and this will make your life better, too, in strange and beautiful ways.

To begin our journey of knowledge, it seemed right, at this difficult time, to share with you some of the secret wisdom that we have learned over the years spent as millionaires, billionaires, magnates, tycoons and otherwise extremely wealthy individuals.

1. Acquiring start-up capital is difficult. A good option is to force your irresponsible (step)mother with the gambling problem that led to your current financial predicament to donate the jewels that she acquired in an ill-advised affaire with a French marquis.

2. When these turn out to be fake, acquire a run-down gambling hell in a high stakes card game and turn it into a fashionable venue by playing on its (and your) seedy reputation.

3. Alternatively you may choose to find your fortune in India or another exotic locale. Once acquired, it is acceptable to refrain from any mention of the exploitation of the local population as the basis of your wealth. “Trade” is nicely vague.

4. If you are a vampire, the fine print of your contract with the Lords of Hell contains a clause that requires you to open a Goth-themed nightclub or casino.

5. Do not worry. Your innate sense of style will ensure that it never becomes tacky or unfashionable. Black is always in.

6. It is also worthwhile spending some time trying to understand compound interest. But not all your time. Accountancy is not for those staring down the barrel of immortality.

7. Do not worry too much about reading books on management theory. Not only do they lack attractive covers, but they will have no bearing on your success. “Lean” is only ever relevant if it is associated with the words “whipcord” and refers to your physique.

8. Do not worry about a slightly shady background if it gives you an air of ruthlessness and danger. By now, however, you should be rich enough to refrain from stealing toilet rolls from motorway service stations unless it serves a higher justice.

9. Accents are sexy. And an excellent way to avoid awkward explanations.

10. All of this advice relates to heroes only. But it should help you dear beautiful ladies in your quest to find your own hero. It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good fortune and a high-powered job must be concealing her desperate longing for babies and an alpha male beneath either her icy or adorably ditsy exterior and the excessive consumption of dessert. Check out the way her eyes shine with unshed tears at "baby panda bear" screensavers if you don't believe us.

Until next time, dear ladies, we send you all of our deepest, sincerest love…

Sitchuashun normal

Feh. Still have the blahs bookwise. Have been trawling the internets looking for things to add to my shopping list and mainly thinking, "Meh," at any fiction.

But in better news, it seems as if my long-awaited ebook reader may potentially arrive in the next few weeks in someone's suitcase (it's been sitting in its box on someone's hall table for the last 8 weeks, and I simply don't trust it in the post). Woohoo.

And better, yet, Tanya Gold was on most excellent form today in the Guardian. In my case it was the incessant demands for fish knives that drove me to a similar level of despair and rage that although banked, still burns. The fish knives and an £85 cotton bathmat. And this was over 4 years ago, when pounds were actually worth something. It's probably a £150 cotton bathmat by now. What in the hell would anyone want to do with an EIGHTY-FIVE POUND bathmat? Frame it?

I want to marry her, and then we can both get all the spoons.

It’s like buses. Part 1: The bit about the book.

Nothing for aaaaages, and then four come along at once.

(A brief explanation: This was originally intended to be a single post, but rapidly veered into frighteningly long territory. So I’ve separated it into chunks, which hopefully make sense on their own, but are all part of a beautiful whole. For one thing, it gives me four posts out of one, and consequently a warm glow of satisfaction. Btw, I’m posting in reverse order so that it’s easier to read them in sequence, which is why they’re all appearing at once. Who knows? If this works, maybe next time, I’ll post sentence by sentence…)

So onto the book I just finished: Paul Lawrence’s The Sweet Smell of Decay, a whodunit set in Restoration London. Which does what it says on the tin. If the title doesn’t give enough of a hint, the first paragraph pretty much nails it for the casual browser.

"As I gazed upon her face a small black beetle emerged from the ruins of her right eye. It stood uncertainly upon the crest of her cheekbone as if suddenly reluctant to step out further. Though I looked upon the beetle as if it was something unutterably revolting – still I felt like we two had something in common. The butcher reached over, picked it up gently between his thumb and stubby forefinger then crushed it. I could hardly protest. He wiped its remains upon his shirt.”

In short, not for the squeamish. I could go on about imagery and metaphor, the plot and machinations uncovered by the narrator, but I don’t really feel like dissecting the book like this. For one thing, I don’t know if it’s robust enough to take it. Suffice it to say that the book doth wallow in the muckety muckmuck mire. Mud splashes, corpses are disinterred, people are killed horribly and putrefy even more horribly, rats eat unmentionably horrible things chopped off people, and everything rots.

Kind of reminiscent of Perfume. Although the latter is a much better book. But this one’s not bad – my biggest issue is that the human characters are a bit thin or self-consciously weird, (aka. “wyrd”) crude or twisted. The most well-rounded character, if you will, is the squalor.

ETA: sorry, blockquote went really screwy...

It's like buses. Part 2: Add another book...

...and then some more books

The Sweet Smell of Decay’s unbridled revelling in the sheer ickiness of 17th century life is interesting for me, since it makes two connections with other recent reading. Connection the first: innumerable romance-novels-with-history-scrubuffed-trimmed-and-in-possession-of-their-very-own-olde-worlde-hande-sanityzer-bretthe-ffreshyner-and-rustick-yet-effectivve-plumbingge.

And connection the second: Clean: An Unsanitised History of Washing, by Katherine Ashenburg*, which I read a couple of months ago, and which also does what it says on the tin, and very entertainingly too.

There is a certain rather pungent side-branch of historical novels which takes the question, “But weren’t they quite dirty in those days?” and runs with it - mainly literature and crime/thrillers, probably because the theme provides a wealth of atmospheric tropes that suit these genres’ darker world-views.

By contrast, my experience of the majority of (modern) romantic fiction is that this particular seam of seaminess** is not one that is well-mined. There are generally three possible takes on the thorny issue of historical hygiene in romance novels.

Take the first:
The “If I don’t mention it, it’s because no one would have noticed it at the time” line that allows both writer and reader to gloss over all manner of historical sordidness.

Take the next:
It’s dirty, but over there, in that squalid tavern/dark alley/dockside slum where the heroine ventures (possibly disguised as a boy, possibly as a tavern wench, possibly as both in certain sub-sub-genres) to:
a) Track down the MacGuffin.
b) Create a Big Misunderstanding.
c) Stage a rescue (her own or some other worthy victim’s, possibly leading to b).
d) Kick off a subtly saucy scene intended to either 1) set the sensual suspense between h/h on simmer with a bit of playful badinage and body contact in low-cut and/or snug-fitting tops, or 2) lead to everyone all ending up back at the (remarkably clean) pirate’s lair for a spot of hide the yardarm in the yo-ho-ho. It all depends on what chapter and who’s publishing.
e) All of the above. Sometimes behaviour in Romanceland can be remarkably confusing.

Take the last:
The “If it’s a fantasy, I don’t want to be put off by my vague recall about all that authentick historical dirt and once-upon-an-icky-time stuff,” line. This usually leads to some convoluted explanation of why the heroine is defiantly battling the odds and surly retainers to have her daily hot bath, shave her legs, and squirt the rim of her chamberpot with bleach made from special herbs. Usually she’s a healer.

*A sidenote for anyone who enjoys those "divided by a common language" stories. In the News section of her website, Ashenburg notes that "'Clean', as 'The Dirt on Clean' is called in Britain, has just been released in paperback with a charming new cover of a flapper drying her fanny." *koff.*

Must confess that after reading this, I had to double-check the cover of my own copy, in case I'd missed something rather startling. If you're not aware of this particular bit of lexical divergence, let's just say that in my dialect of English, the word "fanny"*** is used (especially by children, or with a sort of childish undertone) to refer to a part of the body slightly further forward than the one Ashenburg means...

**apologies – couldn’t resist it

***cannot believe I've just written this word twice in a single post. I feel about 3 years old. teehee.

It's like buses. Part 3: A pondery bit...

...with some context, a list of books and a MEGA largely irrelevent, but quite interesting footnote

The thing is, I’m perpetually intrigued by what is justified in historical romance novels on the grounds of historical “authenticity” (eg. rape, abuse, swordsticks, Fabio in a Viking helmet) and what is extracted on grounds that it would put off the sensitive reader (eg. slavery, blatant racism, poor oral health, body hair). It’s not the removal of all ick. It’s selective historical sanitisation – and it’s not only in ye olde Romancelande that this takes place.

This isn’t a cry for more historical accuracy on the hygiene front in romance novels either. The way that grime can be fetishised in other genres is something I think is equally worth digging into. It’s another side of the phenomenon. But there’s not enough room to go into that here, and I wanted to write about this topic in relation to romance novels in particular.

It’s a truism that historical novels (or indeed almost any writing) reflect more about the time of writing than the time being written about. So in my view, claims of “historical authenticity” (or claims of a lack thereof) are often more of a figleaf than a valid line of argument. I’d argue that it’s more a question of, “Yes, this did or didn’t happen then, but I want to think about why this is included, but not that, and what does it say about us/our society now?”

Ashenburg discusses the modern obsession with hygiene: the way we erase all traces of our own bodily odour and try to smell “like an exotic fruit…or a cookie” (p.8) instead. She links this to a “confluence of reasons” (p.201) including: distrust of our bodies and the need to control them (p.283); the modern concern for privacy (p.282); and the connection of hygiene with morality** (p.190), civility and advancement (p.201).

(Just a bit more on theoretical background – can be skipped. In the context of historical novels, I'm also intrigued by some of the ideas brought up in studies of the relationship between colonialism and hygiene. There are quite a few recent books on this – the one that introduced me to the topic is Kristin Ross’ Fast Cars, Clean Bodies, but since it was published I’ve also come across a few others: Bashford’s Imperial Hygiene, Jennings’ Curing the Colonizers, and Anderson’s, Colonial Pathologies.)

The inherently optimistic outlook of modern romantic fiction (I'd say that most readers insist that a happy ending is a fundamental requirement of any book in this genre) means that they are often tagged as fantasies, which can be either a pejorative or a positive label depending on the position of the labeller. As fantasies, they are separated from real life and can therefore discard aspects of “real life” as required to meet the needs of the fantasy.

That said, I think this distance from reality is a mark of all writing. Writing is in part a selective process – a writer chooses to dispense with, include or exaggerate aspects of reality. Writing guides the reader’s imagination along a particular path, and to be most effective when dealing with the messiness of reality, it filters things out, just as our perception filters out much of the world around us so that our brains don’t explode. But I don't think it's just the writer in isolation doing all the choosing, all the time, either.

**Ashenburg also argues that one of the reasons for the odoriferousness that permeates European history was that in contrast to the Jewish and Muslim faiths, where sanitary laws are part of doctrine, the Christian faith has no such teaching (p.49-55).

So for medieval Christians, dirtiness was often seen as next to godliness since it meant that the dirty individual was a) above such trivial earthly matters as soap and water and prepared to suffer lice, itchiness and scabs for good of his or her immortal soul (p.58-63), and b) clearly not Jewish or Muslim (p.54, 69-72), whose sanitary laws were viewed with deep suspicion by the majority of medieval Christians (p.71-2, 103, 111).

This was also why the Inquisition took an interest in the bathing habits of any individual unfortunate enough to attract their attention. And yes, being “known to bathe” was enough to damn a person in their eyes. (p.111)

It's like buses. Part 4: A bit more pondering...

...but unfortunately, not very much concluding.

So I guess the question of hygiene in historical romance seems to come down to this messy intersection between a) empathy with the hero and heroine (h/h) which is usually seen as grounded in some level of identification with the characters, b) the conflict between the way that we view the past either in evolutionary terms or as a mirror, and c) the big pay-off of romance: the HEA. And the area of debate centres on the question of personal happiness.

After all, how can h/h be happy if they live in what seems like uncomfortable, unsanitary conditions? The argument goes: a modern reader (this means me) would find it harder to empathise, because they personally wouldn’t be comfortable in these conditions. And readers have to believe the HEA, or the satisfaction they get from the book is diminished.

So the h/h must face a clean and hygienic future for the HEA to be believed because:

• Cleanliness = healthiness. Readers need to believe that h/h won’t be struck down by cholera or galloping typhus immediately after the book finishes, or the HEA doesn't pack enough punch.

• Cleanliness = morality. H/H are good people. Disease, dirt and bad breath only happens to deserving villains or ex-partners (possibly tragically if its backstory, possibly because they are villains).

• Cleanliness = civility, and in the modern world, personal cleanliness is a mark of personal status. These days, instead of finding more expensive ways to smell awful (Ashenburg’s book has some great stuff about this, btw), rich, cultured people don’t smell of anything unless they choose to.

• Cleanliness = wealth. Wealthy, or even well-to-do people can afford to be clean, and wealth itself, while not guaranteeing happiness, probably helps – at least in the mind.

• Cleanliness = comfort. Dirt isn’t glamorous, it’s itchy.

• Cleanliness = neutral. Dirt is a distraction – if it’s mentioned, people think about it, so it distracts from the story unless it’s part of it.

And I could just leave it at that, and go away whistling songs from South Pacific except it doesn’t really deal with one question, and one thorny issue. The question is simply this: how do I know unless I've tried it? After all, I can accept all manner of grubbiness in other genres, so why not romance? And wouldn't a reaaally good writer be able to make it work?

The thorny issue is more worrying to me, though, and it seems to take me right back to my starting point. Although historical dirt only shows up in ye olde Romancelande in controlled conditions, if at all; all manner of other historickiness* is either selectively included in, or selectively removed from the landscape. And what does this say about readers/perceptions of readers? But this is probably a post (or six) for another day.

*thanks (probably should be apologies) to Stephen Colbert for the inspiration.

ETA: Hey, cool. I forgot I could do bullets.