It's raining...

...rain, mostly.

We are flooded downstairs. This is fun. Lucky I bought that new mop, eh?

Some like it...

Prague is still here, but it is hot, thundery and I am using a Czech keyboard which frustrates me far too much to type for very long.

For one thing, I cannot find the apostrophe key and hunting for it using combinations of Alt+letter has only produced a string of Polish letters and made me post this unfinished by accident. Three times. Besides, the novelty of typing đ, Ł, ř, ý ś & co. rapidly wears thin, to saz nothing of the annozance caused bz the waz that the "y" and "z" kezs are swapped around.

To fill in a very necessary gap which would otherwise be postless, here is a list of reasons why I picked up and bought or cruelly spurned certain books in a recent fleeting visit to Charing Cross Rd. It is of course absolutely nothing like a list I did a while back which may at first glance bear a striking resemblance to this list. It's a different bookstore. They are different books. In the interest of discretion, some of these are lies. And of course it's written on a Czech keyboard. Aka a Cyech kezboard. Backwards.

1. Back blurb refers to "magick". I have an unreasonable prejudice against this sort of spelling. It gives me hives.

2. Front blurb states perkily, "Fans of Laurell K. Hamilton and Jim Butcher will enjoy this fascinating tale..." I am conflicted, but eventually the other bit of blurb which mentions "biting wit" persuades me to take the glass half-full approach. I decide that the reviewer in question has probably not read an LKH book since Circus of the Damned.

(Upon reflection, a small quaking part of my mind now wonders whether the reviewer perhaps saw the more recent LKH efforts as mining an ironic vein of hitherto unsuspected profundity. And that "biting" pun? On a book with a vampire in it? That scares me witless.)

3. Front blurb states proto-perkily, "I adored this wonderful book! - Connie Mason." Eeek.

4. Hardcover copy of All Together Dead. Half-price because some of the pages are a bit damaged. I'm not picky. Woohoo!

5. Blurb states, "Fans of..." This means that the reviewer hated the book, and is desperately seeking a sub-genre to despise. (see 2)

6. No reviews, but 4 pages of extracts from gushing fans' letters. The more generous view might be that a cult is forming. I look terrible in robes.

7. Author was tragically eaten by crocodiles while researching/writing this book. It has been pieced together from bits of paper found in the dissected animals' digestive tracts. I wish.

8. How does author X find time to review all these books by authors A - Z? Ambivalence about author X teeters a bit more towards the maybe.

9. Cover. Aaak. Nobly, I rise above this, because the writer? She is da bomb.

10. Tom Waits.

Le portable est mort! Vive le portable!

Big. Heavy. Grey. Metal. Smelling faintly of those cinammon-candied almonds from the sandwich shop 'round the corner from work. These are just a few of the words people used to describe Della, my long-time laptop and dare I say it? Friend.

Yes, friend. For Della was always there for me through long hours of mortal toil. Through untold explorations of the wilds of the internet. Through sleepless nights tapping away to unravel the dark secrets of an essay-setter's heart. Spurned by burglars for her unwieldy size and loathed by baggage handlers for the same.

Very early she developed that endearing quirk of typing multiple letters in random order when her battery charge dropped below 60%, locking me out of any password-protected accounts. It started with the odd repeated comma, then a trickle of extra "V"s and "f"s became a flood of "£${{mTb99q]]"s. The half-bowl of butternut squash soup that was tipped over the keyboard in offering did little to appease her wrath.

Almost immediately after that, the mouse would stop working at the worst possible moment. The pointer would hover, frozen on the mysteriously-streaked screen while I frantically rolled the mouse over surfaces with varying degrees of roughness, and people commented helpfully on the smell of cinammon and almonds. Desperate banging-on-the-desk attempts to shake the pointer loose and free the fifteen-page unsaved document hidden by a randomly-opened folder directory were met with implacable disdain and sneering references to dog slobber on the power leads.

Then the USB port software began to reject all but the most carefully honed requests for retrievable disk access. The CD drive began to make horrible grinding noises when activated. My email began to freeze when opening anything above a certain size, or any attachments. And after the long three years that Della and I were together, she began to look worn. Bits of plastic and rubber would drop off, seemingly unimportant until she wobbled to a new equilibrium on the next flat surface. Small pits and dents appeared from nowhere, and the hinges were never quite the same after she fell out of a first- (ie. second in North America) floor window onto a passing café table.

And finally, Della is no more. She has gone to the gigantic computer superstore in the sky. There at last freed from earthly pain and flying condiments, she is one with the stars, her hard drive lobotomised by a great big mallet.

Requiescat in parts, Della. I'm sorry I had to hit you with a hammer.

It's either this, or a review of property hotspots in the Balearics.

The other night I was trapped on the runway at Heathrow for about 2 hours in a tiny plane behind a male model (allegedly) while thunderstorms raged above Belgium (apparently). He had very nice arms, but wasn't much for talking.

Anyhow, I ended up messing around with ideas for SBTB's competition to write a Hoff-poem, (check out the links, especially the comments because some of the poems are bluddy brilliant) which probably didn't help with the conversation, since I ended up muttering a mantra along the lines of "Hoff?, Cough? Doff? Fer-goff? umm... Proff?" I think at this point he pretended to fall asleep.

Alas, I left it too late to enter, and then posted it in the wrong comments section (I think - I'm easily confused at the moment). Being lazy, I thought I'd just dump it here as well. Basically, it's either that or well... male models. Without the pictures. And besides, I need to go get dinner.

Haff a Hoff! Haff a Hoff!
Hoff a haff-hass-ter!
Hoffnapped by villains in vests,
Forced to eat pasta!
"Eat refined carbs!" they cried,
"Or fluffy bunnies die!
"You won’t be so stallionesque,
"Puffed-up by pasta."

"More refined carbs!" they said.
Mac and cheese was he fed.
"Deep-fried white eggy bread
"Makes waistlines vaster!"
Carb load was their vicious plot.
Carb load that in vain Hoff fought.
Carb bloat gave him Hoffin-top.
Not quite so stallionesque,
Now needs a basque...(er...)

Hoffin bulged o’er speedo trunks,
Hoffin’s not for Hoffly hunks,
Hoffin shades the Hoffly junk,
Damn all that pasta!
Faded the perma-tan,
Wobbles like custard flan,
Vision of Hoffliness,
Ruined by evil plan.
Who is this b-*bleep* it’s a kid’s show, dammit-astard?

Hoff knew those eyes that flashed,
Knew those veneers that gnashed
‘Neath caterpillar ‘tache
Sneered Hoffelganger, the
Evil Hoff-master.
"See my thick, chestly hair,
"Gold chains do nestle there,
"Mine is Hoff-power!
"Oiled leather pants I wear
"Tighter than plaster!"
Then he strode out and left --
Left Baked Alaska.

Hoffin speedo’s seams divide
Hoffins' awkward cracks cloth rides
Who runs with Hoffins, wedgified.
How to move faster?
Stolen stretch lamé thong,
Morally may be wrong
But thigh constriction’s gone.
Thus minimally dressed
He hoffled-poffed through dawn.
Hoff-power not denied,
Even by pasta.

Honour the Hoffliness!
Greater than any threats
That villains venture.
All evil plans foiled best,
Same time each week, an ex-
-citing Hoffenture.

Going, going, gong.

Last week, I went to several concerts as part of the tail end of the Prague Spring music festival As is the case with most things, there are many people out there far more qualified to review such events than yours truly, including the Visiting Music Teacher On A Half-Term Holiday (VMTOAHT - 'tis catchy, n'est ce pas?) who went with me. So what follows is definitely not a review of the concerts. Critics who have a better grip on their contrabassoon fingering technique than me can wrestle with the tricky nuances of mezzo-soprano soloist's coloratura passages.

An important thing to consider when arranging any concert is the whole ugly business of spectacle. After all, if there isn't something to look at, the more cynical members of the audience may wander off at the interval, grumbling about the price of tickets and beer before they can buy any of those commemorative T-shirts and limited edition socket sets. More performers in the world of pop/rock than you can chuck a scale model of Stonehenge and malfunctioning wardrobe at(,) know this to be true.

In the world of classical music, things are a tad more muted, spectacle-wise. That's how any fule know it's posh. Kinda like the way tastefully abstract visual metaphors rather than flowing tresses, lasers, pouffy gowns, muscular definition and elves with blue skin indicate respectable literature. (Note to self: Is it possible for a scantily-shirted humanoid with a well-defined chest, blue or not, to be an acceptable visual metaphor for a Great Narrative Theme, or does cleavage immediately sound the death knell of Great Art? Unless you're Richardson, of course, exploiting said bounteaous cleavage for your own nefarious purposes. Pamela Shmamela, apparently.)

Anyhow, a dearth of revolving stages and sparkly replica helicopters (although oddly enough, not necessarily straining bosoms) is usually a giveaway for the sort of concert where the audience is expected to assume either an earnest expression of restrained rapture (eyes-gently-shut-with-periodic-appreciative-inhalations-through-the-nose-during-emotional-passages) or intense concentration (eyes-gently-shut-with-a-slight-frown-and-periodic-small-yet-vigorous-nods-of-approval-of-that-rather-eloquent-rubato-leading-into-the-andante-passage). Tapping along is optional and should always be discreet. No one is allowed to wave their arms vigorously but the person with the stick at the front of the orchestra, or the occasional trombonist with sinus troubles. If there is no one with a stick, the person who most looks like they ought to have one usually wins the conducting free-for-all. Iron-grey hair and a dark suit help in this case.

Luckily for me, all the venues that featured as part of last week's whirl of concert attendance were equipped with bling in spades. Even at the gig where my view of the performers from the cheap seats was entirely blocked by a pillar, the obstructive column was liberally bedecked with ecclesiastical roccoco-a-go-go and a big picture of the Pope. Better yet was the view from the back of the rather stupendous bobbing combover we had when sitting underneath a big flag in the organ balcony at another gig.

But the most memorable was the music-from-the-kitchen-sink concert, which featured most of the instruments and orthodox novelty techniques from the western canon (but no canons or other light artillery, although there were some fugal passages). Audience members could happily debate the Hammond organ and flute duet during the interval, as well as thorny issues such as, "Was that a vibraphone in the last bit, or were they just happy to see us?"

Me? I was just waiting for someone to take advantage of the enormous gong propped up at the back of the percussion section. Something so large, brass and circular clearly was crying out for loud crash at a moment of high drama. Except it didn't. I don't know if it was a cunning ruse to maintain a thread of suspense through the event, or if I failed to appreciate the way some composer had counter-intuitively written a passage of extreme suspense where the instrument was stroked lightly with a paintbrush. But as the final note of the concert sounded, there was still nary a big bong to show for the whole two-hour musical extravaganza. And somehow, I still feel the lack.

Howl's moving

Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhh

The curse of the drinking classes has cursed me bigtime. Something involving lead tablets in the walls of a cemetary probably.

aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggggggghhhhhhh

Visitors with PLANS. They looom.

AAAAAAaaareeaghwwwwwwwwfoooooo

Essays due. Immediately.

GGGGGGrrrrrrrrrewwwwwwwwwwwwwggggggggwwwwwwwwwoooooooffff

(New) flatmates to find. Slightly less immediately. But I fear the cupboard-opening madness.

Yyyyyeeeeeeeaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrraagggggggghhhh

And the bathroom tap still squirts water in wholly unexpected directions when left unsupervised.

Probably the coffee isn't helping. And I really wanted to think about that poem too.

Gotta go.

Beehive behind the bonnet

Before the year is out, I will be a biological evil Auntie, rather than the "ties-of-friendship-rather-than-blude" evil Auntie I have been so far. The parents of the future be-evilled niece or nephew have been practising their parenting skills on the dog, so I am generally optimistic about the whole business of keeping the infant off the sofa and training him/her not to climb up the stairs, chew the bottom step to matchsticks or make messes on the living room carpet.

The dog has also been generous enough to allow me to practise my own evil aunting skills, which in her view generally involves letting her sprawl with pr0n-star abandon all over the older bro's fatboy (posh beanbag) revealing all sorts of Overly Frank Truths (it's a girl! it's a boy! later this year - it's a filled nappy!) to the world and shedding a good quarter of her body hair. Meanwhile I watch DVDs.

But while in the car on the way to the mouth of Wey this weekend with tricky, we were chatting about this and decided that in honour of the occasion I should probably up the evil quotient somewhat. We idly debated the possibilities of motorbikes, red leather, tattoos and a mysteriously untraceable smell, but in the end came round to the idea that the crowning glory could only be provided by my er... crowning glory.

Maybe it was the giddiness brought on by the pending weekend at the Great British Seaside. Maybe it was the prospect of greasy, paper-wrapped heaven in the form of the best fish and chips on the south coast. Maybe it was the Annual Trawler Race. Maybe it was the monotony and dull back pain induced by the Great British Bank Holiday Series of Traffic Jams. Maybe it was the ipod-wielding genius of tricky himself, and his selection of finest tunes. A combination of nostalgia and pop is a deadly thing.

But five and a half hours later, we poured ourselves onto the grey and windy beach utterly convinced that the ultimate badge of evil auntieness, the towering edifice that is the iron badge of the truly Great Aunt is the rock-solid, weatherproof, waterproof, wellie-proof beehive.

I'm off to find the lacquer and half a country cob.

Whitsun Bank Holiday report

Went to England. Got rained on. Saw many cute small children belonging to friends. Got sand in mouth. Came back. Got roasted. Changed trousers. Got rained on. Lost my will to grammarcate. Got thundered on. Ion activity in atmosphere stimulated plans for wholly new additions to English lexicon. Got lightninged on. Thought about hiding under the bed. Frame broke. Ate a sandwich.

And yes, it was/is a working day in the Ceska Republika. Despite their wild enthusiasm for Easter and May Day traditions, it seems that Pentecost/Whitsun is viewed with a more take-it-or-leave-it attitude.

On the upside, I have 22 kilos of new books to read. Just no time.
I have 3 lbs. of really lovely new tea to drink. But no milk.
The sunburn on the backs of my hands is fading. And also peeling.
I wrote a poem on the plane for SBs. Am unsure of the scanning and left it at home.
Friend is coming to visit for the Prague Spring Music Festival (& Fringe). Haven't bought any tickets yet.

So it's all a bit of a glass half-full, glass half-empty kinda day, which leaves me with no alternative but to go home and do impressionistic dance in my pyjamas to appease the broken mesh-like thingy from the tap in the bathroom basin which has fallen off, causing water to shoot out in wild and unexpected directions whenever it is operated.

Whatever else, at least there will be chocolate.

Canoe, canoe, canoe, canoe, canoe.

There were three of us in the boat that day - myself, F and the absent dog. Collectively, we were feeling rather liverish, the early morning start and preceding late night having dampened our normally ebulliant natures. Even the absent dog was inclined to tackle the situation with a marked lack of gusto. Indeed, if unevoked he seemed inclined to nod off and fade away.

Fortunately, the giant plastic tropical fruit replica in which we intended to descend the gleaming Sázava appeared both commodious enough to contain any volume of thunderous yawning, and stable enough to remain buoyant during even the greatest of ill winds and foul-blown tempers. As we launched our canoe and dipped our paddles in the crystalline waters beneath the prow, our slow retreat from the hurly-burly of the rental station eased our furrowed brows. A gentle breeze seemed to waft a sweet melody towards us.

"This is kind of fun."
"Yeah. It's nice. Does the absent-dog-with-the-cutsy-name like water?"
"No. He hates getting wet. But I think he might like this."
"Maybe when you follow the absent-dog-with-the-cutsy-name on his trip to the country-with-a-famously-big river you can go on a boat trip together."
"He might like that."

Silence fell. Birds chirped.

"Ahoj!"

We exchanged waves of mutual geniality with passing Czech boatmen whose bonhomie was as huge and fizzy as the tins of Staropramen lager they brandished as a sign of friendship. As they passed us, still waving lit cigarettes daringly close to the sides of their inflated rubber raft, we fell silent as a mark of respect for their heroic drinking abilities.

A few miles passed with a rippled effect for added dreamy quality. But as the sun rose higher in the sky, it melted away the morning-glazed euphoria that had dulled our sharper edges and smoothed over the lack of sunscreen and insect repellent.

"Stop humming."
"Sorry?"
"Stop humming. It's annoying."
"Ok. Lets just make our way out of this flotilla of seventy-two identical bright yellow canoes. Their spinning is making me feel rather bilious."
"Fine. Oh, wait. Paddle left."
"Left?"
"Yes. Turn left."
"Turn left or paddle left?"
"Left! Left!"
"Which. LEFT??"
"The OTHER Left!"

Splish. Thud. Scrape.

"Okay. I'll just push against this rock and try to move us backwards. Can you see anything in our way?"
"There's a rock!"
"Where?"
"There! There's a rock!"
"What rock? Where? I can't see dammit."
"There! Theeerre!"
"Where's the bloody rock??"
"Rock! Rock! Rooooocccck!"

Crash. Thud. Flip.

"Paddles! Paddles!"
"Ahhhhh!"
"Shit. Paddles!"
"My flip-floooop! Noooo!"
"Buggeryourflipflop. PADDLES!!!"
Lunge. Splash.
"Ow."
Silence.

The genial laughter from some more passing Czech boatman did very little to improve the gloomy cloud which had settled approximately two feet from the left bank and half-submerged itself in some springtime rapids.

"Can you help me turn this thing over?"
"I've lost my shooooeee."
"It's landed on my foot."
"I can't walk. The rocks are too slippery."
"Shit."
"I don't like this."
"Ow."
"The absent dog wouldn't like this AT ALL."
"We. Need. To. Turn. This. Thing. Over."
"My clothes are completely drenched!"
"It's. Too. Heavy."
"I'm standing on algae! Algae!"
"For. Me. To."
"In bare feeeet!!!"
Lift. Alone."
"It was my faaavvvvooooooorriiiite!!!"
"AAAarrggghhh." Splash.
"It had floooowweerrs!"
"Wwwrreeeuuggh!"
"I caaaaan'tt seeeee!!!"

SPLASH!!

Sloshslosh. Splish. Splosh. Glug-glug.

I just called to say...

I haven't capsized and bumped my head on a rock while escaping from a team of crazed mad-axe murderers in a canoe, and then washed up in my artistically-dripping state and fetchingly-bedraggled (maybe some discreet skin showing) state on some exotic shore.

Nor has my charmingly amnesiac self then been discovered by a brooding, darkly handsome hero with a tortured past and secrets of his own which may uncannily eventually be revealed to bear some relation to my own problems, either directly, in the form of a common link with my own slavering mad-axe murderers (they killed his hamster) or in a burst of artistic inspiration, something on a more emotional-healing-type plane. For example, a dread fear of two-man canoes originally caused by a tragic accident which was by no means his fault, but for which he blames himself, and a consequent hatred and poor opinion of women who associate with canoes (the hussies).

In any case, said hero has not been mesmerized by my unearthly beauty, and carried me to his secret island paradise, far from from the madding-axe-murderer crowd. I have not looked adorably feminine in his only dress shirt and bare feet, nor have I warmed his tortured soul with a fantastic meal concoted from a packet of instant minestrone, some stale prunes and two tins of cheap lager. Alternatively, I have not been sweetly incompetent in the kitchen either: accidentally burning his only saucepan and thus forcing him to cook freshly-caught fish on a rock which I then refuse to eat on the grounds that I can't bear to eat the sweet iddle fishy-wishies.

I did knock over the sausage of a man of mature years in army surplus and a cowboy hat with a very long tail of some furry animal, though.

Life is hard.

Dancing on the head of a pun

Besides being owning one of those surnames that just cries out for an application of the finest punmanship, which I will resist, weakly, ardent 19th-century pan-Slavist Vaclav Hanka, occasional translator of Serbian poetry and professor of Slavonic languages was something of an artful forger. Allegedly.

Back in 1817, while rooting among big piles of Very Old Stuff in the church tower of Dvůr Králové nad Labem, Mr. Hanka (aka. pan Hanka. Not Hanka panka. Oh no. Because "-ka" is the diminuative suffix in Czech. That would make him "little Mr." If this particular noun-tweaking is even allowed because I'm pretty sure Czech only uses this as a casual feminine form. Or a declension of the name "Pánek", which is a completely different kettle of carp. And besides, even though Czechs take a more relaxed approach to word order, they still tend to put the titles before the name. Just like they don't capitalise them either. So pan Hanka he is and shall remain.) discovered some dusty old manuscripts. Big woo. After all, a manuscript is better any day than a tin of bell-polisher and a dead spider.

Pan Hanka (allowed to capitalise on his title, since I'm starting the sentence) was even happier with his discovery since he was one of the pan-Slavists (this time not one of those Mr. Slavists, but using the Greek-derived prefix that comes in handy in English when you want to talk about people sticking to an idea) who littered the early nineteenth century Central and Eastern European intellectual scene and didn't much care for the Austro-Hungarian Empire's assumptions of Teutonic cultural and political superiority.

Pan-Slavists also didn't favour the Ottomans much either, but the House of Osman were doing their wobbly imperial thing a little further east and so loomed less immediately on the particular corner of Europe where pan Hanka and his cronies hung out wandering along ancient folkways. I'll also leave the sticky Russian/pan-Slavic issue well alone.

Being something of a poetry buff (he'd published Hankowy Pjsne a couple of years previously) after Vacky Vaclav dusted off the papers and squinted a bit at the faded and Very Old Czechish Writing he doubtless did a traditional Slavic dance that hearkened back to his primordial Bohemian ancestors and just like his own language, stressed the first beat of every bar. It seemed he had discovered fragments of medieval Czech poetry, which would later be immortalised as the Manuscript of Dvůr Králové, or Rukopis královédvorský.

Only a year later Josef Kovář was doing some similar rummaging in the attics of Chateau Green Mountain when he came across some manuscripts of a similar ilk and age. These became known as the Manuscript of Zelená Hora, aka Rukopis zelenohorský, aka the rather swingingly-titled The Judgement of Libuše. Eventually these two sets of medieval manuscripts dropped the extra "R" and became the conjoined literary twin and snappily-named, "RKZ". Along the way, they inspired a welter of nationalist feeling, as well as yet more poetry, and all sorts of other cultural and literary homage along the way.

The tricky bit for the Slavic medievalists, Czech nationalists and general admirers of very old fragments of poetry that feature battles, birds of prey and very dark and stormy woods is that they probably weren't exactly really genuine actual medieval poems. Allegedly. But no less a person than Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk, first president of Czechoslovakia and ardent nationalist did some of this alleging.

Meanwhile although the consensus in most of the published material I've come across similarly alleges, others continue to fight the good, albeit ink-splattered fight.

More thoughts later, promise. This was in the nature of scene-setting.

References:

LookSmart's FindArticles - The language of nationality and the nationality of language: Prague 1780-1920 - Czech Republic history

Past & Present, Nov, 1996, by Derek Sayer

Something in the air

Right now, this very minute as I type these words, I have been in the glorious republic of Czechland for one year. Blimey.

When I first packed up my flat at about two weeks' notice, shovelled 20 kilos of essential books in my rucksack and headed off into the wilds of central Bohemia by the first easyjet flight available, the plan was to stay for a few months. But then things got all tangled up, what with that old Chinese saying, and something a Scottish bloke once said. Except I'm fighting the desperate urge to overwhelm this entire post with cliches. So I've gone agly. 'Tis all

Of course, if I'd have known, I'd have distributed books between the checked and hand luggage more evenly rather than doing it while at the front of a queue of sweaty, annoyed passengers off for their week in Tenerife. I possibly would have also revised my choice of storage companies. I would have definitely bought an annual metro pass at the first possible opportunity. And I would have absolutely picked an internet cafe that wasn't closing in about 2 minutes' time to write this post.

But that's the way the koláč crumbles.

Everything's bigger in Budapest...

The country...

The radishes...
The piles of smoked lard...

...and the rain.

...but at least it gave me a good excuse to play with the newly-discovered black & white function on my camera. I fear for the future - it's probably in sepia.

The Clue in the Capering Caper

When I was a young, goggle-eyed stripling, brainwashed by the works of Carolyn Keene, I became slightly obsessed with mystery books. I probably spent a good three weeks one summer scouring my neighbourhood for signs of a shifty-eyed man in a trenchcoat, or peculiar old box in an antique shop which the owner refused to sell.

Sadly, the closest I ever got to genuine pre-teen mysterydom was pretending that some secret hollow in the tree stump in the back garden contained a clue to hidden treasure. Unfortunately, it rained overnight and the watch I cunningly concealed in order to "discover" it the next morning was covered in mysterious grubslime that seized up the works and gave the strap an unwearable gloopy texture.

A few days later, I discovered a taste for Sherlock Holmes and gave up my patient scouring of border of the living room carpet to discover a "clue" in the "mysteriously"-knotted fringe (forever after hopelessly tangled) in favour of stealing my father's magnifying glass to look for telltale traces of Turkish ash and raspberry jam smears left on the back fence by an eagle-eyed detective dressed as a simple-minded clergyman disguised as a costermonger. Not that I knew what a costermonger was, but I was convinced that if I looked hard enough I would find evidence of costers thoroughly mongered at 5 times magnification.

But in all of the mystery books I read during the glorious haze of childhood, explanatory chunks were always dumped wholesale into the first few chapters. As a consequence, the phrases "titian-haired girl sleuth" and "motherly housekeeper" are forever emblazoned on my memory. I know how many steps go up to 221B, and the meaning of "???" on a business card.

Anyhow, since I assumed that this sort of thing was meant as a quick catch-up for readers, I tended to skim those bits and just jump into the story. But what on earth does it mean when the same unvarying information about a character is littered through all the chapters of a book? I mean, I read more than one chapter at a time. I can retain simple information in the rapid-access bit of my memory for a good... oh...

Gone to Budapest...

...in a train and everything. Back soon.

I think I need intensive hydrotherapy of a Hungarian kind. The almost uncontrollable urge to write something that while definitely not a book review,* might contain an actual opinion about something related to the contents of said book is just about killing me.

In the meantime, sitting on my hands while my mind does the boggling thing and my mouse does the link-surfing thing seems the safest option, since I have no time. Dammit.

*As opposed to yet another nail in the cherub-bedecked coffin of civilized discourse and a crushing blow with an unflatteringly large, spiked mace to the spiritual welfare of the world as we know it. Probably it also eats grubs, wears a smelly dressing-gown all day long and neglects its monthly waxing appointment.

Brief with pictures

Ahhhh… spring. In the immortal words of the bookseller who flogged me a less-than-fragrant bouquet of second-hand paperbacks last weekend, "Now that the weather's nice, there's lots of beautiful, sunny places in this town to hang out for a few hours reading a good book."

Of course, that loud-voiced and defiant tweaker-of-the-noses-of-the-stern-and-unyielding-lords-of-literary-irony thereby trigged the immediate execution of sod's law. The git. Probably worked out that it's an easy way to bump up sales.

But at least the weather's still hanging in there. *touchwood*

Run for your lives! The Mercians are coming!

I no longer believe in the Saxon invasions.

Okay, it's hardly something that has reduced the bedrock of my life to fine powder, or will bring about the downfall of civilization as we know it. But it is one of those beliefs that I picked up as a child and never really questioned. I've studied history a fair bit, but not that particular time and place, and the books I read tended to take Bede's line. Never underestimate the power of an ecclesiastical-sounding title, wise-looking beard and funny hat.

Then archaeological evidence (in book form) came along last week and wobbled a tiny corner of my worldview. It reminded me that histories are written by people who are ultimately fallible and biased, especially a hundred or so years after the events.

I wouldn't go so far as to call the Venerable Bede a propagandist (if I did, a certain relative would probably take me out in the dead of night, and that would be that), but let's just say that he had an Angle (heheh). Of course, archeaological evidence is itself subject to interpretation by similarly flawed humans. But for the moment, I'm quite enjoying trying on their reconstructed early Briton shoes, despite the blisters from the centre seam and undressed oxhide.

It also reminded me that writing always leaves out more than it keeps in. Even the most real-seeming, detailed book in the world is more like a map than reality. It leaves spaces for the imagination to fill - this is where the book comes alive in the reader's mind. These fragments of emptiness create places for interaction and dialogue between the reader and writer, uncluttered by words and filled with imagination. Maybe a writer's skill lies not only in her writing, but her not-writing - the way she carves out space in her work.

Zen and the art of olfactory maintenance

From Star Scents' promotional website, a celebrity endorsement for Cliff Richard's perfumes:

I bought it especially for my Mother, and I can't wait for the Scented Candle for me.
- Christopher "He came, he saw, he damned with faint praise" Biggins

In fact, Sir Cliff and that sensitive-nosed mistress of the balmy arts, Sheila Pickles, have managed to capture in scent the essence of not one, but three of his pop hits: "Dream Maker", "Miss You Nights" and the latest release, out for Christmas 2006, "Devil Woman". The target audience for this new scent are the legions of Cliff fans who know that smelling like Cliff is the next best thing to being with Cliff, and some other women who want a warm, musky fragrance.

Why buy Danielle Steele perfume and exude the odour of overblown emotional drama, when you can smell of clean-cut 60s pop songs (except for the sultry, moody one in the corner)? In the company of such nice people too. To help you choose from the wider range of scented products, a sample Eau de Toilette set of all three perfumes is now available. As Sir C. himself reminds us, "The different scents in these beautiful perfumes evoke memories of each of my homes."

On the "Cliff-Guaranteed" fansite, the man bares his odourous soul and reveals that he shares Olivia Newton John's love for the fruity, musky scent, "Devil Woman". He describes its topnotes of grapefruit and bergamot; its delicious cassis heart. For him, the heady and alluring evening fragrance evokes "...exotic and distant lands - places where I may well have performed the song on some far-away tour." Oh, for the scents and sounds of those far-away tours. Those far, far-away tours.

But perhaps Joan Collins sums it up best in her inimitable style, "Like everything Cliff does, this will go straight to Number One."

No, we are not being served.

Resist the urge...

Something I always struggle with is the whole loggorhea thing. It's my dream to write the perfect, pithy sentence, full of wisdom and meaning. Something zen, like a single, perfectly-placed stone in an expanse of purest white sand. Or the total emptiness of the space where a possibility once existed... ...like the one between your ears. You know, there is a reason we hide those vanished possiblities in the cupboard.


So while I don my nifty grasshopper costume (after wrestling to get the zip over the wings) and continue to study the art of saying a great deal with very few words at the hairy-toed feet of my masters, let us take a moment of quiet inspiration and contemplate what might be my very favorite JD Robb cover* translated into Czechish. If you don't know the author, she's written a series of cracking thrillers set in the near future which feature a fully-clothed female detective.

The cover artist in this case seems to have taken less-is-more to hitherto unimagined levels. For us, it's a lesson in worthy restraint. Be noble, be strong. Snicker ye not. I dare you.

*ting* of meditation bell

Just goes to show what a misunderstood genius can do with an old magazine and a pair those safety scissors with the rounded ends.


Disclaimer: SBTB did have first dibs on this, (For all your cover snark needs - visit SmartBitchesTrashyBooks. Professional, reliable service with a snarl. No back-combed mullet too big or small. Bonus mantitty with your tenth visit. Now with added fibre and leather-trousered vitamins.) but it's been a while. Candy or Sarah may apply a delicate boot to my posterior if they feel I've breached netiquette.

Like Frankenstein, I did it my way

In some circles, they call me Typhoid Marika

Late last week, I decided to beat this head cold into submission. Well, either that or at the least assuage my fears that the strange goings-on in an auricular direction weren't signs of some incipient horrible secondary infection that would leave me defeated; a broken woman in neon wraparound visors, weakly humming stadium rock riffs. So off I hied myself, my Czech Health Insurance Card and my fug of rhinoviruses to the clinic with the English-speaking doctors recommended by a friend (it seems illness withers up my Czech language gland).

Two stops across and four stops down on Prague's rather crowded metro, I arrived and battled with the very complicated entry system to greet the doctor himself.

For 'twas indeed a male doctor and one quite attractive in a grey-blond sort of way. Things began to appear rosier. The tiny part of my mind not wholly occupied on working out precisely when I have felt more miserably ill before in my entire life perked up and started to take an interest. It glowed with approval as I explained my symptoms, deftly skirting around the whole Pink Floyd issue.

"Hmmmm…" he frowned, just like every other doctor in the universe. "Do you have fever?"
"Umm… no. I don't think so."
For a brief moment, I wondered if now would be a good time to bring up overstated twin reverb and dry ice. The tiny non-illness-obsessed part of my brain moved with the speed of (laser) light to stifle this urge with a barrage of sneezing. There was a pause while I mopped up with a scrap of tissue. Bit of an own goal for the mucus-brained one.

After a brief hand movement reminiscent of an amateur (pre-bunny) magician's, the still-attractive but more elusive he-doctor lunged forward and grabbed my forehead. Paralysed by shock and a strong Czech accent from a man in a white coat, visions of brain-sucking machines danced through my head.

"No. You don't have fever."
"Oh, well, that's good." Did brain-sucking really require complete cranial rigidity? "But it's really my ears that I'm worried about." I pointed at my ears. They stick out a bit, but are not unattractive.

His hands shifted and his thumbs pressed down very hard on the bumpy bit of skull behind my ears. "Does this hurt?"

Strong hands or not, torn by the brain-sucking issue, it was something of a relief to find him less attractive from this perspective. "Well, you are pressing quite hard."

"No. But do you have pain here?" More pressing.
"Not really. It's more sort of here." I did my own pressing, this time on the squishy bit behind my jaw where the crackling noises seemed to originate.

"Then you do not have ear infection."
"Well, that's a relief."
"You have a cold."
"Yes, I knew that. It's just my ears…"
"There is no medicine for a cold. You must rest. You must drink water."
"Okay."
"And if you still have the hearing problems after the cold is gone, you must see an otologist to clean your ears."
"Okay."
"Now, goodbye."
"Goodbye."

And so, suitably chastened, I took my dirty ears home to tune the air guitar.