London Calling

As a short introduction to the next few blogs, my apologies for the delay of a month in getting these up, for despite internet being available in coffee shops I was far too busy running around 'enculturing' myself. And my aunt doesn't have internet access. So we start four weeks ago....

Saturday 8^th – Sunday 16^th September:

The night before commencing my epic journey down South I still hadn’t finished packing. Only the basics had managed to find themselves sprawled into my cavernous rucksack capable of fitting one and a half dead bodies, possibly two if they were small. Wedged amongst the underpants and mini-sized hairbrush (which I’ve still yet to use, actually) crept in the Questions and Doubts, Niggles that weighed more heavily than the flimsy lightweight nightdress at the bottom: Would I be able to cope with the manic pace of London life? Would I get lost on the Tube? Am I capable of doing this publishing internship to a standard that won’t get me thrown out onto the street with only Mortification and Failure for company? After all, I’m only a small-town country-bumpkin girl.

But there was no room for all that, so I swiftly dumped the Questions on my bedroom floor the next morning as I filled the remaining space with jeans and T-shirts and shoes with holes in the toe.

Coming down on the train, I noticed that many of our society have reached the depressing stage of not being able to match numbers and letters on a ticket to those on a static object. Our brains have evidently got so used to machines telling us what to do that when the little screens on Virgin went into meltdown and refused to show who had which seats reserved, widespread carriage panic erupted, causing passengers to viciously declare seat-war on fellow travellers and put themselves wherever they could. The only problem with this, of course, is that those who could still match up symbols from ticket to seat were vehemently defending their right to their territory. Damn you, machines.

Apart from that, the journey was straightforward, and chaos was left behind in a bid to find Euston Square Underground station. It was easy as pie and as I made my way to Ruislip in the north-west area of London on the Metropolitan line I passed through Baker Street. A current of excited electricity vibrated down my spine – I realised, suddenly, that I was really in London. Land of Sherlock Holmes and misted Victorian fogs; home to Paddington after sojourning from darkest Peru; and all those streets and stations on a Monopoly board loomed into real life instead of merely being names on a piece of reinforced cardboard with a  hat, a dog, and a shoe. Although I couldn’t help but think there really should be a giant silver top hat and shoe somewhere.

My first impressions of London life, after a week of my internship, are that pedestrians seem desperately blasé about taking their life in their hands: they ignore the warning of the little red man and dash across the road, heedless of taxis, buses and Boris-bikes, with phone glued to ear, juggling pram / suitcase / other hefty item with cigarette and/or laptop case. Perhaps they know the secret tricks of traffic lights but I stay firmly rooted to the pavement until the little green man gives me permission to cross, no matter how much of a hurry I’m in.

It just so happened that on Thursday 13^th September I was indeed in rather a hurry. One of the commissioning editors asked me to go out and hunt down six copies of a particular book, wherever they may be lurking. They were, in fact, lurking all over the city but no more than one copy per Waterstone’s. Pain in the arsenal. So there I was, going overground, underground, all over the city trying to track down these copies needed for that afternoon. It was a beautiful day for it and had I been able to slow down to appreciate St Paul’s Cathedral and Piccadilly Circus, and had I not been cornered by Unicef workers outside Liverpool Street Station, I would have thoroughly enjoyed myself. However, the mission very much had a time limit and the hours were trickling away. Flurried and flustered, I begged several people to help me in the right directions, from sales assistants to community officers, one of whom actually escorted me to a Waterstone’s. Lovely man.

After three hours of border-line coronary failure and sweating like Russell Brand in a nunnery, I returned the conquering heroine. Throughout all this dashing around, I never once crossed a road without a little green man.

 

Another thing that has struck me while meandering from Trafalgar Square to Westminster and back to Covent Garden is the cosmopolitan vibe. Languages and accents of all sorts ride their chariots from tongue-tip to ear: Spanish, French, eastern European, fluttering around like butterflies. Streets, cafes, shops, Tube stations ringing with unfamiliar sounds transport one all over the world in one tiny corner of the globe. The Olympics and Paralympics may be over but still present, enveloping the city, is the rosy glow of optimistic pride and a celebration of humanity.

In Defence of a Heinous Accusation Levelled at Dahl

Later this month a day will be set aside to ackowledge the genius of author Roald Dahl. In anticipation of this day there appears to be a lot of articles and the like floating around the newspapers, including a rather sweet interview in The Times with David Walliams who will be dressing up as the BFG to encourage a new generation of children to dive into Dahl's wonderful and fantastical world.


Imagine my complete disgust, then, when a friend passed on another article - from The Guardian online - which opened with a recent experience the novelist and broadcaster Michael Rosen had endured. An MA seminar on children's literature revealed the views of a 'severe Latvian student' on the hugely successful and enduring author. In her words: 'Roald Dahl - no literary merit whatsoever.' Pardon? I had to read this several times to ensure my eyes were not mistaken. I can understand if someone's opinion is based on his or her dislike of a particular work and their recognition of this antipathy; however, this is indeed a bold statement. What does she mean by it? Unfortunately, Rosen's article does not deal with this student's short-minded opinion nor with his own reaction towards it (my own reaction would probably have been to politely listen and then develop temporary blindness if other students wanted to papercut her to shreds). I am extremely interested in her reasoning, if there was any, to reach that conclusion.

There are many critical analyses on Dahl but I wish to address the charge laid at his feet in such a crude manner. The sweeping generalisation of 'no literary merit whatsoever' is inappropriate to, let's face it, almost every book that has ever been published. You may disagree but I would argue that even the most badly written book has some value for us to glean from its pages. For now, let's ignore the fact that Dahl's books have sold in their millions and that probably every child in Britain has read at least one of his novels. Let's simply focus on what literary merit Dahl has to offer both children and adults alike.

One criticism put forward on the comments section of the Guardian article was that it was 'cheap' to portray adults as 'mean dolts'. Looking at a couple of these 'mean dolts' I propose to demonstrate why it is necessary to have characterized them as they are. The farmers in Fantastic Mr Fox are so odious because there are farmers who understandably have to shoot at rural vermin in order to protect their livelihoods, and my own interpretation is that a person writing a children's book needs the reader to be completely on the side of the animals who are the victims and heroes of the story. So we can't be feeling sorry for Farmers Boggis, Bunce, and Bean who are hell-bent on the eradication of Mr Fox and his family. They are therefore greedy, bad-tempered, and one a drunkard. The moral of stealing is perhaps referred to only vaguely when Badger suddenly feels uncomfortable taking what is not theirs - Mr Fox ends up placating him by saying they are only stealing because their families are starving - but the point of the book is, for me, to make fun of the pointless sadistic will for destruction these men have.

Mr and Mrs Twit are also vicious people who play nasty little tricks on each other. The physical japes are manifestations of the usual  snipes that, often, ordinary couples make. It is a natural part of relationships, particularly when tempers rise, and Dahl expresses this in an exaggerated manner culminating in the creation of this beastly and unhygienic couple. In this creation, Dahl makes it absolutely clear they are characters to hate with their ugly mannerisms and cruel treatment of Mugglewump and his family. Unlike in Fantastic Mr Fox, the characters are shown no consideration or sympathy by the monkeys which is a possible metaphor for children locked in a loveless family and are freed by growing up and travel in the materialization of the Roly Poly Bird. We must despise the Twits because of the cruelty displayed and directed at the defenceless innocents of society.

Of course, not all the adults in Dahl's novels are evil. Esio Trot provides an antithesis couple of the Twits in Mr Hoppy and Mrs Silver. The shy neighbour of the widow obsessed with her tortoise is endearing to the older reader in his social backwardness with the woman whom he loves perhaps because there are many individuals out in the world who find it very difficult to strike up conversations. I would argue that the child reader would be more concerned with the growth of the tortoise and the 'magic' used to make Alfie the tortoise grow or shrink accordingly, taking precedence over the story between the adults. A note I would like to make along linguistic terms is when Mr Hoppy explains that the word 'poo' (the phonetically pronounced word 'up' backwards) holds particular strength 'in any language...especially with tortoises.' It may well have been unintentional but the observation actually humorously alludes to Freudian psychology and the frequency with which we all (generally) tend to curse using the harsher version of the word. Admittedly, Mr Hoppy and Mrs Silver verge on the more two-dimensional side, but what about Miss Honey in Matilda?

Surely, as children, most of us had that one teacher whom we admired more than anyone else for a short period of time. Miss Honey provides that security and familiarity in a story that deals with the opposite terror of a teacher we feared. One of the reasons a child might enjoy the character of Miss Honey is that she is the kind of teacher we love - young, intelligent, fun, sympathetic, good with children. As an adult, we recognise these traits yet also add on the fact that she, too, has her own story and demons to face as a young adult; Miss Honey is not merely a vehicle for transmitting education and a shoulder for children to cry on. She is a complex person in her own right discovering her own abilities, with the help of Matilda, to finally stand up to her aunt, Miss Trunchbull. In Miss Honey the reader is given a sense of more hope to overcome difficulties because not many of us are born child prodigies and success is only gained through hard work and perseverance. The trials of life cannot be overcome with the distant sort of magic Matilda possesses, but they can be battled by support and a reason to fight them. Matilda provides that reason for Miss Honey and in turn Miss Honey provides that lesson for us.

Leaving Dahl's children's literature, I would now like to examine his Tales of the Unexpected, which are concerned with many events based on his own life. There are a few tales engaging in several events occurring in his time as an RAF pilot. Death of an Old Old Man explores the feelings of a terrified pilot who does not want to die but only admits this to himself - he covers his emotions with British stiff-upper-lip style. Because we are dealing with a pilot we are still left with questions: is the outward physical display of fear only 'bad form' for the fighters or as civilians are we too disdainful of the natural pangs of panic? Does internal conflict inevitably surface or can we control and bury the fear we feel? To cite one of Dahl's beautiful lines '...his was the brain of a frightened man, yet his instinct was the instinct of a pilot'. Evidently, this man's body can control fear in the 'do-or-die' survival mode even while his mind is more concerned with human sensibilities. And in the end, all is quiet. Then there is They Shall Not Grow Old which once more concerns itself with the fate of the pilots and their own feelings as they face uncertainty.

Aside from his tales from the war, Dahl came up with some amusing and shocking ideas. The Umbrella Man is one of my favourites because of its simplicity. Rainy days will never be the same again. Vengeance Is Mine Inc. offers a way in which vengeance is commercialised and privately condoned, if not publicly. The humour is subtle, poking fun at a society that often swears vengeance yet does not care to take the consequences themselves, shifting both the work and blame onto another. The last story I must beg you to read is Genesis and Catastrophe.  Mentioned underneath the title it claims to be a true story. And so it is. The tension as the patient tells the doctor her story and incredibly tragic luck with her offspring is heartwrenching. It builds up as she desperately reaches out for reassurance that the child she has just borne will not go the same way, and the reader is caught up in a mother's anguish and concern for her child's well-being. So caught up are we that when the twist is revealed the shock comes as a physical blow.

In the words of David Walliams 'no one has created a body of work with as much variety as Dahl...each of the books is significantly different to one another, with different themes.' Being only able to skim Roald Dahl's works in this space, this critical analysis is hardly going to win any awards yet I hope that this short article has acquitted Dahl of the terrible injustice to his literary merit.  

Our Middle-Class Woes

                           It's a troublesome life.

Household duties and chores keep getting in the way of writing novels, reading my books, and generally doing all the things I want to do. Instead, I must spend precious time on all the things I am forced to do. Not that anyone else is forcing me to do them, mind, but it is the knowledge that if I do not vacuum from time to time, a plague of dust mites will infiltrate my lungs and will be the death of us all.

Today has been dedicated to some cleaning and general organising, which is rather paradoxical because I couldn't organise a brewery in a piss-up, especially when sentence structure poses difficulties.

And so the first task is a shopping list on Tesco online, an absolutely marvellous invention when one has run out of essential ingredients such as eggs and flaked almonds. Not quite so marvellous when there's a little message at the side of some of the pictured items informing one that this product is no longer available. The crumble will be ruined.

Then of course the bins want bringing up from the garden gate but, oh, it's raining and I'm wearing goats' leather slippers. After changing, I run down to the bins and lug them unceremoniously up the tarmac drive, in such a hurry to get out of the rain I almost bump the Yaris with the paper recycling wheely bin. The kitchen bin lid needs washing and the rubbish taken out to the now accessible larger bin. But I've forgotten to get all the fluff from the tumble-dryer!

Our tacit (and rather rude) ironing lady has been and steamed her way through a basketful of towels and shirts, but what use is that when I end up having to re-iron a fair few shirts because she evidently can't tell a crease from a fold?

And the fridge. The fridge needs cleaning. It hasn't been done for a long time because there is dark brown gunk from mustard or sauce or whatever else exudes brown icky liquid sticking to the bottom shelf. There is a yoghurt from March. Unopened, and it is kept that way as it descends into the newly emptied kitchen bin. Jars of multiple chutneys and curry paste that have only been used once are discarded for I know not for how long they have been camped out there. Thankfully, I have managed to save the anchovies and artichokes. Once the scouring is complete and the trays re-constructed in their rightful door place I wash out the cheese box. I shall issue warning to family members that whosoever disturbs the immaculateness of the fridge shall be punishéd. Probably around the cerebral or nasal area with a glass jar of Marks and Spencer's pitted black olives.

The last task today will be deciding whether to have vegetable pilaf or vegetable curry for dinner. Lentils, chickpeas, or bulgar wheat? Such are the traumatic choices one must make.

'Sundays are for mimes' and Other Stories

It has been a mad couple of weeks of gigantic hope, breathless excitement, shouting, running around, a swelling sensation of pride in the stomach being British, and creating our very own dead bodies' competition. Ah, you thought I was talking about the Olympics... Terribly sorry, but I feel there has been enough coverage of that, and rather superbly done. Suffice to say bravo indeed to all the athletes.

No, I speak about the event which has occupied my mind for some time now: the arrival of my Catalan putos calaixos friend. Look up the word 'inappropriate' in the dictionary and there is a fair chance of finding a picture of us two grinnning idiotically or striking some, well, inappropriate pose. This is the girl who phones up a restaurant and makes a reservation under the name of 'Miss Nipple'.

And so Liverpool John Lennon Airport was subjected to a monumental display of homoerotic hugging. Irreverance and tasteless remarks ruled supreme. My particular favourite was the invention of a game while we were meandering around the Catholic cathedral in Liverpool: BattleSaints. The principle is based on that of the splendid game of Battleships - 'B4, you've sunk my submarine, you bastard' - with some minor modifications. Of course, the main one is introducing saints to the board - 'B4, you've sunk my Saint Bridget, you bastard, now all the dairymaids will die!' The only possible improvement to the game would be if the saints themselves sauntered on down to manifest their spiritual being on the board - 'Saint Swithin...we meet at last.'

At Carlisle Castle

At Carlisle Cathedral

 Then there was the Dead Body Competition, naturally. Suggested by aforementioned friend, we agreed that the winner would be the one who picked the best dead body spot in the best dead body position.


 These pictures are the only pair of examples because the best photos are not yet in my possession. And even if they were, it would probably be sage of me not to put them up here considering their...location.

There is one thing of which my friend is very respectful: Sundays. Not to go to church or anything religious like that, oh, no. Sundays are far too sacred - they are the days which belong to the Silence. Noise (particularly pedestrian traffic light bleeping) is absolutely prohibited. Then I pointed out that mimes could reap the benefits of Sundays, since she had neglected a clause pertaining to action. To which her reply was a panicky and harrowing: "Noooo! No imaginary animal balloons!"  

Bring Back Balls

I am incensed.Today, my eyes have been affronted, horrified, appalled by a foul and depraved four-letter word taking centre-stage of the local newspaper and surrounded by photos of the sordid end of school affair:

Prom

Had the local paper been American, had the event been American, I would have no beef with the word. But I live in the north of England, where we have a leaving ball. Four letters, BALL. Or, more specifically, balls for secondary school leavers and school discos for primary school leavers.

When I was eleven, I went to the school disco in a dingy hall down the road from school and was grateful for songs of the ilk of 'Agadoo', 'Macarena', and 'I am the Music Man' played by a DJ of dubious intent, embittered by dashed dreams of becoming the next rave-master at Creamfields, and probably an alcoholic to drown his sorrows. It was marvellous - we could run around and not worry about where we were spilling Coke, play musical chairs with gusto and not mind if we were hurled to the floor by over-competitive adversaries because we were wearing dresses or jeans or whatever from our own (no doubt hideous) 90s' wardrobe collection. When I left secondary school, I had a slightly nicer dress but still not exactly haute couture. Now they're dressed in froufy meringues of an array of colours that would rival any ice-cream stand. And practically all Barbie-blonde or Amy Winehouse-black tresses, and some with tiaras. I have but one question: what the deuce are they going to wear on their wedding days if they're so primped and preened for a leaver's ball?

So, please, none of this prom crap. I repeat, I am fine if the event is held in the States; I am fine if the speaker is American; I am fine if a person whose first language is not English uses it. However, I must insist that British people not use American words when we are already in possession of our own British words. And 'movie'. No, no, no. Just no. We are British. We use the word 'film'. If we start calling films 'movies' we will have to start calling phones 'speakies' and computers 'typies'.

For the good of future British generations, I beseech you, good public, Bring Back Balls!

How to Say Goodbye in Catalan

uini, uidi, uinci. I came, I saw, I conquered. And now another chapter in my short life has come to an end. I am now writing from my living-room in Cumbria, where skies are painted dove-grey and the opposite hills sport white rotating stakes from their hearts (wind turbines, in other words). My departure from Catalunya was not quite as interesting as my arrival, and yet the two weeks leading up to my flight will never be forgotten - my crippled back won't let me. It turns out that lugging around 30kgs is spinally traumatic. But Dickens and Shakespeare would never have forgiven me, had I neglected to bring their magnificent works with me.

However, goodbyes. That is the object of my discourse. There are many hellos in life and just as many goodbyes. Most goodbyes are flippant, they are casual remarks about seeing one soon, or promises for a union involving caffeine or alcohol. These are the ones I like best, for they hold only vague oaths, and engage you to no concrete significance or purpose. It also means you probably will see that person again. At some point. Maybe...

Other goodbyes include, but are not limited to, the Romantic (usually involving snogging and some mild groping); the Close Friend (involving a hug and two kisses on cheeks if in Catalunya); the Stormily Melodramatic (including swearing, shouting, and other modes of tantrum-like behaviour, most likely outside a club at 3 o'clock in the morning next to a tramp in his own vomit); and the Tearful 'Oh, God, I'm Never Going to See You Again!' (usually at airports).

There is also another type of goodbye, which just sweeps away all other competitors, like a fiery tsunami sent from Thor's hammer. And I invented it. This time next month, it'll be all the rage. Thanks to Barcelona, a text message, and a hip.

My sojourn with my friend (the same one who tricked me into carrying those putos calaixos) ended spectacularly with a broken window on the fourth floor, potentially endangering the lives of those coffee-ing below. The text with metro instructions must have sent me into a frenzy of good conscience, as I started locking up open windows. Now, some of the flats in Eixample are hundreds of years old still with original glass panes, single glazing. The rod and hook used to shut and lock the windows happened to be stiff. I therefore changed my position in order to hold a better stance with which to close the window, perhaps with more alacrity than was necessary and less grace than was required, and thus my left hip impaled the pane of crystal. The sound of shattering glass has never before sounded quite so symphonic, so cinematic, so monumentally and humiliatingly idiotic. Daggers stuck out of the wooden frame and glinting light spattered the terrace like minute twinkling stars on terracotta tiles.Shards overhung the balcony edge, teetering oh so delicately. Passersby may well have...passed by...ignorant of their proximity to a sliced scalp.

I rang my friend and grovelled. In whichever language came out first. Now that I think of, however, I do believe this was my subconsciously laid plan, executed in revenge for those damned drawers she made me carry. This is how you say goodbye in Catalan....and I shall call it the Glassed Goodbye.

Sant Joan

Coca de Sant Joan

Sant Joan is a rather important celebration. To make your own Sant Joan (celebrated on the eve before the 24th of June) you will need: bonfire paraphernalia; petards, which are a kind of small firecracker; fireworks; coca de Sant Joan (a type of cake); as much alcohol as your fridge can possibly hold; and a cabin full of good friends.

A stocked fridge

It's actually quite typical to sleep on the sand of the beach , build a fire and jump over it, but we felt that our pyromaniacal days were over and would instead have a BBQ. Considering that last year we did indeed manage to sleep on the sand (and, oh, how our backs were crippled), we opted for a more comfortable option of a wooden cabin very close to the beach of Malgrat de Mar. It had beds! Those wonderful inventions...

Upon arrival, late on a Friday night, it seemed as though we had entered another world, a very neon world. Bright lights flickered, jumped, and pirouetted, competing for the attention of the tourists, who - by the look of them - were mostly British. It was strange, seeing them all in this bizarre world of tacky shops and clubs, when to our eyes this tourist strip was the most hideous possible thing known to man. It was slightly better at the campsite, but there were Spanish xonis (chavs) milling about with their Spanish flag proudly displayed in support of their national football team who were playing the following evening. Dinner ensued, and so to bed. In the Squeaky Bunkbeds of Doom. With absolutely no exaggeration at all, one only had to lift an arm or twitch a foot and the entire frame creaked with the power of a thousand door-hinges. Needless to say, we did not sleep particularly well. Especially not with next door's xonis shouting and swearing.

However, we awoke bright and early and, after a caffeine intake, we headed to the beach. Blue skies, blue sea, the sighing sound of breaking waves...it was beautiful. We spent most of the day there, only breaking for lunch, ice-creams, and board games.

Once we'd tired of the heat, we decided to smoke out the rest of the holiday-makers. Quite accidentally, of course. The BBQ was a bit over-enthusiastic and we were even threatened by an uncouth xoni that she would do something rather violent if we burnt her car.


Fortunately, all went well: we were not smacked in the face, bottled, or indeed re-threatened in any way. We dined, we chatted, we sang, and had all kinds of fun - mostly of a drinking variety. After all, we had about 50 beers, wine, cava, and a bottle of rum. Would have been a waste of money not to drink it. So we played the Ring of Fire till well into the early hours of the morning before wandering along the beach watching the fireworks scatter glitter amongst the stars.


I am seriously considering exporting this tradition overseas. Well, I would, except that health and safety would have definitive issues with hurling firecrackers willy-nilly and fires on beaches. So perhaps it's best the tradition stays over here in the safety of lax laws.