a gallimaufry

some short reviews

Time has passed and I haven’t written here.

I’ve been busy gardening...

...collecting some odd eggs from the hens...

...releasing a frog back into the wild (don’t be like Some People in my family and bring them home, leave frogs be where you find them)...

...attending to the whims of cats...

...and actually working too.

I have also been reading! But since my reviewing energies are all focused on preparing something for Shiny New Books, I thought I’d just mention some other books briefly here.

• Bath Tangle, by Georgette Heyer – If Heyer ever wrote an anti-Heyer novel, this is it. Her hero is so atrocious that you are simply begging the heroine not to marry him, quite opposite from the usual dynamic. He shares characteristics with some of her other, more likeable, heroes, but here we see only the dark side of them. Arrogant, rude, snobbish, bullying and guilty of sexual assault if not worse (his crime is alluded to in rather vague terms), Rotherham has not one redeeming feature and after reading this I doubt you will be able to look at Avon, Beaumaris and Alistair quite so indulgently ever again.
  (Though I did always worry about Avon and Léonie, even as a teenager that struck me as rather a dodgy relationship...)
• The Immaterial Murder Case, by Julian Symons – A rather brittle but engaging spin on the detective novel which pokes fun at the art establishment. Immaterialism is an art movement that believes in the value of what is not there, so the subject of a painting is what is omitted from it. During the opening of an exhibition of Immaterial art Stephen Follett, a universally loathed art critic, is found murdered.
  The case is narrated in turn by one of the suspects, a fairly dreadful amateur detective and a professional detective, somewhat in the manner of the multiple narratives of The Moonstone. The comedy is occasionally a little heavy-handed but I enjoyed Immaterialism a lot.
• Waiting for Willa, by Dorothy Eden – I started this hoping for something Mary-Stewartesque and it had a good premise: Grace receives a letter from her cousin Willa, who now lives in Stockholm, which is signed with their childhood code for ‘help’. When she arrives in Sweden, Willa has vanished.
  Overlooking the rather leaden writing and uninspired characterisation I read on but the dénouement was disappointing and basically everyone was an idiot. The only surprise was Grace’s callous victim-blaming at the end. Eden seems to have been very popular so perhaps this is not representative of her work?
• The White Witch, by Elizabeth Goudge – I read this over quite a long time as it has a slow pace and bears being put down and picked up again well. It’s a historical novel set during the English Civil War, and explores how a group of characters are tested by the conflict: Robert Haslewood, the squire; Froniga, his cousin and the white witch of the title; and Francis, a nobleman masquerading as an artist in order to spy for the Royalists.
  Goudge shows how courage on the battlefield is only one sort of courage, and that those without much power – children, women, gypsies, the elderly – are no less brave than the rich men who are prepared to die for their ideals. It was very soothing while Brexit madness was whirling about and a helpful antidote to cynicism.
• Gingerbread, by Helen Oyeyemi – As ever Oyeyemi’s work defies expectations, categorisations, and cleverly seduces you into accepting whatever she throws at you. A country that may or may not exist? Gingerbread that tastes like revenge? A childhood friend who might be secretly influencing every step of your life?
  I can’t even begin to summarise this novel and am still reeling from finishing it last night, it’s rich, playful and mysterious to the end.
• The Diaries of Sylvia Warner, edited by Claire Harman – I am slowly reading these for Sylvia Townsend Warner week and they are wonderful.

Friday evening and a glass of wine are calling. Happy weekend everyone! Have you read any of these books? What did you think of them?

casting my vote

Thanks to Brexit, last year I became a Belgian citizen. I couldn’t really envisage a situation in which I, a Brit, would be separated from my Belgian husband and child, but with the British government even then displaying an unedifying mix of incompetence and hostility I thought it best to mitigate that possibility.

Anyway, as a consequence I am now obliged to vote in Belgian elections. Voting is compulsory here, though there is a ‘blank space’ option on the ballot if you don’t care for any of the candidates. If you don’t vote and don’t have a good reason for it, like being out of the country on holiday, you can be fined. Not that this would be a problem for me, since the older I grow, the more important I realise voting is.

Today were the local and provincial elections. There are many political parties here, and they tend to govern in coalitions (I still can’t really understand why the British get in such a froth about coalition governments), but for the first few years of living here I couldn’t really tell my NVA from my CD&V. Keen to cast an informed vote I have been doing my homework over the past few weeks, avidly reading all of the leaflets dropped in our letterbox and rather hoping a candidate or two might pass by so that I could quiz them about their policies. Alas, none did.

There are 33 seats on our local council and so each party is supposed to field 33 candidates, in the unlikely event that they sweep the board. The candidates most likely to win lots of votes are placed high up on the party’s list; those who are thought to be less popular further down. For the smaller parties, I understand, it can be a bit of a scramble to find 33 candidates and sometimes the last few are people who’ve had their arms twisted by a friend or relative after a few pints one Saturday evening. And because it is a small town, people tend to vote for people they know and like.

Clutching my voting card I trotted off with K and E just before lunch to one of the local schools to vote – and not only was it the first time I cast a Belgian vote but it was the first time I had to use a computer to do so! We were first sent to Area 31, where we handed over our ID cards and voting cards and were given a plastic card and shown to a voting booth which contained a rather fearsome-looking computer. I had to push the card into the computer and then use a touch-screen to cast my votes. It was a tiny bit stressful (because computers!) but pleasing too. (I heard K calling that his computer wasn’t working, how glad I was that it wasn’t mine!) A paper slip was printed out at the end with one of those square codey things on it. I left the booth, flailed around another computer and had to be helped by a nice man who showed me what to do with the plastic card, where to scan my slip of paper and where to drop it afterwards. Then I was given back my ID card and my stamped voting card. Success!

I like to think that E regarded me with admiration but perhaps she did not.

(Sunflowers and crabapples in our front garden, nothing to do with voting but the post looked boring with no pictures)

what happened in september

(Fluffy Chicken ruling the roost)

Well. That was a busy few weeks. Going back to work after the summer holidays is always a shock to the system (yes I know your heart bleeds for us poor teachers) but it’s been extra specially busy this year partly because I stood in for a colleague who had paternity leave and partly because our school is merging with two others and this involves synthesising all our ways of doing things, which basically boils down to a lot of extra paperwork, never my strongest point.

As I glare at the computer screen and try to look brave in front of new students, cobwebs and cat hair have silted up round the house, there are muddy pawprints in the bath and on every flat surface there seems to be a pile of paper, a miniature stable made from cardboard boxes, a plastic-bottle spaceship or a doll’s encampment. I have also blown up my lovely new food mixery thing, which I bought after this unfortunate incident, and had a first driving lesson which was pretty terrifying for all concerned including the trees.

Meanwhile in the garden, all those weeds who were discouraged from sprouting by the horrifically hot summer have now burst forth with a vengeance everywhere. Last night on Gardener’s World Monty Don told us we should never let weeds get out of hand but should tackle them a little and often; I had to sigh and eat some cheese.

(A rare flower among the weeds)

When I have time to read, it’s mainly been detective novels I’ve purloined from the charity shop and I don’t have anything particular to say about them. I’ve also read Saplings by Noel Streatfeild, The Outcast by Sadie Jones (both of which treated the effect on children of a parent’s sudden death), Hag-Seed by Margaret Atwood and The Changeling by Victor Lavalle. The first two explore the effects on children of a parent’s sudden death, the third examines father–child relationships in a clever retelling of The Tempest, although it’s not the main theme of novel, and The Changeling explores the darker side of fatherhood. I hadn’t thought about these connexions until now but they are there. I have written half a confused post about The Changeling but I don’t know if I’ll ever finish it.

Meanwhile, Frosty Chicken spent most of her days brooding.

However, last week she finally left the nest box and returned to the world of general hen business along with the others.

(Clara, Not Speaking to anyone)

In cat news, Clara remained aloof for a week or so but has slowly thawed, at least to Nala. The two of them play with each other, though it’s usually a chasing game that looks as if it teeters on the edge of not being a game. Clara continued to hate Olaf for much longer and I cannot say they are best friends now but all three cats will sleep on the same bed or in the same room together so I feel that all will be well.

(The only time Nala is still enough for a photograph is when she is asleep)

(One of Nala’s collections) (She didn’t arrange it, I should add)

Nala has turned out to be a big baby; she rushes about crazily and then falls asleep on someone and then bounces up again and bounds away. She collects things. She wags her tail like a puppy and is the most frightful thief and greedy-guts. She ate a frying-pan full of bacon which K had foolishly left unattended and will creep up on the unwary and try to bat food out of their hands with a sneaky yet very effective paw.

(Olaf, pretending he hasn’t just embarrassingly fallen out of the walnut tree in front of lots of people)

Olaf, apart from a disturbing taste for cellophane, is more discriminating in his eating habits. He rather views himself as Nala and Clara’s lord and master and simply expects to have the best place on the favourite blanket and first dibs on any food that’s going. However, he is also completely craven when it comes to children. He adores my daughter and loves being petted and spoilt by her and her friends, hurrying up to them when most cats flee in horror at the prospect of being clasped, kissed, bellowed at and bossed about.

(Spot the cats) (There are no prizes though)

Life is easing up a bit and I am feeling more chirpy; I still have to vanquish the combined evils of digital and planning but I am sure the forces of light are with me.

of cats and hens and not much else

I decided to take down the previous post and write a marginally more interesting update. It’s been a slightly weird time, with very mild weather that’s encouraged one of my roses, some pansies, fuchsias, hellebores and marigolds to bloom bravely if unseasonably; it’s not just me who’s a bit bewildered at the moment. Then, suddenly, last weekend the cold swept up and I realised it was nearly the end of November and where had the time gone?

Chicken news

Fluffy and Night Fluffy are now small hens. They grew really fast! After a short period of fluffiness, they spent weeks in motley as the fluff was replaced by feathers. Night Fluffy’s feathers are very beautiful and iridescent. We still don’t know whether they are boys or girls, but we think they are girls. Interestingly, Daisy, their foster mother, who used to regard herself as equal to our other hen, Flower (I don’t do the naming here), has become very bossy and dominant. She isn’t always very nice to Flower. Flower seems to cope though.

Cat news

The green-eyed monster prowls our house. In the Pre-Kitten Era, Mister Puss treated me with disdain and during the summer would never spend much time with us anyway. Now, a combination of cold weather and the loss of Sooticus has encouraged him to hang out in the homestead a bit more.

Unfortunately, he has noticed that Clara likes sleeping in my lap. Outrageous!

He never cared to do so before, but now squeaks with rage if he sees her there and has pointedly started claiming it for himself when he can. Now whenever I sit down it seems one of them will leap onto my knee and then give Hard Stares of a Triumphal Nature to the other.

Reading news

I’ve been starting lots of books and not finishing them. This is unusual for me. Is the weather unsettling me, or can I just not find the right book? Is anyone else feeling like this?I had hoped to write a post about Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland this month, as it’s the 150th centenary of its first publication, and I rashly lashed out and bought a copy of the annotated centenary edition, and it is HUGE, I can’t take it on the bus and even reading it in bed or on the sofa is vaguely offputting. And I keep getting distracted by all the notes. So that post may not happen...

beyond reading?

Now I know that everyone who visits here enjoys reading, so this might seem a rather shocking, but I have been wondering over the past few months whether perhaps it is possible to be unhealthily obsessed with books. I have noted the following symptoms in myself:

• At the beginning of every school year, when I am getting to know my classes, we generally talk about what we like doing in our spare time, and my students have a pretty varied and interesting range of hobbies, and they ask me what my hobbies are. Erm. Reading. That’s it.*
• Should anyone ask me what I’d like for Christmas or my birthday, it’s always books.
• I try to get rid of books I don’t believe I’ll ever read again, but how can I be sure I’ll never read them again? Best to be on the safe side... Actually, once I woke in the night and for a brief moment was sluiced in cold reality and realised that I would never, ever have enough room in my home for all my books, and I wept at the thought of having to get rid of hundreds and hundreds of them because they are meeee. Then I fell asleep and next morning returned to my default mode of not thinking where I will put all these books if I lift them off the floor and empty my parents’ attic of the boxes of them. If you don’t think about a problem, it ceases to exist.
• When my current cardigan went at the elbows (or, at least, when K noticed that this had happened last week) I moaned and groaned about having to spend six euros – yes, six euros! – at the charity shop on a replacement for it. Then I came home and blew nearly forty quid on books without even thinking. Because some things are essential and others are not.
• I have no small talk because I don’t do anything except read books nobody around me has ever even heard of or obsess about the bowel movements of my hens.

In an attempt to become a more rounded human being I have branched out into the world of Making Things. Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to have made me any more interesting nor given me any entertaining topics of conversation, perhaps because so far it’s principally entailed making doll’s clothes and it’s hard for most human beings to work up much enthusiasm about tiny shoes made of cardboard. Also, to be honest, everything I have bodged together looks a bit crap. And I don’t seem to improve. I thought that was supposed to happen, you practise a bit and you get better at things?

Here are some doll’s clothes I made. You would not believe how long it took me, nor how frequently my teeth were gnashed. I painted some little boxes as well, but even I can’t bear to humiliate myself quite so far as to post them on the internets. I am only showing you these because this is a quick post due to my guilt at not being a better blogger. I have tons of things to write about but not the time to do so. Uploading photographs is so much easier than actually formulating ideas.

(Fairy Doll, wearing skirt and shoes made by me. Yes, those are bits of ribbon knotted to an elastic band. Why am I actually posting these pictures?)

(Florence, sporting a pink corduroy number originally intended for Baby Doll. But alas, when I finished it, it was too small for her so she had to give it to Florence. Oops)

(Florence, being suddenly upstaged by Mister Puss, in a dress originally intended for Bunchy; alas, poor Bunchy had to pass it on to Florence because it was too tight round the arms do you see a pattern here? No wonder Florence is smiling)

Please, tell me your interesting hobbies, I need some inspiration. Or tell me that you have no life beyond reading either.

* Of course I lie to make myself seem a bit more exciting and I say that I garden (and that’s true, but my idea of gardening is prancing out on a sunny day and planting out a few seedlings or doing a little light weeding before retiring to a cup of tea, you won’t find me braving February winds or remembering to dead-head every day, which is what proper gardeners do while emitting hearty whoops) and I like to travel, go to the theatre and visit galleries and museums (again true but these days I never do).

further malingering

It seems that I must begin every post these days with an apology for failing to write anything here – I haven’t even been reading or commenting on anyone else’s weblogs either – and it’s becoming a boring beginning but it is true nonetheless, I am sorry that I haven’t been around. Casa gallimaufry has been blighted with endless colds and perforated ear drums and broken legs, while the mighty heap of Important Work Things To Do has piled up relentlessly and unhindered by anything in it actually being done. But most annoyingly of all, I have been and still am constantly tired, despite plenty of sleep and early nights. This has been going on for a couple of months now and it’s making me cross. It’s robbing me of the ability to think or write or play and it must stop. I don’t feel like myself very much any more.

The tiredness has contributed to a reading slump and a lot of half-finished books and what-do-I-really-fancy-reading? wasted hours, but all has not been lost and I have been working my way through these:

(Obligatory book-blog pile of books, with attendant disdainful cat; unkempt garden in background)

• Led by the Nose: A Garden of Smells, by Jenny Joseph, was a book I saw praised by Christine so I immediately ordered it. I made the mistake of devouring it in a couple of sittings; that is definitely not the best way to read it as it can be a little repetitive (maybe you don’t mind about that but I do) and it’s easy to skim over some of the lovely writing. While it is a good book for the armchair gardener, of which I am a fine example, it does also give plenty of practical advice about fragrant plants – and this includes plants which smell in unexpected ways – and what to do when in the garden, so I think I shall be referring to it quite a bit in the future on those days when I’m pretending to be a gardener. I am also stopping and sniffing and thinking about scent much more than usual, and this is very pleasurable.
• Seaward, by Susan Cooper, is a book I never knew existed until I saw it praised on several weblogs (I’m so sorry if one of them was yours, I can’t remember now!). It was just the ticket when I was feeling particularly ill; however, I couldn’t help wondering that much as I enjoyed it, would I have done so even more had I read it as a child. I do think that a frisson of nostalgia for my childhood and my first encounter with a book adds just that extra zest to some rereadings. Do you?
• De eerste zaak van Montalbano, by Andrea Camilleri, translated from the Italian into Dutch by Willy Hemelrijk. I am trying to read more fiction in Dutch, and I decided that detective novels were the way forward – strong plots to keep me turning the pages. I did intend to borrow one by a Dutch or Flemish writer when I last went to the library as I have been repeatedly told that reading translated fiction is not the best way to learn a language, but... with a complaining small child in tow and an array of big thick novels by writers I didn’t know in front of me, I wimped out and seized a small book with a familiar name on the cover. Inspector Montalbano is the only television I watch apart from the news, I love it, insanely unrealistic and whimsical as it is.
• George Eliot: The Last Victorian by Kathryn Hughes. Here’s a biography I’ve had for ages, bought years ago in a remaindering shop or whatever they’re called. I’m almost halfway through it, and Mary Ann Evans is yet to publish any fiction, but I have learned a lot about her early life and relationships. Hughes seems to see the roots of Eliot’s fiction (especially The Mill on the Floss) as in her childhood and her psychological speculations aren’t always very helpful. Despite this, her Evans/Eliot doesn’t really come to life for me. Sometimes she quotes a letter of Mary Ann’s and it is so fizzy and clever that I feel a bit suspicious of some of Hughes’ analyses. Hughes is strong on people’s foibles, less so I find on their strengths. The choice of subtitle is weird, and I think that some of the colour plates in my edition (hardback) are incorrectly captioned. However, she manages that tough balancing act between readability and scholarly detail exquisitely. She is also excellent at placing Evans/Eliot in her social and intellectual milieux and I am finding this fascinating – I mean really fascinating, more than enough to compensate for any shortcomings I’ve perceived. In fact, I am now rereading in the light of her observations of Evans/Eliot’s early life...
• ... The Mill on the Floss, by George Eliot. After I read this the first time, I was so angered by the ending – how could you kill off Maggie, Mary Ann? – that while I subsequently read some of her other novels – Middlemarch in particular, such a brilliant, brilliant novel – I could never bring myself to reread this. Which was silly of course, but then I am silly. Anyway, I am deep into this and I cannot feel sorry that I did not reread it before because I am enjoying it all so much. I had forgotten just how funny George Eliot was.

Now I am toying with the idea of reading Romola next because I have just signed up for the Coursera MOOC (erm, what is a MOOC?) ‘Plagues, Witches and War: The Worlds of Historical Fiction’ after I read Alex’s post about it. I doubt I will do more than dip into it but it looks fascinating and might breathe enthusiasm back into my lacklustre reading spirit. I also have a bottle of vitamin pills (they’re called ‘Multi A–Z Vrouw Vitaal’, I fancy being ‘vitaal’) and I hope that reading, writing and posting will all perk up again very soon.