I found this on the BBC News website - a really sweet little audio slideshow about the Crossbones Cemetary, which I've mentioned before. It kind of gives you an idea of what the gates look like and what the ceremony's all about...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-11642938
Sunday 31 October 2010
A Walk Between The Worlds...
So today is Samhain, the Witches New Year and a celebration of all that is past; when the last of the harvest has been gathered and our ancestors looked forwards, no doubt with some trepidation, to the winter ahead and trying to get through it in one piece. I'm kinda hoping that the next 12 months are slightly better than the last 12 (although there have been some seriously wonderful moments), but although I'm feeling all reflective this is not going to be one of those 'oh do you remember when we...?' posts. Instead, as the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest point tonight and the realms of the living and the dead become intertwined, I'm going to honour my own dead...
My first experience of death (human death, that is; I'd already witnessed The Passing Of The First Goldfish) came when I was 10 years old and my beloved Nanna, my dad's mum, died. She had been 'not well' for a very long time but the end, when it came, seemed to me at least to be very sudden: one day she was in hospital, very ill, and then a few days later she passed over. My Nanna was one of the kindest people I have ever been fortunate enough to know; all my memories of her are of laughter and joy, which push away the ones of her being ill, and to this day I only have to see certain objects or smell certain perfumes and I'm immediately reminded of her. And if I ever happen to see an older lady doing her shopping in her slippers, I have hysterics because my Nanna did that more than once! She was a one in a million, my Nanna, and I'm forever grateful for the early memories of love and laughter that she gave me.
Even after she passed over, however, and as devastated as I was, I knew that she was still part of me. She lived on in my memories, yes, but I knew her spirit was still there as well, watching over us. In fact when my Arhoo, my dad's dad, passed over after a long illness, just before I turned 21, I strongly believe that she was there to take him across. I can't explain it in words, but when I went to see my Grandad in hospital just before he passed, I'm sure she was there because he looked t something or someone that wasn't physically there and he smiled. My Nanna and Grandad were very close, so I'm not surprised that she came for him. I was privileged to have wonderful grandparents - on both sides of the family - and Arhoo was a great practical joker. All the memories I have of him, rather than being of the last time I saw him in hospital, are of a kind, caring man who took great delight in stealing my breakfast and writing me out a bill after a week's stay at their house. What can I say; no wonder I'm broke! There's also the story about him dropping an artillery shell almost on his foot during the war...don't ask. Burying him on April Fools Day was a bittersweet experience, but I know that he's at peace now and that is what sustains me. I was always amazed growing up that so many people in Rochford knew my Grandad and thought so much of him, but as I got older and learnt about his work as the local undertaker it all made sense. Knowing that people whose families he had buried, and the district nurses who'd helped care for him in the last years of his life, were at his funeral is testament to the sort of man that he was, and I am so proud to be able to say that he was my own beloved Arhoo.
My other Grandad, my mum's dad, passed when I was 14 and in that very self-centred 'stroppy teenager' phase. He had been ill for a long time and I think I was in complete denial that he was going to die. I'd already lost my Nanna; to my mind there was no way my warm, funny, adorable Grandad who let me kick ants and drown his precious plants when I was 'helping' to water them was going to die as well. Of course, the Universe never asks us what we want and I found his passing probably the hardest of all. I adored all my grandparents because they were such warm, wonderfully caring people, but we'd lived with my mum's parents since I was 7 and so I'd grown up with my Grandad. He had the patience of several thousand saints, which was tested to the limits when he tried to teach me my times tables, but he never complained about any of the ridiculous games my brother and I asked him to play with us and was exactly the sort of grandfather I would want any putative child of mine to have. In fact I wish every child could have the grandparents I did; all four of them were (and still are, in my Nan's case) among the kindest people I've ever met and even a smidgen of the love and affection that I got from them could go a long way towards helping other children turn their lives around. My Grandad never judged me, even when I was the most obnoxious little cow imaginable and, although he had passed over when my obnoxious little cow phase was at its worst, I know that he was still there: his spirit stopped me killing myself when I was 15. But I owe him more than just my life; I owe him my ability to (sometimes) work out what seven eights are, my delusional belief that my violin playing was completely extraordinary and an unhealthy obsession with digging potatoes out of the earth with my bare hands. His belief in me even when I doubted myself was above and beyond the call of any familial ties, and I know deep down that, when I really start to think I’m a failure or I can’t do something, all I have to do is close my eyes and think of him, and I’ll find the belief that I need.
Just over a year ago I also lost my Great Uncle Ronnie and my Great Auntie Rose, my Grandad’s older brother and his wife. I didn’t know Ronnie and Rosie as well as I knew my grandparents, but whenever they came down to us for family get-togethers or to stay with my Nan and Grandad they always took the time to play with me and enfold me with the same warmth that they extended to their own grandchildren. Again, they were both extremely kind and loving people, and to have had them in my life – even momentarily – has been a blessing.
So tonight, as the walls between the worlds fall away and the ancestors return home for their brief, fleeting visits, I want to honour the people that I have loved and lost over the years, and thank them for their role in shaping the child I was and the woman I am becoming. To my beloved grandparents Margaret and Aubrey Pipe and Denis Ward; to my Great Uncle Ronald Ward and my Great Aunties Rose and Violet, who passed over several years ago.
There are others, too; ancestors whose names I may know but whose stories are a mystery, and all those who stretch back beyond the records we have found to the beginning of human life. Their blood flows through my veins still, and I thank them for it.
To Marie, who passed over when we were still at school and made all of us realise how fragile life could be, I wish peace at last.
And to all of you who may be reading this rather rambling, shambolic thing that I call my blog; to all of you who have lost loved ones, I send you my love and will whisper a silent wish to the winds that they are also at peace. Samhain is a time to look back and honour those who have gone before us, but it is also a time to look ahead to the turn of another year and all the promise that it holds. Happy Samhain, everyone, and may the new year bring you all joy, good health and good fortune. xx
My first experience of death (human death, that is; I'd already witnessed The Passing Of The First Goldfish) came when I was 10 years old and my beloved Nanna, my dad's mum, died. She had been 'not well' for a very long time but the end, when it came, seemed to me at least to be very sudden: one day she was in hospital, very ill, and then a few days later she passed over. My Nanna was one of the kindest people I have ever been fortunate enough to know; all my memories of her are of laughter and joy, which push away the ones of her being ill, and to this day I only have to see certain objects or smell certain perfumes and I'm immediately reminded of her. And if I ever happen to see an older lady doing her shopping in her slippers, I have hysterics because my Nanna did that more than once! She was a one in a million, my Nanna, and I'm forever grateful for the early memories of love and laughter that she gave me.
Even after she passed over, however, and as devastated as I was, I knew that she was still part of me. She lived on in my memories, yes, but I knew her spirit was still there as well, watching over us. In fact when my Arhoo, my dad's dad, passed over after a long illness, just before I turned 21, I strongly believe that she was there to take him across. I can't explain it in words, but when I went to see my Grandad in hospital just before he passed, I'm sure she was there because he looked t something or someone that wasn't physically there and he smiled. My Nanna and Grandad were very close, so I'm not surprised that she came for him. I was privileged to have wonderful grandparents - on both sides of the family - and Arhoo was a great practical joker. All the memories I have of him, rather than being of the last time I saw him in hospital, are of a kind, caring man who took great delight in stealing my breakfast and writing me out a bill after a week's stay at their house. What can I say; no wonder I'm broke! There's also the story about him dropping an artillery shell almost on his foot during the war...don't ask. Burying him on April Fools Day was a bittersweet experience, but I know that he's at peace now and that is what sustains me. I was always amazed growing up that so many people in Rochford knew my Grandad and thought so much of him, but as I got older and learnt about his work as the local undertaker it all made sense. Knowing that people whose families he had buried, and the district nurses who'd helped care for him in the last years of his life, were at his funeral is testament to the sort of man that he was, and I am so proud to be able to say that he was my own beloved Arhoo.
My other Grandad, my mum's dad, passed when I was 14 and in that very self-centred 'stroppy teenager' phase. He had been ill for a long time and I think I was in complete denial that he was going to die. I'd already lost my Nanna; to my mind there was no way my warm, funny, adorable Grandad who let me kick ants and drown his precious plants when I was 'helping' to water them was going to die as well. Of course, the Universe never asks us what we want and I found his passing probably the hardest of all. I adored all my grandparents because they were such warm, wonderfully caring people, but we'd lived with my mum's parents since I was 7 and so I'd grown up with my Grandad. He had the patience of several thousand saints, which was tested to the limits when he tried to teach me my times tables, but he never complained about any of the ridiculous games my brother and I asked him to play with us and was exactly the sort of grandfather I would want any putative child of mine to have. In fact I wish every child could have the grandparents I did; all four of them were (and still are, in my Nan's case) among the kindest people I've ever met and even a smidgen of the love and affection that I got from them could go a long way towards helping other children turn their lives around. My Grandad never judged me, even when I was the most obnoxious little cow imaginable and, although he had passed over when my obnoxious little cow phase was at its worst, I know that he was still there: his spirit stopped me killing myself when I was 15. But I owe him more than just my life; I owe him my ability to (sometimes) work out what seven eights are, my delusional belief that my violin playing was completely extraordinary and an unhealthy obsession with digging potatoes out of the earth with my bare hands. His belief in me even when I doubted myself was above and beyond the call of any familial ties, and I know deep down that, when I really start to think I’m a failure or I can’t do something, all I have to do is close my eyes and think of him, and I’ll find the belief that I need.
Just over a year ago I also lost my Great Uncle Ronnie and my Great Auntie Rose, my Grandad’s older brother and his wife. I didn’t know Ronnie and Rosie as well as I knew my grandparents, but whenever they came down to us for family get-togethers or to stay with my Nan and Grandad they always took the time to play with me and enfold me with the same warmth that they extended to their own grandchildren. Again, they were both extremely kind and loving people, and to have had them in my life – even momentarily – has been a blessing.
So tonight, as the walls between the worlds fall away and the ancestors return home for their brief, fleeting visits, I want to honour the people that I have loved and lost over the years, and thank them for their role in shaping the child I was and the woman I am becoming. To my beloved grandparents Margaret and Aubrey Pipe and Denis Ward; to my Great Uncle Ronald Ward and my Great Aunties Rose and Violet, who passed over several years ago.
There are others, too; ancestors whose names I may know but whose stories are a mystery, and all those who stretch back beyond the records we have found to the beginning of human life. Their blood flows through my veins still, and I thank them for it.
To Marie, who passed over when we were still at school and made all of us realise how fragile life could be, I wish peace at last.
And to all of you who may be reading this rather rambling, shambolic thing that I call my blog; to all of you who have lost loved ones, I send you my love and will whisper a silent wish to the winds that they are also at peace. Samhain is a time to look back and honour those who have gone before us, but it is also a time to look ahead to the turn of another year and all the promise that it holds. Happy Samhain, everyone, and may the new year bring you all joy, good health and good fortune. xx
Saturday 30 October 2010
Strictly Shallow...
Today's post will be short but sweet. And very, very sexy...
In summary: tonight's Strictly Come Dancing was a Halloween special and I was ultra looking forward to it because there would be Argentine Tango and Paso Doble's being danced, which are my two favourites. Imagine my surprise, delight and down-on-the-knees-thankfulness, then, for the opening number, which saw five of the pro dancers doing a paso. I can't tell you what anyone else did, not even Ann and Anton (and I concur with Bruce - they're my favourites), because of this number. Not only did it feature the return of my favourite dancer, the very sexy Matthew Cutler, but the also very sexy Robin, Artem, James and Brendan were also involved. It was heaven. I don't care how shallow and tragic this post makes me sound, or how much like a teenage girl I look when I say 'phwoar' - this was something special.
Thank you, Strictly producers, and thank you, gentlemen, for showing everyone what a paso is supposed to look like. And for making my temperature shoot up. Phwoar.
In summary: tonight's Strictly Come Dancing was a Halloween special and I was ultra looking forward to it because there would be Argentine Tango and Paso Doble's being danced, which are my two favourites. Imagine my surprise, delight and down-on-the-knees-thankfulness, then, for the opening number, which saw five of the pro dancers doing a paso. I can't tell you what anyone else did, not even Ann and Anton (and I concur with Bruce - they're my favourites), because of this number. Not only did it feature the return of my favourite dancer, the very sexy Matthew Cutler, but the also very sexy Robin, Artem, James and Brendan were also involved. It was heaven. I don't care how shallow and tragic this post makes me sound, or how much like a teenage girl I look when I say 'phwoar' - this was something special.
Thank you, Strictly producers, and thank you, gentlemen, for showing everyone what a paso is supposed to look like. And for making my temperature shoot up. Phwoar.
Thursday 28 October 2010
Lorem Ipsum...
And so November is almost upon us, which means several things...
1) Lots of complete and utter idiots with fireworks.
2) An excuse to wear snugly jumpers, curl up with a hot chocolate and a good book and not go out because "ooh, it's a bit parky out there and it's raining".
3) My annual attempt to render myself even more insane than I already am begins.
Yes, it is indeed *that* time again. National Novel Writing Month, or NaNo, as it's affectionately/grudgingly known, kicks off on November 1st and once again yours truly is going for it. Write a novel of at least 50,000 words in a month, you say? Certainly, my fine fellow; in fact, why don't we make it two for the price of one and I'll throw in some apples as well!
One month, 50,000 words...except make mine a double because this year I'm attempting two novels. Oh, as well as having two or three rehearsed readings with my writer's group, setting myself the challenge of writing a poem a day for a year (starting on Samhain) and holding down a full-time, stressy job, among other things. Oh, and blogging. I may end up shooting myself at this rate. But it will, as always, be an experience.
Luckily for me, I have a vague idea of where my stories will go this year. One is to attempt to turn a short story I wrote into a fuller-length novel (thanks to kds at the Emilie Autumn forum, otherwise known as published author Kathryn Smith, for making me think I could do it. Read her 'Brotherhood of the Blood' books; they're amazing). The other is a modern retelling of ye olde Arthurian legends, set in the 1960's and reclaiming Morgan Le Faye from the 'incestuous whore' tag she's been saddled with over the years. It'll be interesting. I think. Come back to me on Tuesday and I'll probably be pulling my hair out and screaming that I can't write anything ever again, but for now I'm upbeat and positive.
In fact, to get my itchy fingers sorted out and attempt to engage my brain, I set myself a bit of a challenge: write a 26 word story in alphabetical order. Et voila the result...
A Little Piece of Heaven
At Beachy Cove, dawn echoes from ghostly hideaways immemorial. Jack kissed lucky me near open pools; questing, reaching, searching the undulating valleys, watching xanthic Yellowbill’s zooming…
It's short but sweet, and certainly made my brain work. Right, bring on November...
1) Lots of complete and utter idiots with fireworks.
2) An excuse to wear snugly jumpers, curl up with a hot chocolate and a good book and not go out because "ooh, it's a bit parky out there and it's raining".
3) My annual attempt to render myself even more insane than I already am begins.
Yes, it is indeed *that* time again. National Novel Writing Month, or NaNo, as it's affectionately/grudgingly known, kicks off on November 1st and once again yours truly is going for it. Write a novel of at least 50,000 words in a month, you say? Certainly, my fine fellow; in fact, why don't we make it two for the price of one and I'll throw in some apples as well!
One month, 50,000 words...except make mine a double because this year I'm attempting two novels. Oh, as well as having two or three rehearsed readings with my writer's group, setting myself the challenge of writing a poem a day for a year (starting on Samhain) and holding down a full-time, stressy job, among other things. Oh, and blogging. I may end up shooting myself at this rate. But it will, as always, be an experience.
Luckily for me, I have a vague idea of where my stories will go this year. One is to attempt to turn a short story I wrote into a fuller-length novel (thanks to kds at the Emilie Autumn forum, otherwise known as published author Kathryn Smith, for making me think I could do it. Read her 'Brotherhood of the Blood' books; they're amazing). The other is a modern retelling of ye olde Arthurian legends, set in the 1960's and reclaiming Morgan Le Faye from the 'incestuous whore' tag she's been saddled with over the years. It'll be interesting. I think. Come back to me on Tuesday and I'll probably be pulling my hair out and screaming that I can't write anything ever again, but for now I'm upbeat and positive.
In fact, to get my itchy fingers sorted out and attempt to engage my brain, I set myself a bit of a challenge: write a 26 word story in alphabetical order. Et voila the result...
A Little Piece of Heaven
At Beachy Cove, dawn echoes from ghostly hideaways immemorial. Jack kissed lucky me near open pools; questing, reaching, searching the undulating valleys, watching xanthic Yellowbill’s zooming…
It's short but sweet, and certainly made my brain work. Right, bring on November...
Saturday 23 October 2010
A Passion For Fashion
Technically I suppose that’s a bit of a misnomer, since you could never in a million years accuse me of being a fashion victim. The whole purpose of “fashion” as far as I can make out is to ensure that you blend in with the rest of the herd; Gods forbid that you should step outside “the rules” and look different to anyone else. And it seems to me that it doesn’t matter which ‘clique’ you’re part of, even the metal community; if you dress differently it’s not fashion and you, shameful blight on humanity that you are, will never be ‘in’.
I am, very happily, not ‘in’. I wear what the hell I like; sometimes I’m a jeans and band t-shirt kinda gal; other times I go for full-on Goth; sometimes I channel neo-Victorian, other times I dress like a Woodstock-going hippy and sometimes I wear something so odd that it makes even my nearest and dearest go ‘eh?’ (Ducky Dress FTW!!) I mix high street, vintage and charity shop finds and if you were to ask me to define my style, quite honestly I’d struggle. So explain to me, please, why I spent the day at the ExCel Centre ‘up tahn’ (in London, for those of you who haven’t seen ‘This is Essex’ and don’t speak the lingo) at Britain’s Next Top Model Live?
Actually, for all that it was a shallow girlie-fest of clothes, beauty, shopping, makeovers and celebrities I’d never heard of (with the exception of the charming Mr James Nesbitt, who actually IS that fabulous in real life), it was pretty good fun. The people-watching opportunities were fabulous, both the so-called celebrities and the ‘real’ shoppers and wannabes. I saw vintage vixens, goth girl glamour pusses, high street cuties (I nearly said ‘high street honeys’, but that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish…) and designer divas; women of all ages (and a few bored looking men and some very excited GBF’s) strutting their stuff, most of them wearing whatever happens to be ‘in’ at the moment. It was a joy to see the occasional gem standing out from the crowd in whatever she felt comfortable in rather than the same old, same old, but it was a helluva time, I can tell you. We had VIP tickets (darling) and so, with air-kisses all round (sweetie) I channelled my best Anna Wintour impression (I can’t think of any other fashionista phrases) as we took in the fashion show. I have no idea which of the models on the catwalk were actually in the last series of BNTM (never watched it) but the clothes were pretty amazing. And yours truly was very, very good and only bought two very cute little vintage-inspired dresses and a very dinky little thing that goes over the button of your jeans, shaped like Dorothy’s ruby slippers. What can I say? It might not be fashion, sweetie-darling, but it’s very, very me…
Oh, and FYI…I was wearing Ducky dress, black leggings, a black cardi and my tartan shoes from Ness. Proper glam. Not…
I am, very happily, not ‘in’. I wear what the hell I like; sometimes I’m a jeans and band t-shirt kinda gal; other times I go for full-on Goth; sometimes I channel neo-Victorian, other times I dress like a Woodstock-going hippy and sometimes I wear something so odd that it makes even my nearest and dearest go ‘eh?’ (Ducky Dress FTW!!) I mix high street, vintage and charity shop finds and if you were to ask me to define my style, quite honestly I’d struggle. So explain to me, please, why I spent the day at the ExCel Centre ‘up tahn’ (in London, for those of you who haven’t seen ‘This is Essex’ and don’t speak the lingo) at Britain’s Next Top Model Live?
Actually, for all that it was a shallow girlie-fest of clothes, beauty, shopping, makeovers and celebrities I’d never heard of (with the exception of the charming Mr James Nesbitt, who actually IS that fabulous in real life), it was pretty good fun. The people-watching opportunities were fabulous, both the so-called celebrities and the ‘real’ shoppers and wannabes. I saw vintage vixens, goth girl glamour pusses, high street cuties (I nearly said ‘high street honeys’, but that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish…) and designer divas; women of all ages (and a few bored looking men and some very excited GBF’s) strutting their stuff, most of them wearing whatever happens to be ‘in’ at the moment. It was a joy to see the occasional gem standing out from the crowd in whatever she felt comfortable in rather than the same old, same old, but it was a helluva time, I can tell you. We had VIP tickets (darling) and so, with air-kisses all round (sweetie) I channelled my best Anna Wintour impression (I can’t think of any other fashionista phrases) as we took in the fashion show. I have no idea which of the models on the catwalk were actually in the last series of BNTM (never watched it) but the clothes were pretty amazing. And yours truly was very, very good and only bought two very cute little vintage-inspired dresses and a very dinky little thing that goes over the button of your jeans, shaped like Dorothy’s ruby slippers. What can I say? It might not be fashion, sweetie-darling, but it’s very, very me…
Oh, and FYI…I was wearing Ducky dress, black leggings, a black cardi and my tartan shoes from Ness. Proper glam. Not…
Tuesday 19 October 2010
I Have A Dream...
No, before you ask, this is not me doing my Martin Luther King impression. Not that I've ever done such an impersonation but, hey, there's a first time for everything...I digress. No, this is about an actual dream that I have and the great Dr King's word's just seemed appropriate.
Not that this is the sort of politically-charged ideological dream that he had. Don't get me wrong, I have my own Utopian fantasies where everyone gets along with everyone else and everyone is happy and there's no war/famine/pestilence/Simon Cowell, but it's not that kind of dream I'm blogging about. Nor is it the sort of dream where I'm slowly spit-roasting David Cameron, Nick Clegg and George Osbourne over an open fire whilst cackling like a hag, although maybe both of those are worth blog entries in their own right...nope, this dream is both a little more sensible, a little more modest and a little more fantastical.
I have a dream. My dream is to have a library.
Yeah, yeah, you can stop laughing now. It's true - I am absolutely desperate to have a library of my own. I feel dreadful for my poor books at the moment, scattered around in two bookcases, various boxes and several piles on the floor; it's inhumane to treat them like that. My books deserve to be on beautifully designed shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling; in an ideal world they'd be spiralling round and round in an endless labyrinth (like in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books in Carlos Ruiz Zafon's masterpiece 'The Shadow of the Wind' - if such a place really existed, I would move in at once), but if not then just shelves as far as the eye could see would do. I've been fascinated by libraries ever since I was a child and I was taken to get my very first library ticket; having become an ardent reader and lover of books by the age of 3, the idea that I could just go to this place and take out as many books as I wanted, before bringing them back and exchanging them for more, was a concept that seemed too good to be true. Second-hand and antique book shops have always cast a spell over me, but so have libraries, and every time I was taken to a Stately 'Ome or still-inhabited castle, I was always endlessly delighted by the different libraries I saw (and always slightly put out that I couldn't go up to the shelves to a) see what Lord and Lady Such-and-Such were reading and b) take a book down from the endless shelves and curl up for an hour or so to have a good read). I was fortunate to have been blessed with a godmother who is a librarian, so she was always able to provide me with hits of the good stuff, and so enamoured was I of libraries as a child that I was library prefect at both Primary and Secondary school (yes, yes, I was a girlie swot for a time). Books have been my saviours, my friends and my kindred spirits since my early childhood; their myriad voices speak to me across time, space and language and they have both moved and inspired me in ways I could not have imagined when I first started out on this journey as A Reader.
And now it seems I have discovered a new friend who feels the same way about books as I do and who has written books of his own, one of which has inspired me to give further thought to the idea - the dream - of My Library. Alberto Manguel's two most recent books, 'A Reader on Reading' and 'The Library at Night' are like elegiac love songs to both books and libraries; personal journeys, literary histories and sociological encyclopaedias, they are also brilliantly written and are fast becoming new and treasured friends of mine. Alberto (because I'm on intimate terms with him now, don't you know) has a 30,000-volume library of his own at his home in a 15th century presbytery in France, built in the grounds and adjoining the house, yet completely separate from it. Naturally, I'm incredibly jealous, not just of the library or the number of books in his guardianship (because after all, you never really 'own' a book; you befriend and take care of them for a while before eventually relinquishing custody) but because living in a 15th century presbytery in France sounds like heaven. I digress…again. Anyway, reading about his library and the libraries of others has made me yearn even more for a library of my own; somewhere the books in my keeping can live and breathe, where we can all find sanctuary and renew our friendships, as well as having plenty of room for new acquaintances to join us. The fact that I currently have neither the space to assemble such a library or my own home in which to attempt it (or the money such a project deserves, although I’m quite certain that any right-thinking judge that has to hear the case when my bank-robbing spree comes to an end would understand the reasons for it) is neither here nor there. Everyone has to have a dream, and this is mine.
Of course, taking all my beloved friends over to such a place would be quite an adventure. All my antique books would have to have special glass-fronted shelves to live in, to protect them from the atmosphere and the ravages of time, although they are still able to be read and are happy to be so employed. And in their company would be books on innumerable topics and themes; my crime psychology books would have to be close at hand (what is a library if it doesn’t have a forensic dissection of the mind of Ted Bundy, after all?), as would the books I loved as a child and have kept ever since (step forward Fancy Nancy, Ramona Quimby, Junk and Stargirl). Alice in Wonderland and her journey Through the Looking Glass will converse with Tim Burton’s Oyster Boy and Edward Gorey’s tragic Gashlycrumb Tinies. The fairy tales that I have loved all my life – Charles Perrault, Andrew Lang, Hans Christian Anderson and the grim Grimm brothers – are here, along with the poets whose words give voice to my own emotions. My ‘witchy’ books, both historical and less scholarly, must take their place, along with the art books that carry the images I only wish I was able to create. The comic and the serious will have their own space; Shakespeare will dally with the myths and legends of other countries and different times, and historical and sociological books on countless different subjects will be given homes. Then there are the novels of course, both ‘classic’ and ‘modern’; fantasy, chick-lit and anything and everything in between will line the shelves. Money being no object (this is a fantasy library, after all), there will be numerous editions of books from the Folio Society scattered throughout the room, and my antique book collection will no doubt continue to grow. There will be sacrifices, of course; to own a first edition of Shakespeare’s plays would be an absolute blessing in any library, but I’d be so terrified of damaging it that I’d never read it and what is the point of a book if you can’t make it live by reading? And, of course, there would be space for new friends to join the old, because when you’re a reader there are always new discoveries to make…
My Library may be a long way off its full realisation, but I cannot wallow in the valley of despair. I have a dream, a dream that is deeply rooted in the dream of all readers. I have a dream that one day my books will rise up and live out the true meaning of their creed; that they will sit on the shelves of brotherhood and find their own oasis where they are judged not by the colour of their bindings but by the content of their character. I have a dream that one day, one day, my books will be able to sing the words “free at last, free at last; thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”
Not that this is the sort of politically-charged ideological dream that he had. Don't get me wrong, I have my own Utopian fantasies where everyone gets along with everyone else and everyone is happy and there's no war/famine/pestilence/Simon Cowell, but it's not that kind of dream I'm blogging about. Nor is it the sort of dream where I'm slowly spit-roasting David Cameron, Nick Clegg and George Osbourne over an open fire whilst cackling like a hag, although maybe both of those are worth blog entries in their own right...nope, this dream is both a little more sensible, a little more modest and a little more fantastical.
I have a dream. My dream is to have a library.
Yeah, yeah, you can stop laughing now. It's true - I am absolutely desperate to have a library of my own. I feel dreadful for my poor books at the moment, scattered around in two bookcases, various boxes and several piles on the floor; it's inhumane to treat them like that. My books deserve to be on beautifully designed shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling; in an ideal world they'd be spiralling round and round in an endless labyrinth (like in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books in Carlos Ruiz Zafon's masterpiece 'The Shadow of the Wind' - if such a place really existed, I would move in at once), but if not then just shelves as far as the eye could see would do. I've been fascinated by libraries ever since I was a child and I was taken to get my very first library ticket; having become an ardent reader and lover of books by the age of 3, the idea that I could just go to this place and take out as many books as I wanted, before bringing them back and exchanging them for more, was a concept that seemed too good to be true. Second-hand and antique book shops have always cast a spell over me, but so have libraries, and every time I was taken to a Stately 'Ome or still-inhabited castle, I was always endlessly delighted by the different libraries I saw (and always slightly put out that I couldn't go up to the shelves to a) see what Lord and Lady Such-and-Such were reading and b) take a book down from the endless shelves and curl up for an hour or so to have a good read). I was fortunate to have been blessed with a godmother who is a librarian, so she was always able to provide me with hits of the good stuff, and so enamoured was I of libraries as a child that I was library prefect at both Primary and Secondary school (yes, yes, I was a girlie swot for a time). Books have been my saviours, my friends and my kindred spirits since my early childhood; their myriad voices speak to me across time, space and language and they have both moved and inspired me in ways I could not have imagined when I first started out on this journey as A Reader.
And now it seems I have discovered a new friend who feels the same way about books as I do and who has written books of his own, one of which has inspired me to give further thought to the idea - the dream - of My Library. Alberto Manguel's two most recent books, 'A Reader on Reading' and 'The Library at Night' are like elegiac love songs to both books and libraries; personal journeys, literary histories and sociological encyclopaedias, they are also brilliantly written and are fast becoming new and treasured friends of mine. Alberto (because I'm on intimate terms with him now, don't you know) has a 30,000-volume library of his own at his home in a 15th century presbytery in France, built in the grounds and adjoining the house, yet completely separate from it. Naturally, I'm incredibly jealous, not just of the library or the number of books in his guardianship (because after all, you never really 'own' a book; you befriend and take care of them for a while before eventually relinquishing custody) but because living in a 15th century presbytery in France sounds like heaven. I digress…again. Anyway, reading about his library and the libraries of others has made me yearn even more for a library of my own; somewhere the books in my keeping can live and breathe, where we can all find sanctuary and renew our friendships, as well as having plenty of room for new acquaintances to join us. The fact that I currently have neither the space to assemble such a library or my own home in which to attempt it (or the money such a project deserves, although I’m quite certain that any right-thinking judge that has to hear the case when my bank-robbing spree comes to an end would understand the reasons for it) is neither here nor there. Everyone has to have a dream, and this is mine.
Of course, taking all my beloved friends over to such a place would be quite an adventure. All my antique books would have to have special glass-fronted shelves to live in, to protect them from the atmosphere and the ravages of time, although they are still able to be read and are happy to be so employed. And in their company would be books on innumerable topics and themes; my crime psychology books would have to be close at hand (what is a library if it doesn’t have a forensic dissection of the mind of Ted Bundy, after all?), as would the books I loved as a child and have kept ever since (step forward Fancy Nancy, Ramona Quimby, Junk and Stargirl). Alice in Wonderland and her journey Through the Looking Glass will converse with Tim Burton’s Oyster Boy and Edward Gorey’s tragic Gashlycrumb Tinies. The fairy tales that I have loved all my life – Charles Perrault, Andrew Lang, Hans Christian Anderson and the grim Grimm brothers – are here, along with the poets whose words give voice to my own emotions. My ‘witchy’ books, both historical and less scholarly, must take their place, along with the art books that carry the images I only wish I was able to create. The comic and the serious will have their own space; Shakespeare will dally with the myths and legends of other countries and different times, and historical and sociological books on countless different subjects will be given homes. Then there are the novels of course, both ‘classic’ and ‘modern’; fantasy, chick-lit and anything and everything in between will line the shelves. Money being no object (this is a fantasy library, after all), there will be numerous editions of books from the Folio Society scattered throughout the room, and my antique book collection will no doubt continue to grow. There will be sacrifices, of course; to own a first edition of Shakespeare’s plays would be an absolute blessing in any library, but I’d be so terrified of damaging it that I’d never read it and what is the point of a book if you can’t make it live by reading? And, of course, there would be space for new friends to join the old, because when you’re a reader there are always new discoveries to make…
My Library may be a long way off its full realisation, but I cannot wallow in the valley of despair. I have a dream, a dream that is deeply rooted in the dream of all readers. I have a dream that one day my books will rise up and live out the true meaning of their creed; that they will sit on the shelves of brotherhood and find their own oasis where they are judged not by the colour of their bindings but by the content of their character. I have a dream that one day, one day, my books will be able to sing the words “free at last, free at last; thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”
Until then, I guess they'll have to stay where they are...
Tuesday 12 October 2010
I Strop, Therefore I Am...
Bonjour blogverse!! Remember me? I appear to have been decidedly lax in writing my usual incoherent rambles recently - this is what I get for going on holiday and then going away for a long weekend; I get out of the habit of writing and then I can never find anything to say. It's vastly annoying.
Which brings me to...today's rant. I mean post. Whatever. Things that annoy, irritate and wind me up beyond belief. Please excuse the no doubt emo-ness of this entry, I'm ever hopeful that I'll stop being a mardy cow in the very near future and be back to my normal blog-shattering best. Or worst, depending on your point of view. It's very stressy at work at the moment with all this prostitution research (yes, I'm still doing it. The research, that is. Not...never mind). Just when I think I've cracked it, I find another sodding report to to read. Ho hum...
So, things that annoy me very muchly at present...
1) Some of the reports I'm having to read. When I was at university studying research methods and ethics and shiz, I was taught that although every researcher clearly has their own bias, opinions etc, a good researcher doesn't let them influence the actual work. Clearly some people never got the memo, and it's making it very difficult for me to actually read said reports because while they may have perfectly valid and useful info in them, I want to fling them across the room shrieking like a demented banshee.
2) Also on this theme...some of the men interviewed about their use of prostitutes are tools and make me despair for the future of the species. I've known a few arses before but some of these morons take the cake. And the guy who said that using prostitutes is like going to Tescos? You need therapy. Or sectioning. Either way, you must never be allowed near a supermarket...it's for the good of everyone involved.
3) People. Specifically people who antagonise, wind up, piss off and upset my friends or in any other way make their lives different from the warm love-hugs-and-sunshine vibes I would wish for them. You've seen the Incredible Hulk, right? You know what happens when he gets angry? Ok, now look at my profile picture and imagine me green and muscly. You will not know what hit you when I'm finished with you...
4) Footballers who are completely unable to sing their national anthem. Ok, so 'God Save The Queen' might not be the most stirring of anthems (that would be Italy) but it's ours and anyone lucky enough to represent their country at the highest level should at least have the decency to mouth the words at the very least. If I was a top-class footballer (unlikely, I know, but stick with me) I would be so thrilled to get the chance to represent my country that I would sing the whole of God Save The Queen from start to finish and be bloody proud and honoured to do so. The rest of you overpaid prima-donna's can sod off.
5) Car and perfume adverts. Just tell me if I can drive the car from A to B and if the perfume is vaguely nice rather than all this stupid posturing and flouncing about. I mean really - the new Opium ad is just pointless.
6) My body. It is officially crap and I want a new one. Preferably one that doesn't break down every five minutes. Is that too much to ask for?
However...all is not doom-and-gloom in the world of the Kady-cat at the moment. I have discovered that I am a song! Several songs, actually, and I'm not talking about the ones that use my real name. (Although Ben Fold Five's 'Kate' is just...well, there are no words). But for those of you who first knew me from my slightly manic posts on the Nightwish forum, you will know that in some corners of the web I go by the name Nocturna (I shall not reveal my others - self-preservation and all that). Thanks to a combination of boredom, frustration and curiosity, as I picked the name seemingly at random only because I am a bit of a 'creature of the night', I went googling for songs about my nom de plume, and I have to say I like what I found. There are a lot of songs that are 'Nocturna Something' or 'Something Nocturna', so I guess that's cheating a little bit, but it still counts as far as I'm concerned. So, songs about moi...
Therion - Via Nocturna. It's all about following Nocturna and Luna to midnight revels - so I am the moon and the key to the kingdom. Obviously.
Old Man's Child - Hominis Nocturna. This is a grower...never heard of them but hey, new is good.
Moonspell - Nocturna. Ah, Moonspell...I've been converted to you.
Anabantha - Nocturna. Ok, I have never heard of this Mexican band until now and I sprechen pas de Spanish, but this song is fab. And it has a FF8 video - what's not to love?!?!
So there you go. Nocturna is, in fact, awesome...
Which brings me to...today's rant. I mean post. Whatever. Things that annoy, irritate and wind me up beyond belief. Please excuse the no doubt emo-ness of this entry, I'm ever hopeful that I'll stop being a mardy cow in the very near future and be back to my normal blog-shattering best. Or worst, depending on your point of view. It's very stressy at work at the moment with all this prostitution research (yes, I'm still doing it. The research, that is. Not...never mind). Just when I think I've cracked it, I find another sodding report to to read. Ho hum...
So, things that annoy me very muchly at present...
1) Some of the reports I'm having to read. When I was at university studying research methods and ethics and shiz, I was taught that although every researcher clearly has their own bias, opinions etc, a good researcher doesn't let them influence the actual work. Clearly some people never got the memo, and it's making it very difficult for me to actually read said reports because while they may have perfectly valid and useful info in them, I want to fling them across the room shrieking like a demented banshee.
2) Also on this theme...some of the men interviewed about their use of prostitutes are tools and make me despair for the future of the species. I've known a few arses before but some of these morons take the cake. And the guy who said that using prostitutes is like going to Tescos? You need therapy. Or sectioning. Either way, you must never be allowed near a supermarket...it's for the good of everyone involved.
3) People. Specifically people who antagonise, wind up, piss off and upset my friends or in any other way make their lives different from the warm love-hugs-and-sunshine vibes I would wish for them. You've seen the Incredible Hulk, right? You know what happens when he gets angry? Ok, now look at my profile picture and imagine me green and muscly. You will not know what hit you when I'm finished with you...
4) Footballers who are completely unable to sing their national anthem. Ok, so 'God Save The Queen' might not be the most stirring of anthems (that would be Italy) but it's ours and anyone lucky enough to represent their country at the highest level should at least have the decency to mouth the words at the very least. If I was a top-class footballer (unlikely, I know, but stick with me) I would be so thrilled to get the chance to represent my country that I would sing the whole of God Save The Queen from start to finish and be bloody proud and honoured to do so. The rest of you overpaid prima-donna's can sod off.
5) Car and perfume adverts. Just tell me if I can drive the car from A to B and if the perfume is vaguely nice rather than all this stupid posturing and flouncing about. I mean really - the new Opium ad is just pointless.
6) My body. It is officially crap and I want a new one. Preferably one that doesn't break down every five minutes. Is that too much to ask for?
However...all is not doom-and-gloom in the world of the Kady-cat at the moment. I have discovered that I am a song! Several songs, actually, and I'm not talking about the ones that use my real name. (Although Ben Fold Five's 'Kate' is just...well, there are no words). But for those of you who first knew me from my slightly manic posts on the Nightwish forum, you will know that in some corners of the web I go by the name Nocturna (I shall not reveal my others - self-preservation and all that). Thanks to a combination of boredom, frustration and curiosity, as I picked the name seemingly at random only because I am a bit of a 'creature of the night', I went googling for songs about my nom de plume, and I have to say I like what I found. There are a lot of songs that are 'Nocturna Something' or 'Something Nocturna', so I guess that's cheating a little bit, but it still counts as far as I'm concerned. So, songs about moi...
Therion - Via Nocturna. It's all about following Nocturna and Luna to midnight revels - so I am the moon and the key to the kingdom. Obviously.
Old Man's Child - Hominis Nocturna. This is a grower...never heard of them but hey, new is good.
Moonspell - Nocturna. Ah, Moonspell...I've been converted to you.
Anabantha - Nocturna. Ok, I have never heard of this Mexican band until now and I sprechen pas de Spanish, but this song is fab. And it has a FF8 video - what's not to love?!?!
So there you go. Nocturna is, in fact, awesome...
Saturday 2 October 2010
Strictly Holidays...
I have finally recovered from the arduous journey home from the North (and the horrendous feeling of going back to work after a holiday *sigh*) and shall return to blogging with a vengeance!
So yes, Scotland...well, what I can say about it? It was, as last year, absolutely beautiful - and with no sudden detours to A&E on the way home, it was also a bit better than last year!! We started in Edinburgh for a day and a half, which was lovely apart from the fact that it peed down with rain and I spent far too much money (ignore this bit please, Mothership), and I've realised that it's a gorgeous city, even in the grey gloom. Then we headed for a three-day coach tour of the Highlands and Islands, based at Portree in the Isle of Skye...It. Was. Fab. The weather was brilliant, the sceneery beautiful and if I rob a bank, I'm moving to Skye. I would upload piccies but Blogger appears to be playing silly wotsits and won't let me. They are on Facebook, though, if you want to see my half-arsed attempts with a camera...
Also in the news...Strictly is back on and suddenly the weekends are looking vaguely hilarious again. Gods, I lead such a sad and tragic life...sadly for me, Gavin Henson did reasonably well, but the new English and Russian professionals are seriously sexy and there promises to be much entertainment between now and Christmas. Ann Widdecome and Anton DuBeke? Love it! If I was any kind of a betting woman, which I'm not, I'd put money on them going quite far...
So yes, Scotland...well, what I can say about it? It was, as last year, absolutely beautiful - and with no sudden detours to A&E on the way home, it was also a bit better than last year!! We started in Edinburgh for a day and a half, which was lovely apart from the fact that it peed down with rain and I spent far too much money (ignore this bit please, Mothership), and I've realised that it's a gorgeous city, even in the grey gloom. Then we headed for a three-day coach tour of the Highlands and Islands, based at Portree in the Isle of Skye...It. Was. Fab. The weather was brilliant, the sceneery beautiful and if I rob a bank, I'm moving to Skye. I would upload piccies but Blogger appears to be playing silly wotsits and won't let me. They are on Facebook, though, if you want to see my half-arsed attempts with a camera...
Also in the news...Strictly is back on and suddenly the weekends are looking vaguely hilarious again. Gods, I lead such a sad and tragic life...sadly for me, Gavin Henson did reasonably well, but the new English and Russian professionals are seriously sexy and there promises to be much entertainment between now and Christmas. Ann Widdecome and Anton DuBeke? Love it! If I was any kind of a betting woman, which I'm not, I'd put money on them going quite far...
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