Review: The Little House

The Little House by Philippa Gregory

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I often flick through a book to get a feel for it from a point that isn’t the first chapter. Unfortunatly with this book the next thing I knew I’d read too thirds of the book, sat in an uncomfortable position on the bedroom floor leant against the bookshelf, and I was too scared to go back and read the rest. I think this is the best written of the Philippa Gregory books I’ve read, but also the most uncomfortable.

Read it, but afterwards give yourself time to come to terms with it.

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Review: Where Your Wings Were

Where Your Wings Were by David Almond
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

In one of the many youth hostels in the lake district, sat on a small rather untidy bookshelf I found this children’s book. It’s only short containing a few gripping stories from David Almond’s book ‘Counting Stars’. I picked it up and couldn’t put it down. It was an education, the subject wasn’t always pleasant. I was quite surprised at some of the references to smoking, crime and sex. Yet these references were so subtle and the text had such a beautiful haunting way of pulling me along.

It reminded me of the difference in what I saw in my parents relationship before and after getting together with my first boyfriend. It was like a light had suddenly been turned on. I picked up on looks across the dinner table, subtle touches and actions that I’d never noticed before.

Recently I observed a primary school class who were having David Almond’s book Skellig read to them. It had the kids hooked. When the teacher closed the book, after reading only a few pages, the class of ten-year-olds began a loud and opinionated debate about the book so far that would have kept any adult on their toes.

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When did you last climb a tree?

I visited my grandparents today. My sewing project was on hold due to problems with the sewing machine. It needs some serious tender love and care from somebody who knows more about sewing machines than I do. Hopefully I will be able to find somebody to repair the very heavy and rather old machine. She (because sewing machines seem feminine, or is that just me naturally stereotyping an inanimate object?) used to belong to my grandma. My grandma is a formidable woman. Luckily however my grandma was more than happy to allow me use of her shiny new rather placid and well-behaved machine. Not that I finished the dress – no I spent too much time talking… again.

Anyway… my grandparents have the most beautiful garden. My parents have an attitude of ‘cut the grass and pull up some weeds before you’re grandparents arrive’ towards the garden. They don’t know how to make the garden work for them, or more likely they just don’t care. My grandpa grows all sorts of stuff. Including apples. Now how I managed to go my entire childhood without climbing the apple tree is unknown. This afternoon however my grandpa pointed me towards a stool and told me ‘you might have to scramble a bit’ before returning into the house to watch the news on TV. Well the first few apples were fine to get. You have to lift apples, not pull, which surprised me but at least I know now. But then it got more difficult the apples were too high for me to reach from the stool and I was alone.

At this point it’s probably good to note that last time I climbed a tree I got stuck and had to wait until somebody (a 6’3’’ rower) lifted me down.

Anyway, feeling rather brave in my short dress and university hoodie I went up. I probably flashed the next door neighbour doing her washing up but never mind. I stuffed the pouch of my hoodie with apples, cautiously stepped back down to the stool and unloaded. Two trips later, and one up the other apple tree, I returned to the house a huge grin across my face, my arms laden with apples, twigs in my hair and dirt all over my hoodie.

Which is why I’m sat eating a baked apple as I write.

Review: You Can Write Children’s Books

You Can Write Children’s Books by Tracey E. Dils
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

My mum bought me this book before I’d even considered writing children’s books and so it sat for a while on the shelf occasionally getting glanced at. It wasn’t until I actually sat down and tried writing a children’s book that I realised how useful this book is. It’s filled with information about all relevant age ranges.

My only criticism is that it could have gone into more depth in the sections devoted to middle grade and young adult fiction. Separate chapters for these separate age ranges might be useful.

The style of writing is very easy to read and flows well. I’d recommend to anyone interested in writing children’s books.

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M********r United

It’s ten minutes to kick off. Leeds United are playing Manchester United. If you weren’t brought up in a household where Leeds are more important than god and saying Manchester United is on par with saying the sort of swear word your mother would really disapprove of you might wonder why this is so important. Despite growing up in such a household I don’t understand – but I do recognise that it’s important. It’s a battle of red v’s white.

Now at some point I shall explain in great detail (probably rather angrily) why I’m alone at my dining room table while my parents are watching the match at Elland Road and my sister is wishing she was too. However it’s not the time now. I’ve come to accept football has a role in my life. The Leeds/Manchester match on the 3rd January 2010 was my equal to the Arsenal/Liverpool match at the end of the film ‘Fever Pitch’ staring Colin Firth.

On the 3rd January 2010 I was at my parents house with my boyfriend and my mother. My dad and sister were both at Old Trafford watching the defeat of Manchester United. My mum would have been there except for having to stay close enough to the hospital because she was on call. My boyfriend stayed with us from the 28th December and in all that time my parents could only find one major complaint about him. I’d brought home a Manchester United supporter. My dad told me he was seriously disappointed with me. My sister kept rolling her eyes and saying things like ‘really?’. We watched the match on TV. My mother and I sat on one sofa. The boyfriend on the other. My mother refused to let me sit with him when Leeds were playing despite no complaints about our sleeping arrangements. Luckily the boyfriend had a sense of humour.

That night, over a romantic dinner, the boyfriend contemplated that he hadn’t actually asked me out.

Try reading Philippa Gregory’s books ‘The Red Queen’ and ‘The White Queen’ about the war of the roses. So far I’ve read the first but being a poor student I’m waiting for my sister to buy the second so I can borrow. Why is it that such a bitter rivalry seems to live on? In case you’re not sure Leeds  is Yorkshire (white rose), historically Manchester was Lancashire (red rose).

How Kafka got me a Tea Set

When I was in Sweden, whilst trying (and failing) to tidy the inside of my tent a Japanese man (borderline boy aged 18) approached me with one of his friends. He was out searching for a British rucksack and was quite excited when I said that I was more than happy to swap for mine. I have the rucksack in 2007 and hadn’t used it since so I felt it was safe to presume that I wasn’t going to use the 2011 one either.

One of the locations in Japan mentioned tugged at my mind. I recognised the word and it only took a few moments for me to connect it to the works of Murakami. (I wrote a post about Norwegian Wood recently.) I mentioned that I’d read some of Murakami’s work, the men asked what. When at first I said ‘Norwegian Wood’ there faces dropped a little, but when I mentioned ‘Kafka on the Shore’ there faces lit up. They recommended 1Q84.

I ended up swapping my rucksack for an outfit and a beautiful tea ceremony set!

Homesick – Home, & Home Home

I’m laying in my bed, in the room I’ve spent most of my life living in. This is my bedroom. I chose this bed. I chose the wardrobes and the wallpaper and the curtains. It’s the purple paradise of an 11 year old girl. There are yellow stains on the floor were where I spilt glass paint (kind of plastic and impossible to remove). There are my pictures I drew hanging on the walls. Photos of me and my friends together. I’ve spent many hours sat on the windowsill, often reading and even more often in trouble for hanging my legs outside.

And now I’m homesick.

Homesick for the student accommodation rented house I spend the rest of my time living at. Homesick for the 5kg washing machine when here is a 10kg machine here for half as many people. Homesick for the boiler that cuts out whenever the pressure drops (whenever I want hot water), the back to front taps (red = cold), and the mouse (named Gerald).

I took some of my belongings back yesterday. I walked in and although empty it’s home. My home.

The End of the Beginning

So the boyfriend and I broke up.

Not the easiest thing to deal with. Especially when you’re the best of friends and love each other. We live together in term time which makes it harder still. And yes, in a few weeks we will move back into the same house. It wasn’t a nasty break up. We broke up in a restaurant. We spent more time laughing about it than crying. Our waiter ‘Mario’ was excellent although probably a little confused. Breaking up was inevitable and we both knew it. I had olives, a three course meal and wine. He paid.

For two days I wrote in excess. Then I stopped and didn’t write another thing for about two months. I also barely read anything. I haven’t touched a newspaper and the only book I read was light chic lit. I was at Preston train station when the need to write finally hit me. It came over me like the break of a wave and I knew that I had to write. Within a matter of minutes I was in WH Smiths and had bought a notebook and two pens.

The woman at the counter looked at me, a young woman travelling alone in a short skirt and walking boots with a (30 litre) rucksack and not a lot else.

“You know this is £15?”

“Yep,” I knew it was £15 and I knew that was a ridiculous price but I can’t stand spiral bound notebooks or ridiculously small notebooks. I had to write. Do you ever feel that strongly about needing to write?

My little sister just passed her A-levels and got into university. She doesn’t write, instead she’s musical. She taps everything much to my aggravation and her head is constantly full of music. But leading up to the exam results, and knowing she’d really screwed up one of the exams, she stopped completely. For a while her head was completely silent.

And when she finally began to play again she composed the most beautiful music.