Books like this make me want to (a) own a cute dog who can do flip-flop tricks! (b) live in a perfect French village where there are striped awnings adorning every window, fruit stalls on the streets, and tiny cafes where it is de rigeur for ladies to wear a hat and a suit to dine; (c) have a bath. Man, do I miss having a bath in the house (I do take a shower every day. Sometimes two. Shhh! Don't tell the water police, I'm under 155 a day, I swear!)
But the best part about a book like this is reliving the joys of it again with Grumbles. On the outside I may be patiently correcting her misread words, but on the inside I am doing a shared-book-love happy happy dance!
One of the most enjoyable things about buying yarn in hanks is taking the time to wind it into a ball. I do this the old-fashioned way: by draping the yarn around a chair whilst I do a strange yarn-winding dance around it. Besides providing much exercise (and giving loved ones another reason to shoot me odd looks), it also gives me a chance to indulge in a few daydreams.
Now, daydreams I am never short of. Often, in fact, whilst doing something as mundane as the dishes, I'll happily while away the time with a pleasant fantasy starring George Clooney. It will usually involve some simple plot: he'll relentlessly woo me, but like in any good rom-com I'll block him at every turn using nothing but my dazzling wit and some snappy repartee. Thankfully I usually finish the dishes before I need to make the agonizing decision of finally falling for George's charms or sticking with the loyal Galumph (don't worry, honey, it's you every time).
When winding ball of yarn, however, the fantasies take on a far more literary spin. Something about the repitition of winding the yarn over and over usually provokes an Austenian response in me, and my inner dialogue usually goes something like this:
"How good it is to be all together again at Longborn! As soon as I finish winding this ball I should see to getting the lamps lit, for Galumph will soon be home. I wonder what Hil has organised for dinner. For it is the truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a long bike ride home must be in want of a good dinner..."
Then I imagine Galumph coming in the door. Instead of revelling in simple, homely delights, the daydream can often take a darker turn at this point into Isben terrority:
Galumph entering stage left: Behold, my little skylark! Winding your ball, just like the little women of the house that I want you to be. Stay, my love, wind that ball, and remain trapped in your stifling marriage, with never a single thought of independance to cross your little mind! Just the way Torvald likes it! Jorth: ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHH! Get me out of the Dollhouse!
Usually at this point I fall into a slightly depressed slump. Torvald always does that to me. From here it's only a short hop to Dickens territory, and we all know how cheerful he can be:
"Here I am, winding my ball, always winding as my life slips away, caught in a cycle of defeat and despair. I can't figure out which I'm more like: the wards of Jarndyce, watching their fortune be swallowed up by never-ending legal costs as all hope rapidly disappears, or Miss Havisham, locked in the mindset of the jilted bride, with nothing better to spend her energy on that teaching wee Estella to devour the men. Can that be the time - twenty to nine! Still here I am, winding my ball, over and over. Winding, winding, winding..."
Then I turn into Ada Doom from Cold Comfort Farm, hunched over my ball, as I begin to mutter about seeing something nasty in the woodshed.
Pity the poor Grumbles or Galumph who happens upon me at this stage. I'm a sight to behold, clutching my ball of yarn and beginning a keening wail, eyes madly darting about as I hop around the chair. I'm telling you, books and yarn winding: not always a good mix. Does, um, anybody else have such vivid daydreams? Anyone? At all? Pleeeeaaase tell me I'm not the only one who embarks upon literary flights of fancy - or fancies the pants off George Clooney!
I've tagged by the lovely Nichola with the literary meme, the rules which are as follows: 1. Pick up the nearest book. 2. Open to page 123. 3. Find the fifth sentence. 4. Post the next three sentences. 5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.
Since I'm reading two books at the moment you get them both. Bwahahah!
"They took frequent excursions to the Alps. Franz would bend over, the girl hopped onto his back, and off he ran through the meadows, declaiming at the top of his voice a long German poem his mother had taught him as a child. The girl laughed with glee, admiring his legs, shoulders, and lungs as she clasped his neck."
(Um, only just noticed that this slim volume only runs to 113 pages, so you get that page instead.)
"It has to be, at any price, I shouted in terror. She hung up without saying goodbye, but fifteen minutes later she called back: "Alright, she's here." "
I'm hopeless at the whole tag thing, so if you feel like doing the meme, be my guest and tell them Jorthy sent you.
Speaking of all things bookish, does anybody have any book recommendations for me? I'm after something light-ish, with a nice bit of humour. Suggestions?
Testing, testing, one-two-three. Is thing thing on? Oh, hello! It's me, ol' Jorthy, here to blow off the dust and remove the cobwebs. I feel I should explain my unintentional mini-blog break: there's been no good reason, but lots of tiny ones that all added up to prevent me from sitting down and yakking away to you all. And then, because I'd left it so long, I got a wee bit embarassed, as all my news seemed old and suddenly irrelevant.
So, in a nutshell, here's what I've been doing: attending the most relaxed and gorgeous country wedding of all time (well, my time), an engagement party for my sister, loads of bike riding in preparation for our upcoming biking holiday, sewing jimjams and dresses for Grumbles, starting kinder (!) for Grumbles (yes, I cried the first time I dropped her off), swimming in this incredible heat and much planning and prep for Grumble's winter wardrobe. Oh, and I've organised a knitting club.
Plus reading! Lots and lots of reading. Here's a brief rundown:
The Shifting Fog by Kate Morton: Excellent mystery/love story/coming of age tale, slowly eked out of the memories of Grace Bradley, a now old lady who holds the key to the remarkable events of summer 1924, in which she was a maid to one of two sisters, who both loved the same man.
Charlotte Gray by Sebastian Faulks: I recently read Birdsong, and was absolutely rivited by the quality of writing. Some of his depictions of life in the World War 1 trenches actually had me putting down the book and taking deep breaths before I could continue. I was expecting more of the same from Charlotte, but alas, no. Did the same man even write the two books? It's not a bad story (young woman goes over to occupied France to aid the Resistance whilst pursuing her love), but it feels like it was written on autopilot, and that so much more could have been made of the material. Pity.
Good Evening, Mrs. Craven: The Wartime Stories of Mollie Panter-Downes, and London War Notes 1939 - 1945 by Mollie Panter-Downes: I got Mrs Craven from a bookshop recently, and scoffed it down in one indulgent sitting. Incredible tales of what life must have been like during wartime Britian, written by one of the masters of the short story. I immediately started hunting for London War Notes, which are a collection of essays Ms Panter-Downes wrote fortnightly during the war for the New Yorker magazine. Boy, is that book hard to find. I ended up buying it from amazon.co.uk, but it was worth it. Fascinating to read her thoughts, from the latest political situations to her cool assessment of foodstuffs available. Very highly recommended, especially together.
I can't believe it's Thursday already. Thursday! This week has flown! So, a quick round-up!
- On the weekend we rode down to the Abbotsford Convent for the Slow Food Market. It was awesome! I highly recommend the nougat. I also bought a bunch of nettles, but then felt too intimidated to actually use them (bad me), so they sat on the bench until they drooped into oblivion. As you can probably tell, I'm feeling inordinately guilty about that. I'll just have to console myself with that fact that while I was sitting at a bench near the market, scoffing a supremely delectable lemon tart, the lovely Felicity came over to introduce herself.
- Thinking about it, I'm not sure I made such a good impression. That's the worst thing about being spotted as you go about your day to day business: when somebody comes up to say hello, you're busted with a really bad case of helmet hair (trust me, it wasn't pretty) and lemon tart all over your face. And stinky coffee breath. Note to self: try to look more pulled together.
- In my efforts to maintain that Plastic Free lifestyle o' mine, I bought myself a Sigg bottle. Best thing ever. It's lightweight and is specially coated on the inside so that your liquid cannot be contaminated, which can be a problem with other vessels over time. I think it's rather cool, even if, to quote a friend, it looks like I'm swigging petrol out of a fuel bottle every time I have a drink. That would explain the odd looks I've been given when I offer Grumbles some water. Oh, the trials and tribulations of being me.
- I just finished reading The Memory Keeper's Daughter. I highly recommend that you do not read this book. It was like a long drawn out soap opera. Too many words to say too little, and predictable to boot. It's a pity, because the premise was good, but the story just plodded on by. I was disappointed that they didn't truly explore the issues and the absolute joys of raising a child with Down's syndrome, instead just focussing on the administritive side of it all, like getting Phoebe a decent education. When the author did elect to mention other concerns and worries, ti felt so token and unexplored. And I'm sure that the parents would have felt more emotions that just guilt. But that's just my opinion. Feel free to disagree!
- On a sunnier note, how amazing has the weather been?! It feels like summer already, even though winter doesn't officially end for another day. I've been possessed with a need to launder anything and everything, as it all dries in a matter of hours. Fabric in my house, consider this your warning: You are not safe from my maniacal desire to clean!
- There's a laneway at the back of our house, and certain people who work nearby often speed along it in their cars, and give you a lot of grief if you happen to get in your way. Never mind the fact that you may be just trying to get your small children into the back door. As I'm sitting here typing with the window open, I can hear one of my neighbours blasting them for their rudeness. Hooray!
Feel like a good read? Then go and get yourself a copy of MixTape! Added bonus - I'm writing a column in it, huzzah! It's a little zine that focuses on making time for the small things, and has heaps of excellent articles, tutorials, crafting stuff... oh, just trust me, it's fab!
The last day or two I've been a complete mess. A big nose-honking, blubbering mess. Why? I've just read The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. I started reading it on Tuesday evening, finished the night off with a huge bawl, and then, once the Galumph had gone to work on Wednesday morning, placed Grumbles in front of a Playschool DVD (which I let her watch TWICE in a row! Oh, the shame) whilst I sat in the hallway, still wrapped in my husband's dressing gown, and heavingly sobbed my way through the rest of it. Even just thinking about it now is making me go all teary. Poor Henry. Poor Clare. And she was just so... true. And good. Much better than I think I could ever be if my husband was a time traveller who kept popping off to goodness knows where, and sometimes I had to wait for years before I would see him again. I would be so angry, and tired, tired, tired from it all.
So the main feeling has been that of fragileness. It's been a while since I was dragged through the works like that by a book. In fact, not since I finished The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford have I been so broken up. I spent so much of last night just rolling over to give the Galumph big tight cuddles, until he finally put his hands on my shoulders and said "Honey, I'm not a time traveller. I'm not going anywhere!" "I know", I sniffled back. But then the phone rang at 11:30, with some guy from the UK calling Galumph about a critical work problem. He was gone for quite a while, so when he finally crawled back into bed I mumbled triumphantly "You DO time travel - you've just been in Bristol for a hour, and left me all alone!" Poor old Galumph. He had no answer for that one.
Anyhoo, brilliant book. Although I hope there's no sequel or anything. Ms Niffenegger, I just don't know how much more my poor, squeezed-out heart could take. Now I must go and rub moisturiser on my sad red nose. Next time I read a book that unleashes Niagra Falls, I'm going to honk away on a good quality hankerchief, not recycled toilet paper like I did this time. Good for the environment, not so good for the schnoz.
What? You're still here? Go on, go. Shoo!