This is what the bombed Argana cafe in Marrakesh, Morocco looked like in June. As you can see, the building work has been covered by enormous plastic sheets and large paintings have been hung from the top.
It looks eerily beautiful.
And life goes on around it. The shops next to it and the entrances to the souk are still busy. Opposite, the colourful stalls, with their delicious displays of fruits and nuts operate as though nothing had happened.
There is no obvious indication that people were killed and maimed here. Thankfully, none of our friends in Marrakesh were involved but it has left people angry. They are peaceful people and terrorism plays no part in their lives.
Tourism was adversely affected for a while but seems to be picking up again.
Hopefully, when we return next year, the cafe will be up and running and, of course, we shall frequent it.
I wrote in my last post that as far as I was concerned, people are more important than anything else. Therefore, instead of spending this valuable computer time sifting through my photographs of the Essaouira Festival in readiness for further posts, I want to comment about the phone hacking scandal.
You would have to be stupid to believe that newspaper reporters don't play dirty at times. For example, investigative journalists probably need to bend the law a little in order to expose corruption and wrongdoing. However, this scandal that has imploded onto our TV screens is in a different class altogether.
I think the general public weren't too concerned about the hacking of the phones of the Royal family and celebrities, and perhaps this is why the ensuing police investigation seemed rather lack lustre, although for the individuals concerned it was a matter of great concern. I never thought I'd be backing John Prescott in any way shape or form but in this matter I am 100% behind him and applaud his persistent efforts to get to the truth.
But to hack into the phones of missing children who are later found dead is hideous beyond words. And now we're learning that the relatives of the victim's of the 7/7 bombings and soldiers killed in Afghanistan have also been targets. Probably, there's even more to come and it makes me feel sick to the very core of my being.
I heard just half an hour ago that the main culprit, the News of the World, is to close after next Sunday's edition, but this is no cause to rejoice. Not only is it a blatant attempt by the Murdoch Corporation to distance itself from the actions of some of its staff in order to achieve its main goal of owning British Sky Broadcasting, but probably it will re-emerge very soon under a different name.
It appears that the police have over 4000 names of people targeted. Why only tell us this now? They have had this information for years. Added to this, it is now being claimed that Andy Coulson, one-time editor of the News of the World, lied not only to the committee investigating this hacking into the phones of private individuals, but also to the Prime Minister. Hence his appointment as press officer to the Blair government until the allegations about him were so persistent that he also resigned from this position.
But even worse, and it is this that has troubled me more than anything, is the Metropolitan police involvement in selling phone numbers of the families of victims and soldiers to newspaper reporters. So, as investigations have been in their infancy, some corrupt police officers have taken time out of essential work to make a substantial amount of money by selling phone numbers of very vulnerable and distraught people given at a time of extreme stress.
And it poses the question about the integrity of that initial police investigation. Hints of the TV drama 'Shadow lands' comes to mind and one wonders just how far up the chain of command the corruption ends.
At the moment, we are still at the allegations stage but I will eat all of my hats if they prove to be false.
For me, the word integrity is key to all this and reaches far beyond not just the newspapers, the police, and possibly the courts, back to the MP's expenses scandal, the crisis in the banking world because of unscrupulous and dishonest dealings, and fanning out into the general public, society as a whole, and how we all behave.
I have lived for over 60 years now, and I see an enormous decline in standards, behaviour, what is acceptable, and how we do or do not consider other people apart from ourselves. There is no doubt in my mind that Margaret Thatcher started this slippery-slidy slope into hedonism and that it has become normal for a substantial number of people to consider first and foremost number one, i.e. themselves, and to discount, ignore or actively persecute other people, with no sense of shame or an understanding that they are actually doing anything wrong.
Of course, I'm talking in generalities here and there are still many people who have a strong sense of integrity. I feel great sympathy for the majority of police officers and reporters who are not corrupt and are appalled at what is being revealed. But corruption is, and I apologise for using the cliche, the tip of the iceberg. For beneath what is obviously criminal, is this pervading sense that we have, in this country, a lack of respect for others. And this lack of respect has a drip drip drip effect on the morality of the country.
JB Priestley, in his play "An Inspector Calls", warned that it is the little lies that people tell, seemingly not too serious, that can, collectively, snowball into something catastrophic. In the case of the play, it was the First World War.
It must be said that having integrity does not mean that one doesn't make mistakes or sometimes do something that is wrong. We are all human and we are all fallible. But, if we allow ourselves to lose sight of what is right and wrong then we not only damage ourselves but we also damage others. And we also damage not only society but also our standing in the world. If this country is seen to be riddled with corruption then it has no authority whatsoever to expose the corruption in other countries.
I sincerely hope that the British public will look deep within themselves to find that sense of integrity that we all have and demand that those involved in this disgusting case of corruption and withholding of evidence will be exposed and prosecuted, and to boycott any newspaper in the Murdoch Corporation until it has proved to be beyond reproach. I also hope that BSkyB does not fall into the hands of this insidious, self-seeking and over – powerful man who is not even a British citizen.
And finally, it is such an irony that I wrote so recently in my last post that we had in this country freedom of speech. Because now I'm wondering if my phone has been hacked and should I be careful about what I say during phone calls. My freedom of speech and yours and everyone's is under threat here and then we will be like all those people who live in countries where there is no freedom of speech.
There are many people, for example, in many Arab countries who are at this moment fighting for freedom of speech and are prepared to die in the process. We must not allow ourselves to get into the same position.
For those of you who follow my blog, I am a great Stieg Larsson fan. I soaked up his three novels, which seem now to be unofficially called the Millennium trilogy (based on the name of the magazine published by investigative journalist Mikael Blomkvist in the stories), in a way I haven't done with any other novelS for a long time. And I still haven't found anything to read as yet that comes even close to capturing my total concentration as they did.
Therefore, I was very keen to see the film versions and having done so I wish to give my verdict. These were the Swedish versions and I chose to watch them in Swedish with English subtitles. Therefore, the essence of Swedishness, already very vibrant in the novels, particularly through the scenery and the different institutions exposed, was reinforced by the natural language.
And what can I say? They were all brilliant but particularly the first two.
There's always a danger when watching the film based on a novel, particularly one you have just read, because it's all too easy to look for differences between the two. And that can lead to a great disappointment. However, I can honestly say that I spotted no important differences in the first two films and although I already knew the plots, I was completely absorbed all the time.
The enigmatic and fascinating heroine/anti-heroine, Lisbeth Salander, is played beautifully by Noomi Rapace. She looks and behaves exactly as the Salander in the books. So much so that it is a surprise to see and hear the actress giving interviews. You would hardly recognise that this was the same person. And Michael Nyquist, who plays Mikael Blomkvist, really brought his character alive. Seeing him play the role, gave me a full understanding of just how attractive the character is.
And film can do what sometimes a novel can't do – that is to show visually information that can take a long time to be covered on the written page. So, in the first film we get a really clear idea of all the different members of the Wenger family, who are central to the plot, in a very easy sequence – large photographs of each of the members are used by Blomkist to show who is who. This took a very long time in the novel and I still got confused from time to time.
Now, onto the last of the films. I enjoyed this one nearly as much as the other two but some of the subplots had been altered to fit in with the main plot and I did find this a tad distracting. But I can see the logic in doing so because the film really had to be focused on what was happening with Salander and her story.
Conclusion. Excellent films, all three. Totally worth watching first in Swedish and then in English or the other way round if you so choose. It shall be interesting to see whether Hollywood can produce anything nearly as good. I doubt it but who knows. Having become a fan of European detective drama series e.g. Wallender, Spiral and The Killing (BBC 4, Saturday evenings), I am really enjoying listening to other languages in the context of the countries in which the dramas are set. Makes for far more gripping television.
The programme for the Essaouira Gnaoua and World Music Festival 2011 has just been released. Again it lasts for four days and we were pleased to see that many of our favourite Gnaoua groups will be playing, including those led by Maalems Mahmoud Guinea, Hassan Boussou, Hamid El Kasri, Mustapha Bakbou and Omar Hayat (John calls him the Little Richard of Gnaoua). There will also be a liberal sprinkling of World Music musicians from other countries, including Haiti and Afghanistan. Plus, and of course this is brilliant news for John and I, we will be getting press badges again. YIPPEE and thank you God.
The bad news
However, the festival has been scaled down, with no big performers like Ki-mani Marley and Youssou N'Dour. And, and this is terrible news for John and I, the large square outside our hotel, Bab Marrakech, is not to be used so we will not have the great pleasure of sitting on our balcony to watch some of the acts. I shall miss this dreadfully.
We really were lucky to have found this hotel, Hotel Blue, with its two rooms with balconies facing onto the square. And equally lucky to have been able to book one of the rooms each year. I can't remember how many years but it's probably six. Amazed actually. It has been an absolute delight to have been so close to the action and I think we were incredibly blessed to have had this experience. In fact, we used to pinch ourselves each year, almost in disbelief, that we were able to do this.
And it was wonderful not just for the evenings of live, fantastic music and dancing: we really enjoyed watching and listening to the crowd, whose enthusiastic rappour with the musicians was so infectious. There was one time when I was dancing on the balcony and a guy below saw me and started dancing in time to my dancing. It was such fun.
Plus, it was so exciting watching the stage being erected and the sound system being tested over and over again all day using the most marvellous of music. It was on such an occasion that we discovered the singer Jeff Buckley. We were in great awe of the professionalism and skill of the guys involved. Unsung heroes of the festival.
But probably the main disadvantage will be that John cannot record the music being played on the Bab Marrakech stage whilst videoing at Mouley Hassan. Therefore, it will reduce our recording capacity.
The setting of Bab Marrakech as a venue meant that all of Essaouira was buzzing to the sound of music during the afternoon, evening and late into the night. It was so exciting. Magical. This year, however, it will be a large, empty, quiet space and I'm sure that the tens of thousands of people who watched performances there will feel the loss just as much as us.
Who's to blame?
The wanker bankers, of course. Perhaps this is being too simplistic but I doubt it. Because of the greed and the unscrupulous financial dealings of so many bankers, including knowingly selling mortgages to people who quite clearly could not afford them, we have all been left in a financial state of bankruptcy. So it's no surprise then that sponsors such as Pepsi have pulled out of the festival. The fact that it actually taking place in such an uncertain financial climate is a small miracle in itself and one I am grateful for. As for Bab Marrakech and the enviable position of our hotel room, we always knew it would end one day because nothing stays the same. But it's very sad for us nevertheless.
Back to the festival
This year there will be two large open air venues: Place Moulay Hassan and Scene Meditel, on the beach. Both of these venues will be free and obviously bursting to the seams. And there will be two venues which will be chargeable: Bastion de Bab Marrakech and Zaouia Sidna Bilal, both inside. I have no doubt that the festival will be a huge success as usual and John and I intend to make full use of our press badges. I have been learning how to use a larger and hopefully better camera because I want to take even better photographs this year. And, of course, I am really, really, really looking forward to being back in my beloved Morocco. So, again, thank you God .
I have been listening to audio books for years and never thought to review them. Strange really, because listening to a book is just as valuable as reading one. I think it's because I associate listening to an audio book with total relaxation whilst I'm having a coffee break plus a ciggie, doing some embroidery or sewing. However, I have heard so many good ones recently that it has spurred me into action.
So, here is my very first audio book review.
I still have no idea who Wanda Fuca because it's not mentioned once in the book but that just shows how zany the book is. Set in Seattle, and written I guess by an American, it's a very light, funny, entertaining detective story.
The detective in question is P.I. Leo Waterman, who doesn't take himself too seriously, which I really appreciate. Leo has been asked by an ageing gangster friend of his father, to locate his granddaughter, Caroline Noble. She has loads of money and loads of attitude and loads of 'no one has the foggiest where she is'.
Leo, of course, with the help of a most unlikely crew of homeless, dithering, booze-loving friends, finds her pretty quickly. She is hiding out with a dodgy section of the green movement and Leo becomes involved with the illegal dumping of toxic waste and the various plans to sabotage it. Needless to say, this is putting Caroline at great risk.
And that's all I'm telling you because, as I always say, if you want to know more then buy or listen to the book.
I thoroughly enjoyed it. Characterisation is excellent, particularly of Leo and Caroline, who are both a lot of fun although in different ways, and the plot moves along in a most satisfactory manner. I particularly liked the dialogue, which seemed very naturalistic, and the writing style generally suits the 'this is a detective story but not as you know it' mood of the book.
According to the blurb on the back of the box, this is the first in a series of Leo Waterman stories and I look forward to listening to or reading further adventures.
There has been enormous trend during the last few years for detective novels to become as gory and scary as possible and I for one have had a stomach full of this trend. I want to be entertained, not sickened. And the novel that I am now writing, Winchester Blues, is, hopefully, part of the movement that Ford belongs to (if there is such a movement), which aims to buck that trend.
The version I listened to was a BBC audio book production, read by Jeff Harding. And I should add here that the reader is crucial to the enjoyment of an audio book. If I don't like the voice, I stop listening and pop down to my local library to choose another one. Luckily, Jeff Harding has a voice I could listen to all day. Pretty yummy in a cool American kind of way.
As a regular visitor to Morocco, I have often been to the Argana café/restaurant. With its position next to the Souk and with two terraces overlooking Djema El Fna Square, plus an excellent menu of really good food at really reasonable prices, it is popular with locals and tourists alike.
On the ground floor is a pastry shop and then there is a wide sweep of marble stairs leading to the first floor and another to the second-floor. Both these floors have plenty of seating both covered and terraced and so it has a large capacity. All the times that I have been there it has been pretty full. And it should be mentioned that it is spotlessly clean, which is not always the case in Marrakesh.
I have very fond memories of the Argana.
The first time that John and I visited Morocco together was at Christmas-time a number of years ago. We first stayed at a secluded hotel in the Atlas Mountains and then travelled down by taxi on Christmas Day for our second destination of Marrakesh. It was beautifully hot day, nearly 30°, and we ended up on the first-floor terrace of the Argana for lunch.
It was there that we surveyed, in sheer wonderment, the diverse activities going on in the square: transvestite belly dancers, snake charmers, drum players, medicine men, henna artists and much more. So much entertainment that I had never seen before. I think John had kebabs and chips but I know I had Salad Nicoise. Fed up with the cold weather and over-commercialism of Christmas back in England, it was deliciously different way to spend Christmas Day.
The weather changed in Marrakesh after that day. It became colder and it rained a lot, so swimming outdoors was out of the question. And it was this that prompted me to visit a hamman (the Morocco version of Turkish baths) for the first time and I discovered, to my delight, but although it was a scary experience stepping into a dark, humid cavern, it was absolutely fantastic to be scrubbed and massaged, covered in mud, and almost drowned when buckets of water were chucked over me. Not surprisingly, I went every day after that first visit.
With my wet hair covered, turban like, with a large Moroccan scarf, I would meet John afterwards at the Argana, sometimes with people I had met at the hamman, for a delicious hot chocolate and, of course, it being me, a ciggie.
These are memories that I will never forget.
But on Thursday, some misguided, delusional, fanatical man or woman, placed a bomb in this lovely cafe and blew it up. How clever! Didn't even have the guts to stay there to be blown up him or herself.
What a contribution this person has made to a world that is already facing countless difficulties! What great act of heroism this was! How admirable to kill and maim dozens of people, leaving families and friends distraught and grieving!
Well stuff them. Stuff all terrorists. I am disgusted. And of course, John and I will be going to Marrakesh again soon. And if the Argana is in any way open for business, we shall be going there. Do what you will, terrorists, you will never win.
This Flickr slideshow has the photos that I took last year in Essaouira of Maalem Aziz Bakbou with the Armenian Navy Band and Daniel Zimmerman:
John was at Place Moulay Hassan recording a different band, so we have no video of the Armenian Navy Band, but he left his audio recorder running (attached to our bedroom balcony!), and he's put together this video with one of their numbers along with some of my photos:
P.S. This was the first time (i.e. at last year's festival) that I'd ever attempted to take photographs at a live concert with moving subjects. In fact, I hardly ever take photos generally and you might well say that it shows!
The camera I used was a small Lumix DMC-FS6, which was the subject of much teasing by the professional photographers with their enormous cameras. I hardly knew how to operate my little 'tourist' camera at first so was really learning on the 'job'. But I have to say how surprised I was that I loved the whole experience of being both close to the performers and close to the crowd, trying to capture as best I could what I was seeing first hand.
Some of the photographs on show here are particularly amateurish and slightly out of focus, as you'd expect. However, there are some, paricularly of the dancers, that I'm really pleased with. I certainly hope that the collection give a flavour of the performance.
If I get a press badge for this year's festival, I hope to use a better camera and am already practising, which I'm finding a lot of fun. I should really be spending more time on my second novel, but the fesival is so important for me and I want to do a better job if I'm given the chance. Fingers crossed and all that.
Here is a short video of me taking some photographs at the Gnaoua and WOrld Music Festival in Essaouira last year. John recorded the video from our balcony, but I took the photos that are merged in with it.
There is a large board outside the Thomas Tripp Pub, on Wick Lane, close to the main shopping street in Christchurch, which describes the food as award winning. I just wonder what type of award it was. Possibly, for the worst food in Dorset.
John and I spent a dismal lunchtime in this cold, unwelcoming pub just a few days ago. We should have realised our mistake when we were told that they did not serve fizzy water or have an espresso machine. However, we were too hungry and tired to try elsewhere.
John's meal was marginally better than my own. It consisted of frozen cod, fried probably in a coating of meanly thin processed breadcrumbs, tasteless chips and an unappealing salad.
But my meal was actually inedible. It was supposed to be bacon, liver and mashed potato. What eventually arrived was a bowl of greasy gravy with packet mashed potato plonked in the middle. There were a few small pieces of tough bacon, thin slices of cheap, tough liver and strips of the outer layer of an onion swimming in the gravy. I don't even want to try to remember the taste.
Yes, award winning indeed!
P.S. I forgot to mention that the pub offers live music in the evenings. But the only 'music' that we heard was the sound of the side door banging merrily away in the wind.
Come gather ye people all over the land and don't criticise what you don't understand – Bob Dylan
What I don't understand is why Bob Dylan has agreed to have his lyrics censored by the Chinese authorities before his concerts in China. Because I don't understand, I won't criticise but surely it goes against the spirit of his protest songs. What do you think?
Last week, we spent a few days in Christchurch, Dorset because it's a beautiful place, particularly its beaches and views, and we wanted to see whether we'd like to move there because one of our dreams is to live by the sea - probably the same dream that the majority of the population have.
And my choice of hotel was The Christchurch Harbour Hotel so it was all my fault.
The first problem with this hotel was that it was not in the right place. To be precise, it was 1.8 miles not in the right place.
My map of the area is in the form of a booklet and the section on Christchurch is on several pages. If I'd had a copy of a map just of Christchurch on one page, just like the one we bought belatedly at The Tourist Information Office, I would have seen quite clearly that the hotel was not on the waterfront close to the centre of the town but actually on the waterfront of Mudeford harbour 1.8 miles away.
Therefore, instead of taking a casual walk to the centre and the surrounds to get a real feel of the place, we had to drive or take taxis to get in and out.
Now, don't get me wrong. Mudeford Harbour is a beautiful place, with walks along the beach and several good pubs around. But it's not the right base if you want to get to know the town well.
The hotel itself is an imposing white building, partly old and partly new, although you wouldn't notice that from either the outside or the inside. And it has spectacular views of the harbour at the back with terraces which lead down to the water's edge.
This is the view which we would have seen from the large dining room were it not for the fact that the terrace was being re-laid with wooden flooring. So what we actually saw were noisy builders at work. Rather pee-ed off that no mention of this was made when we booked.
It also meant that instead of the soothing sound of water lapping against the shore, we heard, both in the dining room and bedroom, that wonderful sound of banging, drilling and sawing plus the cheerful banter of men at work/lounging around having a fag break. (Which was very naughty of them 'cos even the terraces are no smoking.)
Our first bedroom was a great disappointment: too enormous, too impersonal and too cold (the radiator didn't work.) Plus, and this was very important, there were only two single beds which were acres apart. Therefore, the pleasure of the views from the windows (which didn't open properly) were negated. To add to this, a couple in the room below were talking so loudly that I felt like an eavesdropper. (And it wasn't even an interesting conversation.)
So, whilst John was searching for access to the beach, I used my great negotiation skills (start off quietly, resort to firm assertiveness if necessary) to secure another room. This one was smaller, with windows that opened, a view of the harbour if you stood on tip-toes over the wall in front, and a double bed. Now there was just the background symphony of the builders at work without the distraction of intrusive conversation.
I must say, however, that the hotel itself (probably a four or five star one) was impeccably clean and the staff were very friendly and helpful. However, the decor of dull moss green walls and modern attempts at art deco just didn't work for me. Wierd and unpleasing to the eye is how I'd describe it.
On the plus side, the swimming pool in the spa area was large enough to accommodate three or four swimmers and the jacuzzi was a welcome indulgence. However, I decided not to book in for one of the beauty treatments that looked so appealing on the website. This was partly because the prices were excessive and partly because the area was not a place I wanted to linger in. Too cold and impersonal. Instead, I booked myself a couple of treatments at the Tony and Guy Salon in Christchurch. (The beautician, Holly, was an absolute delight, and my soothing leg and eye treatments were a dream.)
Breakfast in the dining room was a noisy affair: the tables were too close together and the noise of people talking and babies crying echoed around the vast room. In fact, it was hard to hear the workmen outside. We chose the continental breakfast and the coissants, pastries and marble cake (jummy) were excellent as was the bread and coffee. The toast, however, was like limp cardboard.
On our last evening, as John and I sat on the bench close to the water and the Captains Club Hotel, a stone's throw from Christchurch town, listening to the roar of the sea beyond the headland and gazing up at the stars, we were both in agreement. Should have booked in at the Captains Club Hotel. Shall do next time.
Well, it had to happen and it has. I have finished the last of the Larsson trilogy. I tried to delay the inevitable by limiting myself to reading just a few sections at a time. I even re-read paragraphs that I enjoyed, but eventually I came to the end. And I have to say that it was a very satisfactory end.
This novel follows on from the second one, The Girl who Played with Fire, and so it would be ludicrous to read it without reading this second novel. The continuing theme is of prostitution and sex trafficking and we are also introduced to the workings of the powerful inner circle of Sapo, the state security police. Needless to say, it is as corrupt as many of the other Swedish state institutions already highlighted in the previous two novels.
Salander is now seriously ill in hospital and under police surveillance. Without a computer to hack into, she must rely for a time on Mikael Blomvkist, the Millennium journalist who has helped her in the past, Dragan Armansky, who runs Milton Security, and the police department who specialise in protecting the Swedish Constitution. Naturally, they have an uphill job proving Salander's innocence against what appear to be over-whelming odds.
To learn the outcome, however, you'll have to read the novel for yourself!
I can't think of a series of novels that has so absorbed me and it is a testament to the characterisation, plot and sub-plots, and quality of writing that not only do I feel as if I actually know the characters but I still think about them even though I have now moved onto another novel.
What I find particularly exciting is that Larsen has portrayed so many strong women. There's not just Salander, the weird and exciting heroine, but also Erika Berger, who co-owns Millennium with Michael. Then there's Miriam Wu, the sometime lover of Salander and just as capable of defending herself physically against much stronger men.
Salander's lawyer, Annika Giannini, who is Michael's sister, is a pretty tough cookie too, using her intelligence and integrity to defend her client. Police officer Monica Figuerola is someone you would want on your side as is Suzanne Linder, from Milton Security, who is assigned to protect Erika Berger after she receives threatening e-mails.
But mention must also be made of Mikael Blomkvist. He is the central character in all three novels and it is his journalistic investigation at the beginning of the first novel that sets the story moving and introduces us to Lisbeth Salander, who is about as fascinating a character as you would wish to read about.
As for Mikael, he's a man of great intelligence and honesty, dedicated to weeding out corruption, and I liked him right from the start. Although he's not portrayed as a 'romantic lead', he has a certain attractiveness which makes him appealing to women. He's kind and witty and extremely determined. Not full of himself, either. A man to be trusted. A person you'd like to know.
Apparently, Stieg Larsson had completed much of the fourth novel before his untimely death. But it is highly unlikely that we shall ever read it because there is litigation in process as to copyright ownership. Perhaps, in this fourth novel, Larsson intended to introduce a character only alluded to previously but whom I would have liked to have learnt more about. And that is Camilla Salinger, Salander's twin sister!
It's amazing to think that the three novels I have just read and enjoyed so much are actually translations from the original Swedish. These translations are far better than anything I can write in English, sad to say.
Just can’t help it! Half an hour before landing, have my nose pressed against the window, despite the thick-black outside, until I see flickers of light shining like beacons just for me, and I called out in childlike excitement There’s Cyprus!
I’m returning after twenty-five years!
The Alexander the Great Hotel in Paphos is super - a four-star complex facing the sea and harbour, friendly staff, several swimming pools and numerous cats, which animal-lovers like me feed surreptitiously. It even has its own archaeological tomb! Archaeology is big in Cyprus and sites are preserved with reverence, unlike Winchester (our home town), which has a tendency to bulldoze, its Roman finds to make way for ‘modernity’ i.e. shops.
The maid has left a raspberry sponge cake and two large balloons (it’s my birthday) in our room (a cabana, separate from the main building, and so much more intimate) and I arrange my cards around this steadily shrinking calorific delight. It would be a crime to ignore it after the hotel has gone to so much trouble!
V. disappointed with Paphos harbour, which we reach after a short walk along a coastal path surrounded by pink and yellow flowers and sea-like green foliage. The harbour used to be quiet and charming and just a delight. The Pelican Restaurant is still there (plus two live pelicans – probably not the same ones, though) but it’s hemmed in by new restaurants, ice-cream parlours, kiosks selling tat, even a candy floss stall. It’s like Scarborough without the rain. 'Pelican' food still pretty damn good, though, and Cyprus wine is now definitely drinkable.
Next morning and thank God for Starbucks! The hotel coffee is foul! (I think they use sterilised milk.) But there’s a Starbucks nearby and John (husband) trots off before breakfast to get large regular double-shot and skinny decaf lattes. Waiters aren’t too impressed but, as Rhett Butler famously said …
Check out and head (in groovy little Beetle convertible hire-car) to the Troodos mountains and the village of Kakopetria to visit my ex and his second family at their restaurant. Have to stop at Platres (charming mountain village) for double brandy and ciggie for Dutch Courage. Afternoon goes surprisingly well, though. We’re warmly greeted, join in the family meal: fresh trout, steffado (beef casserole), village salad, Cypriot dips and fabulous bread. Delicious. Wine for John but I stick to diet coke ‘cause I want to be on my best behaviour.
Head off for the capital, Nicosia, and check into a dinky little room at The Centrum Hotel with a charming view opposite a concrete wall. Later, drink a bottle of red (v. tasty) with a non-descript meal in a ‘tourist restaurant’ with ‘Zorba the Greek’ blaring out (please!). Then Five Kings brandy in the room, me hanging out of the window to have a fag.
Next day, visit the Observatory Tower at the top of Debenehams, and am horrified to see, as part of the panoramic view, massive etchings of the Turkish flag on the Kantara Mountains, which are now part of the Turkish occupied northern Cyprus. These flags are a constant ‘two fingers up’ to all those who were refugeed from that area in 1974, including me!
Have lunch at a little restaurant next to the Green Line (part of the medieval city walls that separate Greek and Turkish Cypriot areas). The narrow streets are flanked by interesting old houses and churches. We sit outside, opposite a row of lovingly tended plants in metal tins and with several cages of noisy parrots behind us. We have a bottle of white (musty) with our meal of Greek rice (couscous with fragile strips of chicken and onion cooked in stock), and tavas (lamb with potatoes).
V. hot now and we stagger back to our hotel and sleep all afternoon.
At five, meet ex sister-in-law, Patsy, in hotel lobby. We recognise each other instantly and hug for a very long time. She’s the most loving, warm-hearted, generous person I’ve ever met and I’m so glad that, at long last, I’ve felt ready to make this visit. We pick up where we left off, twenty-five years ago, chatting ten to the dozen. Luckily, her English is excellent because my Greek is etsy-getsy. She adores John already.
On the way to Patsy’s house, we zoom up the long, sweeping drive to the Presidential Palace in her rattling little Ford Fiesta, and she and I sweet-talk the guard into describing the storming of the Palace at the beginning of the Greek Cypriot coup in 1974, which sparked off the Turkish Invasion. I’m writing a novel set during that time and want to get as many details right as possible. Patsy calls him darling (she’s reached the age, she says, when she’s entitled to do that) and we describe how, during the war, the Turkish phantom jets screeched over-head and how we prayed that we’d hear the bombs explode because that meant they hadn’t landed right on top of us. You see, we mature women can still teach these youngsters a thing or two.
Patsy’s new home, paid mainly from a refugee loan, is a two storey white house with large balconies, an immaculately clean courtyard, pots of scarlet geraniums, and a sturdy tree planted as a sapling only a few years ago. Inside, she has a display of family photographs, including her lovely daughter, Louisa, who died last year. (It was phone calls with Patsy during Louisa’s illness that persuaded me to return.)
Afterwards, we all go to a kebab shop and have a fabulous half-meze (lamb chops, sausages, kebabs, salad, bread, dips) plus a bottle of mature red. We eat, talk, laugh and drink until we exhaust ourselves. I’m so glad we met up again.
Had such great plans for our visit to the occupied north, which was to drive to Kyrenia on the north coast (a tourist favourite) then take the winding road up the Kantara Mountains, past Bellapais Monastery (made famous by Gerald Durrell’s book ‘Bitter Lemons’) and right to the top, where there’s a breathtakingly spectacular view: you can see the Mediterranean on two sides, shimmering beyond pine trees, rocky crags and plains, one way towards Kyrenia, the other to Famagusta (where I used to live) on the east coast. But our car insurance won’t cover this so we compromise and decide to take a taxi to Kyrenia ‘cause I’ve been warned Don’t go to Famagusta, you’ll just cry ‘cause it’s a ghost town, inhabited by rats and snakes and I accept that, this time, too much, too soon could be foolhardy.
We walk through the buffer zone, past the Ledra Palace Hotel, once the best hotel in Nicosia. This was where the world’s media based themselves after the coup, like vultures waiting to feed off the carnage… but a week later, the Turkish army invaded the island and fighting was so fierce round here that all those reporters, cameramen and photographers were stuck in the hotel’s basement and couldn’t report a darn thing. I know they had a job to do but… for us poor sods living here, it did seem as if it served them jolly well right! Now the hotel, still riddled with bullet holes, is headquarters to humanitarian agencies and a multitude of flags wave at us from balconies. There are still several severely shot-up houses nearby, with the original sandbags at the windows, and it’s like walking through a World War Two movie set. To the right are the massive city walls of the Green Line from which a couple of Turkish flags fly defiantly, whilst two small dark-haired Turkish children watch shyly from the battlement tops.
At the Turkish checkpoint there’s just the quick filling in of temporary visas, a haggle with a taxi driver for a good price and thirty minutes later we’re in Kyrenia. After all those years of waiting, it’s that simple.
The harbour is just as I remember it: a semi-circle of tall, brightly coloured buildings (mainly restaurants) and, half way along, The Harbour Club (there’s always been a strong ex-pat presence in Kyrenia) with tables and chairs under an Acacia tree. And opposite the restaurants, the inviting setting of tables and chairs next to the water. The only difference that I can see is that all the boats boast Turkish flags instead of the very international flags pre-1974.
We walk along the harbour, ignoring the persistent invitations to taste the best fish in Cyprus, and make our way to The Dome Hotel, once the hotel in Cyprus. Before having drinks in the bar, I show John the swimming pool hewn out of rock and filled by the sea. When I first came here on holiday with my mum in 1970 (it was my twenty-first birthday present), there was a retired British Intelligence Officer called Frank who lived in the hotel and swam in that forbidding pool every day. Legend had it that he had been on his way back to Britain from the Middle East, had stayed at The Dome overnight, fallen in love with the place, and stayed. To a twenty-one year old, it was all so very exciting. But Cyprus was like that. Things happened. Interesting and unusual people lived here. It was not a boring place.
Have lunch outside by the water, surrounded by an army of hungry cats. We have fish, chips and village salad. Quite scrummy. (Cyprus potatoes make the best chips I’ve ever tasted.) Get through a bottle of chilled white. Wander round the town for a while but the shops here are also full of tourist tat but do find a splendid cake shop and buy some honeyed pastries to take home. I ask the Turkish Cypriot assistant if she comes from Kyrenia and she says Yes and I say I hope the island will be re-united soon and she agrees.
Return to Nicosia exhausted and sunburnt, but very content. I feel no anger. People are people whoever they are; it’s when the politicians get their claws in that things go pear shaped. I just feel a deep sadness that we all had to suffer so much (Greek and Turkish Cypriots and people like me who got caught in the cross-fire.)
Walk back through the checkpoint feeling emotionally lighter. Greek customs are suspicious of the pastry box but I say You’re not having these! and we walk on.
Next day, it’s off to the port of Limassol, now a horrendously massive tourist resort with white high-rise buildings sprawling haphazardly along the coast and up into the foothills. There are some fantastic hotels here, really deluxe, but the traffic is noisy and the inevitable building works (yet more hotels and flats) pound away relentlessly. And it has too many traffic lights. There’s no beach to speak of, mainly rocks, but most hotels have pools and Ladies Mile, just a few miles away and next to the British army base of Akrotiri, has oodles of beautiful soft sand but it means a drive to get there and there are too many traffic lights to negotiate.
We’re staying at the Miramare Hotel, which I already knew was pretty pucker. There’s a complimentary bottle of red in our room plus an enormous basket of fresh fruit so things are looking good! From the balcony, we watch tankers waiting patiently to dock and all we can hear is the soothing song of the Mediterranean. The blues of the sky and sea are like Prozac to me.
Have lunch at a nearby restaurant (there are more than enough to choose from) and whilst waiting for my kleftiko (lamb cooked in a clay oven) and John’s spare ribs, sample a very fine rose and chat with the owner. To our mutual surprise, we have a shared experience. During an air raid, all those years ago, he was sheltering in the basement of the hotel opposite my ex’s pub in Famagusta at exactly the same time as my ex and I were fleeing the area in our open-topped land rover. We were straffed by a Turkish phantom jet, whilst a bomb skimmed over the hotel’s swimming pool and crashed into the basement (to the dismay of the hapless people hiding there). But, miracle of miracles, the bomb didn’t go off and my ex and I escaped unhurt! We were so lucky! the restaurant owner says and I think Yes, we jolly well were!
In the evening, take a taxi to Jane’s fish restaurant (ex sister-in-law). The Petroktisto. It’s an old stone house, recently renovated. No one knows we’re coming so I’m apprehensive. There’s a young woman having a smoke in the entrance lobby and I say Have you any tables? and she says Yes and I say Who are you? and she says Eva and I say Well, I’m Maggie, your aunt from England and she shrieks Oh my God! Maggiemou! and we hug and cry. Jane comes out and stares at me in disbelief, and then she smiles a beautiful smile, like the sun emerging from behind clouds, and we go through the hugs and kisses routine again, John as well. As we make our way inside, customers are watching with such affection (Jane is very popular) that this reunion could have come straight out of a Charles Dickens novel. We meet two more of Jane’s grown-up children: the beautiful Julie and brother, Adonis, who is an absolute hunk. They are all so obviously delighted to see us that more tears come easily. Why you take so long to come back, Maggie? Jane asks Because I thought it would be hard I reply and she hugs me again. Don’t wait another twenty-five years she laughs Because I’ll be dead!
We order fish meze and as we eat the most amazing fish dishes I’ve ever tasted, each cooked in a different way (didn’t know that fish could be so versatile), and drink our wine (two bottles of white!), each of the family drift in and chat, Eva in particular, who is so spunky I’m laughing most of the time. She’s lived in Boston for nine years and trained first as an accountant and then as a masseur (accountancy is so boring! she explains). And after I’ve told her that Lou, my daughter, has lost weight, she e-mails her and says So, you’re skinny bitch now! And I just love that. And she calls me crazy aunt and I cry again because they’re my long lost family and I just adore being called crazy aunt.
After a good night’s sleep, a swim in the pool, and a coffee at Starbucks, head off back to Paphos via the coast road, instead of the newish motorway. I love this countryside: stark, uninhabitable hills and the blue, blue Mediterranean Sea glistening as if a billion silver sun-rays are dancing on the surface.
We drive through the British camp of Episkopi with its neat white houses and English road names but mainly there’s nothing, not even much traffic, except us and raw nature. Later, we stop at a lay-by and take photographs of Aphrodite’s Rock way below us. According to legend, Aphrodite came out of the sea here. Since it’s very rocky, I guess she didn’t look too dignified but it’s picture postcard beautiful: rocks jutting out from the sea and steep hills rising up to the road and beyond, towards the crisp blue sky.
But it’s getting late and the handover between day and night begins in its spectacular manner and the sky becomes a palette of reds and pinks and before you know it, it’s dusk- grey and the car lights need to go on.
Back at the Alexander The Great Palace and Sod’s Law rules! Why did I put the pastry box in with the dirty washing? Getting honey out of clothes is not easy! After hand-washing what garments I can and leaving them to dry like surreal sunbathers on our loungers, we head out along the coast road towards the southwest of the island, past the monstrosity of Coral Bay (so ugly in its overdevelopment), until we fork left onto a bumpy road close by the sea. We don’t know what to expect but we’re hopeful that whatever we find will include food and drink.
And we find it!
A lone restaurant, snug between two hills and in a protected game reserve area. We sit on the balcony underneath hands of bright yellow bananas, still on the stalks, which dangle from the ceiling. There are murals of mermaids and fish and Greek Gods, amateurish but charming; the salt is still in the shop container, the price still showing; the tablecloths a dull beige plastic. But the food, of course, is superb: grilled fish for John and lamb chops for me. The wine (white) is full-bodied i.e. deliciously strong. Afterwards, I sneak some bread out for the horse that stands stubbornly in the middle of the road, like the Dick Turpin of the horsy world, trying to blag food from passers-by. This is the old Cyprus I love so much!
Next day and home time and am never doing a late flight again. One is so tempted to drink on an empty stomach - which is not a good idea - but I did make it to the loo just in time.
Epilogue
Are we coming back next year? You bet we are! I want to re-visit my lovely ex relatives, soak in the sun, have fish meze at Jane’s, and see my lost home in Famagusta. And, naturally, sample some more of that remarkable wine!
Maggie Knutson Ó2006 Maggie Knutson has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work. First British Serial Rights Offered
Wow! This is such a wonderful book that I didn't want to finish it. I've now nearly finished the third of the trilogy and I shall be berefit what it comes to an end. There are no more Stieg Larsson novels to read: he only wrote three before he died.
If you've haven't discovered this writer yet then I suggest you do so. For me, the Stieg Larsson Trilogy is to the world of writing as The Wire is to the world of television drama. And since I am a Wire devotee, that says a lot.
THE GIRL WHO PLAYED WITH FIRE is a continuation of the first novel in the trilogy - The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - after a lapse of a year.It can certainly be read without having read the first novel because a brief summary of what happened and the personalities of the characeters is woven into the story but I would still recommend reading the first one because it's fascinating to see how the characters develop over the three books.
The Girl of the titles is Lisbeth Salander, a most unusual and fascinating of characters. She looks about twelve, skinny and frail but with incredible physical strength, is uncommunicative and anti-social, tattooed and pierced, violent and steely and highly intelligent. For heavens sake, she even reads mathematical books and enjoys working out difficult equations.
But, most important of all, she is a queen hacker and this features prominently in all three books.
She also has her own code of conduct and morales which makes her some lopsided sort of a 'heroine'.
She does not play such a prominent role in the first novel but in this one, she is the central character and we learn far more about her disfunctional childhood and thr treatment doled out to her by the authorities.
She is a formidable adversary and NOTHING gets in her way. Capable of meticulous planning and deception and unhindered by emotions, she is the most resourcful of people. I so wish I had created her! Every scene she is in is riveting.
The main 'hero' is the likeable investigative reporter Mikael Blomkvist who is part of The Millenium magazine set up, it's goal being to expose corruption in all its forms. Corruption, so it seems, is rife in Sweden, including 'respectable' businesses, the police, the health authorities, government offices etc. Therefore, any attempt to expose wrong doing is met with great resistance.
In this novel, it is sex trafficking that comes under the spot light and this has particular interest for Salander. But when a Millenium reporter who is near to completing his article about the sex trade is murdered along with his partner, all the evidence leads to Salander as the murderer. Thus, most of the novel concentrates on Salander's attempts to avoid arrest, and Blomkvist's dilemna as to whether he believes her or not.
I really, really like Larsson's style of writing. Perhaps it's because he was a journalist that he tells the story 'straight', using descriptions only where they are needed, which makes them highly successful. Too many modern writers, I find, get so wrapped up with the language they use that it becomes far more important than plot or characterisation.
I suspect that Larsson learnt a lot about the process of fiction writing whilst writing the first novel because the pace is much faster in this second novel. In the first, there are too many chunks of information which become rather tedious (John used to skip these sections) but that's not the case in this novel. Any information given is short and then the plot moves foreward again, very often in quick sections moving from situation to situation, giving the impression of rising tension and urgency.
Finally, I must make mention of the setting of all three novels: Stockholm, Sweden. I've never been to Stockholm but I felt comfotable 'being' there because Larsson mainly describes the city through street/district names, which I find works well. Don't know why but it just seems to make the city familiar.
And finally, finally, there's a lot of coffee drinking at home, at work, in cafes. Plus occasional descriptions of snacks eaten. It's surprising how much you can learn about characters through such seemingly unimportant details. Blomkvist, for example, nearly always has a pot of coffee on the go and I love him for that.
This is one heck of a wierd novel. Written by ex-CIA agent, Jim Thompson, and published in 1952, it is a first person narrative telling the story of the brutal murder/attempted murder of two very beautiful women. Lou Ford is the narrator and he knows all about the crimes because he's the one who committed them.
It's set in a back-water of a town in Texas and you get a real sense of how dismal the place was.
Under the surface of respectability, Lou Ford is a nasty piece of work, detailing his crimes in a cold, calculating way. I didn't like him one little bit and I've no idea why the two women were attracted to him because he treats neither very well. It's not the kind of behaviour you expect from a deputy sheriff.
The first person narrative works well read in small doses. It certainly is in an unusual style and you get a sense of Lou Ford's personality and his distinctive way of talking. Plus, there are hints as to his motivation. But I found it tedious if I read more than one chapter at a time and at times there is a lack of continuity.
So, I have no intention of reading his other novels, which include The Grifters and The Getaway (both made into excellent films), despite Stephen Kings' claim that Jim Thompson is 'my favourite crime novelist.' However, I would like to see the film based on the novel, starring Casey Affleck,Jessica Alba and Kate Hudson. It's probably very moody and extremely gory.
What I find far more interesting is Jim Thompson's history as related to me by John. Whilst visiting Bangkok some years ago, he came across a Jim Thompson shop selling a whole range of exquisite silk products: scarves, bags etc and spent some time buying presents and talking to the staff.
Apparently, Jim Thompson settled in Bangkok and totally revitalised the silk industry in Thailand (no idea why). Quite a contrast to his CIA/author background. But, and this is years ago, he disappeared and has never been seen again. Now that would be a cracker of a story.
to read more book reviews, look on posts and in the book review section
I've been meaning to get to grips with facebook for ages and after John gave me a brief tour around the system recently, I'm totally hooked. It's such an easy way to get in touch with friends and join in debates. I shall have to discipline myself severely, though, if I wish to write another word of my novel.
I do, however, only want to add people I know or have a shared interest with, otherwise that wall can get smothered in messages.
Great news - the Festival dates have just been posted on the official website - Thursday June 23rd - Sunday June 26th. We've already booked our hotel. If you enjoy my blogs about the festival, is there anything you'd like me to cover if I can? Don't know if I'll get a press badge this year but fingers crossed.
Polly And The Billets Doux are heading out on their first tour of 2011 to coincide with the re-release of their single 'Follow My Feet' next month. Following sold-out shows on their last tour and a long string of festival appearances in 2010, this year looks set to be the band's biggest yet.
2009 saw Polly And The Billets Doux release debut album 'Fiction, Half-Truths and Downright Lies' and chart in the top twenty of Radio 1's Indie Chart. The band were championed by Radio 2 DJs Terry Wogan and Bob Harris as well as gaining BBC 6Music support from the lovely Cerys Matthews. Last year saw three UK tours, a season of festivals including Glastonbury, Big Chill and Loopallu, ongoing support from BBC Introducing and a public declaration of love from Never Mind The Buzzcocks comedian Phil Jupitus. Whatever next?
Polly And The Billets Doux release 'Follow My Feet' on Monday 21st February through iTunes. A strictly limited run of physical copies will be available exclusively at the band's live shows for the duration of their February tour. A live recording of the band performing 'Follow My Feet' is available via www.youtube.com/watch?v=Slrfmxth0Ck.
This information was provided by Lauren Razavi (Polly and The Billet Doux's PR manager.)
Read, watch, listen and enjoy. I'm catching up with my delayed posts and I do hope they're worth waiting for. Of course they are. They're unique... or totally bonkers.
I'm back in action having basically lost three months due to a tiresome illness. So, I've finished The Yellow Room review and next to be finished is The Magnificent Madness at Glastonbury (Luckily, I found my notes!). I'm running about six months behind schedule but what the heck, life is full of little surprises (often nasty). C'est la vie.
The Yellow Room is a twice-yearly anthology of new short stories by women writers. It's a subscription-only publication, which is why I'll put the address and website at the bottom of this post.
Joanne Derrick, owner and editor, originally created it's 'mother' : Quality Women's Fiction , which was recommended to me a number of years ago by poet and author, Chrissie Gittens.
She rated it highly as being not only a must-read for readers of quality fiction but also for budding women writers because all contributions are published from scripts submitted by subscibers. I ordered a copy and was hooked from then on.
Tired of reading the mainly slush published in national magazines such as Woman's Weekly (although you can find the occasional interesting story from time to time so I'm not totally bad-mouthing such magazines), it was refreshing to discover a venue for stories that tackled far more varied stories, with much richer writing.
In fact, I quickly came to realise that I would have to 'up my game' if I wanted to be published here. I had to really develop the quality and originality of my prose style. It was just what I needed.
I submitted several stories for consideration and finally Joanne liked the look of one of them - September In Italy - but I needed to make it far more descriptive if it was to stand any chance of being published.
Thankfully, the revised version was accepted and seeing my work in print was wonderful for me. It was a confirmation that I could actually write decent stuff if I really tried...and then tried even harder.
So, when Joanne decided to sell the magazine to an American writer, I was very disappointed, particularly when I received the first copy under the new ownership and found it veering towards raunchy writing, whch is not what I want to read.
However, Joanne then set up The Yellow Room, which is similiar to her original publication: A5 size with a creative glossy cover, photographed by her husband, David Derrick, and a range of short stories, book reviews, reader's letters and competition news.
So, of course, I subscribed, and having received and read two editions, my verdict is that the stories are as good as, if not better, than QWF. And again, The Yellow Room unashamedly focuses on women writers, who often struggle to get published in such a male-dominated business.
A few months ago, I submitted my latest short story - Breaking and Entering. I had originally written it with incorrectly spelt words and no punctuation to reflect my main character's lack of education. Believe you me, this took an age. Joanne liked the story (yippee!) but wanted the spellings and punctuation to be accurate (bummer!) so I then spent an age re-writing it. This version was accepted (yippee again!) and I'm looking forward to seeing it in print.
Ha ha, you might say. I'm reviewing The Yellow Room because of this but, hand on heart, I can say that that is not the case. I had decided to review it before I received this good news.
So, the edition I'm about to review is Edition Four and I intend to select one of the stories in some detail and include quotes to highlight the quality and freshness of the writing. So, here goes:
* Come The Revolution by Kerry Ashwin
This story takes place during a local bus journey and is told from the perspective of an anonomous fellow passenger.
The main protagonist is a fiesty, out-spoken old lady called Mrs Eden.
You get an idea of her personality immediately in the first sentence, as she launches into conversation with the young woman she is with (a neice perhaps, the onlooker speculates):
'If there's one piece of advice I can give you it is to never say no.'
And the description of her hat re-enforces her character:
'The woman's hat, sporting a wide brim and pearl hat pin that would deter the most determined purse snatcher, bobbed about as the bus ground its way into gear.'
This conjures up an image of the Queen Mother with attitude or a modern-day Lady Bracknell from Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest.
The young companion explains that she thinks she could change her boyfriend's 'silent.. indiffere(nce)'
but Mrs Eden will have none of it:
'To change a young man is the feverent hope (of women ranging from Cleopatra to Queen Victoria to Hillary Clinton), but a futile exercise. I understand that you can see great promise in your Jonathon, great possibilities and the chance to mould the man, but be warned, this only leads to frustration at the raw materials and its inflexibility.'
And, as Mrs Eden elabotates on the qualities of women ('We are practical and useful but more than this we are supple, beautiful, and as the wind whispers its secrets, we hold them close'), the rest of the passengers are enthralled.
The story is not over-loaded with detailed descriptions of the other passengers but special attention is given to two new passengers: 'The bus crunched to a halt and scooped up two old women with tartan shopping trolleys.'
I can just imagine them as their 'small feet swung in time to the gear changes.'
They are intent on enjoying this journey: 'The tartan sisters produced black and white humbugs and offered them to those sitting closest. I sensed that the lollies forged a bond between us.'
And indeed, throughout the story, we see a growing solidarity between the passengers which is necessary for the climax of the story.
For Mrs Eden commits the most cardinel of sins; she lights up a cigarette:
'This old woman, who seemed to have a firm handle on life and its vagaries, produced a little silver flip case. We watched spellbound as she fliced open the lid with a practised air and after choosing one of many, fixed a slender cigarette into an ebony holder. Then a second rummage came up with the lighter. Fashioned as a little gene lamp, with one small stroke the flint was seduced to spark and to her astonished audience, she sucked deeply drawing the flame to the cigarette end.'
She even has 'a little siver pot decorated with swirls and ending with a small filigree tassel' to flick her ash into.
And the reason for this blatant defiance of the rules?
'When our civil liberties are being eroded at every turn,' she explains, 'it is up to the individual to take a stand in whatever way we can.'
At first, some of the passengers register their disapproval but the tartan sisters see this as an excuse to join in the rebellion by ignoring the no-eating sign and breaking into a packet of crisps, which they tuck into giggling and swinging their legs.
The driver, though, is enraged: the narrator sees him 'hunting for the rear vision mirror for the source.'
And he obviously knows who the culprit is: '...his steely glare fixed on her (Mrs Eden)almost immediately.'Mrs Eden, however, is unperturbed: 'She saw his look of indication and nodded politely at the back of his head. This it seemed was not an isolated incident.'
The poor man is unable to stop his bus immediately because the road is far too steep and 'any stop would hold the traffic at a riduculously sharp angle, brakes clutching wheels to defy gravity.'So, he demonstrates his fury in the only way he can under the circumstances: '(he) changed down a gear and swung round to give Mrs Eden a withering stare. His jaw slacked as he took in the tartan sisters enjoying an afternoon snack. Life it seemed was unravelling before his very eyes.'
The tartan sisters wither under such a stare ((their)'act of bravery was quickly scrunched up and hidden in a coat pocket')and the rest of the passengers feel 'sheepish and uncomfortable' but Mrs Eden is in full swing in her declarations against the nanny state: 'If...we let the law makers make all the decisions for us, we will forget to make our own. And if we don't make our own, we have no destiny and are no better than sheep.'
When the driver can safely stop, he summons the police to deal with this flagrant breaking of the law. And here we leave the story because I don't want to spoil the ending in case you buy a copy of The Yellow Room.
*Why I loved this story
First and foremost: it made me laugh. I loved the character of Mrs Eden, who reminded me so much of my Auntie Mary, a heavy smoker until she was seventy, when she just stopped cold. She had a real sense of mischief. Although she was a law-respecting citizen, she did like to bend the rules from time to time. She was a true eccentric, a wild chid at heart always and quick to see and comment upon stupidity and unnecessary red tape.
My Aunty Mary loved people and would have been the first to help if she saw some-one in need. Bold and defiant, she knew what was important in life. Sad to say, she is a dying breed.
I, too, am a smoker, and the smoking in public places ban, which I do agree with, is a real pain in the cold weather we're having. Puts having a hot chocolate and cigarette in the garden at my regular, The Black Boy, out of the question at the moment and I do miss it.
But, cigarettes aside, and I'm sure most if not all of you would object to some-one lighting up in a bus, Mrs Eden does have a valid point about the curtailment of civil liberties and the ludictous restrictions which make the using of initiative to help relieve a difficult situation actually illegal. Apparently, we are not allowed to sweep or treat the paths in front of our houses when they are covered with snow. It makes us vulnerable to prosecution if some-one slips. Absolutely barmy.
So, Mrs Eden's message rings a bell with me.
I also loved this story because of the writing style, which brought the whole scenario to life. The descriptions did not detract from the story but enhanced it.
And finally, I was so taken with the description of Mrs Eden's little silver pot for the cigarette ash that I've asked my husband to buy one for me as a late Xmas present. Should come in very handy for when I'm sticking my head out of a hotel window to have a quick fag.
* The Yellow Room address:-
The Yellow Room, 1,Blake Close, Bilton, Rugby, CV22 7LJ.
Mugs, of course (I don't believe I wrote that ! I mean Sugs; still looking very fit, as did all the group despite their advancing years - just goes to show how having fun can keep you youthful.)
FINISHED !!!
I shall write this post when I find the notes I made whilst on holiday in September (in Italy, of course)!!! Perhaps they are with the down-loaded recipe for South African Bobotie, which was featured on Lorraine Kelly's morning show a few days ago, 'cos I can't find that either.
JANUARY 5th - NOTES FOUND !!! (Plus recipe)
Here are some of my photos from the night that I've (i.e. John, husband and technical amanager) posted to Flickr. I must confess that my photos of the groups are not my best - it's very difficult to take good photos whilst being pushed and shoved and 'slightly' tipsy. And I should also mention that the first group to play were the famous Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel and they were pretty darn good. To call them a 'warm-up' group would be an insult. They could have played all evening and we would still have had a good time. Towards the end of their set, Sugs came onto the stage and played with them and you could feel the frienship and admiration that the two groups have for each other.
MADNESS...What can I say? They were always brilliant in their hay day and they're just as good now. Even better, actually, in a live performance.
With their distinctive sound, catchy lyrics and unique 'Madness' dance - sharp and robotic - it is impossible not to feel happy, happy, happy when their music is playing. So, when someone at Mitzi's funeral in April said that Madness were playing at the Glastonbury Abbey Extravaganza in August, the responsive was immediate - loads of us wanted to go.
So, loads of us went and we weren't disappointed. It was the best evening of 2010 for me.
Here are some photos of some of us having our picnic. Please note that it was a beautiful evening, not a rain drop in sight, although it chucked it down for days before and days after. It's always been a lovely evening everytime we've been to the Extravagaza. Co-incidence, good luck or divine will?
Here's the scene:
The Abbey, the 1st Christian church built in the UK and now in ruins, with it's extensive grounds of trees, large grassy area and lake, is positioned slap-bang in the middle of Glastonbury (funky, mystical, hippy Somerset town with the famous Tor close by).
The Extraveganza should not be confused with the enormous Glastonbury Festival, which takes place on acres of farmland several miles from the town earlier in the summer and usually with vasts seas of mud.
The Abbey Extravaganza is big enough for me, thank you very much. The grounds can accomodate thousands of guests and although I don't generally like crowds I always feel totally at home and safe.
The Extravaganza takes place each year on the Friday, Saturday and Sunday and offers a variety of musical genres.
We've already seen Van Morrison, Corin Bailey-Ray, the London Philharmonic Orchestra and Nigel Kennedy play there in previous years.
But the crowd for Madness was the largest yet: the place was teeming with Madness look-abouts, people dressed in full evening gear, people dressed in fancy dress, people wearing hardly anything at all (come on Hana and Erica - you know exactly who I mean), and a handful of very sensible people, like me, wearing warm clothing as protection against the cold of a typical summer evening (sunny or not).
The enormous stage is positioned at the bottom of a gentle slope which is jam-packed with people tucking into their picnics (some on rugs on the ground, some with table-clothed tables and chairs)/dancing/queuing for the toilets/crammed in a row after row in front of the stage/running around (usually the children) and 'budding photographers' like me pushing their way to the front (which is no mean feat) to take some photos. (I did try to blag my way into the photographers area right at the front but to no avail.)
Hopefully, my photos will give you a flavour of the Extravaganza and that all too often elusive just plain happy-to-be-alive and happy-to-be-there experience.
John, of course, recorded most of the show and you can see and hear Madness at their best on his daftnotstupid You Tube site . And if you're reading this, my friend Web Sherrif, he got permission from the group to do just that.
