Other Stories

Number-Crunching

I've been stealing memes off chartroose again.

What was I doing 10 years ago?

Well, 10 years ago I was 16. In 1998 I sat my 5th year Highers (English, French, Geography, Maths, and a module in Italian) before going into 6th year and studying for Highers in Music and History, as well as SYS English and French. I was still a goth. I got my nose pierced. I painted my bedroom purple. I went to see the RSC perform Romeo & Juliet and thought the earth moved. I read the Brontes repeatedly, and Terry Pratchett. I went to nightclubs underage and probably worried my mother half to death.

Five snacks I enjoy in a perfect non-weight-gaining world

• cheese
• chocolate
• chips and cheese
• cashew and pistachio nuts
• parma ham straight out the packet

Five snacks I enjoy in the real world

See above. Did I mention I'm overweight?

Five jobs I've had

• barmaid
• waitress
• general kitchen worker
• bookseller
• publicist

Five of my habits

• sucking my thumb in front of the telly/when I'm sleepy or bored
• buying books
• counting stairs as I go up or down them
• singing in my car
• cuddling the cats even when they don't want it

Five things I would do if I were a billionaire

• give family and friends money
• donate a whole lot to charity
• buy a house big enough to have a dedicated library, then fill said library
• have lots of cats
• start a bookshop with a pub in the basement

Five places I've lived

• Milngavie, near Glasgow
• Barrhead, near Glasgow
• West End of Glasgow
• Oxford (but I've lived to two places in Oxford... does that count?)

Five fluffy things about me

• Hmm. By fluffy I assume you mean random. In which case look here.

We'll Meme Again...

Oh the punnery. I'm hilarious.

Chartroose and her Book Barrage posted this meme yesterday and today I'm taking on the mantle. A lot of it may be ground I've covered before, but since when have I let that get in the way of some good, solid, memery?

1. Who is your all-time favourite author, and why?

I can give no one answer to this: instead, I am giving two. Virginia Woolf is the first. My love of Mrs Dalloway is well-documented and it is no exaggeration to say that this book changed my outlook on life when I read it at 19. Being of the age when Mrs D believes herself to have been happiest, I could relate on a number of levels to the way she talked about her magical summer. But then, in the book, she's in her early 50s and still trying to recapture the person she was at 18, she is wondering when everything changed, and why it all changed. I didn't want to be like that. It sounds corny, but I decided after that fateful reading to find happiness where I could, to take life as it comes, and to make the most of everything. I hope I've stuck to that. I try to, at any rate. I don't want to wake up one day and wonder where my life went.

And, of course, there is A Room of One's Own, which is just an incredible rallying cry for women to assert some of their independence through writing (amongst many other things). I have a beautiful little embossed paperback edition, which was the first present Boyfriend ever bought for me, and I love it. I was wondering whether there was irony in the fact that a man - whoever that man may be - having bought me my favourite edition of that particular book, but I've decided there isn't. He knew it was a book I loved, and which meant a lot to me. It was an extremely thoughtful gift.

Then there's Orlando, which is much overlooked I think. There's a boy in the 17th century. He grows up. Then he turns into a woman. And lives for hundreds of years. It's brilliant. Chameleon nature of sexuality and all that. Lots of pictures of Vita. Love it.

My other favourite author is Charlotte Bronte. Jane Eyre is simply an amazing book and I have no earthly idea how many times I've read it. Villette is also fantastic and I remember as a teenager sitting on my bed with a French dictionary trying to translate the French passages.

2. Who was your first favoutite author? Do you still consider them amongst your favourites?

I'd love to be able to give some incredibly precocious answer to this like "Oooh, yes, I first appreciated the majesty of Dostoyevsky at 3 and a half" but I can't. The honest answer is Ann M. Martin, author of The Babysitters Club series. I devoured those books! I was probably 8 or 9 at the time, and every weekend when I went to the West End of Glasgow to see my dad, he would take me to John Smiths on Byres Road, or the big John Smiths in town, and he would buy me another Babysitters book. Without fail I'd have finished it by that night. I just could not get enough of them. I wanted to be beautiful and artisitic like Claudia with her big, almond-shaped eyes, but instead I was undeniably more like the tomboyish Kristy. Hey, at least the name was close.

The first time I went to America, when I was 9, we went to a book shop in some mall somewhere, and I discovered that they had lots of Babysitters books that were much further on in the series than I could get in Britain, it being an American author and all. I came back with stacks of the American editions and let me tell you I was quite the envy of my friends when I produced number 63 in the series. We were only up to 49 in the UK! Thank god my parents encouraged my reading, even when my dad wasn't a reader at all. They realised pretty early on that books (and music) were more or less the only things I was interested in as a kid, and nurtured accordingly. Thanks, mum and dad.

Is she still a favourite? I can't say I read her anymore but I have very fond memories of them.

3. Who is the most recent addition to your list of favourites?

This is a toughie. I think probably Brian Moore (thanks to Palimpsest), or Nicola Barker. Rather different authors, but both excellent.

4. If someone were to ask for your favourite authors right now, who would you say? Who would you add after reflection?

Well, obviously all those mentioned above. Add to them some Dickens, some Sarah Waters, some Ali Smith, some Michel Faber, some Margaret Atwood, some Wilkie Collins, and some Armistead Maupin, and you've covered much of my range.

After thinking for a second, I'll add Iain Banks (no sci-fi M for me) because of a long-standing love of his writing (even his slightly ropier recent stuff), and I'll add Sylvia Plath because her poetry is astounding and gets a bad rap as really depressive when in reality the majority of it really, really isn't, and I'll add Katherine Mansfield because her short stories are sublime, and I'll add Rebecca West because The Return of the Soldier is an amazing book, and I'll add Emily Bronte purely and simply because of the masterpiece that in Wuthering Heights.

So, that's your meme for today. Tag, you're it.

A Conversation

The following scene took place yesterday afternoon, in the office. Our players are me, Kirsty, aged 26, and Work Experience Boy, aged 17:

• WORK EXPERIENCE BOY (WEB): So, Kirsty, do you have a boyfriend?
• KIRSTY (ME): Yes I do.
• WEB: Is he the same age as you?
• ME: Well, no, actually, he's a bit older.
• WEB: Oh right. How old is he?
• ME: He'll be 42 next birthday.
• WEB: That's quite a big age gap.
• ME: I suppose. I don't notice it to be honest.
• WEB: Yeah... guess it's different like that when you're older.

OLDER???

Hiatus, or Other Stories is having a week off

Forgive me, dear readers, for the slackness of my blog posts in the last week. Aside from having a few days away in Haworth, York, and then a day of walking in London Town, I am also still having real difficulty settling on a good book of fiction. On top of all of this, an ongoing bout of depression (from which I suffer, and which is having a f**king fieldday with my brain chemicals at the moment) makes it occasionally difficult to do anything but sleep. This is probably an overshare of information, but it's the truth, and it's why I'm having a little trouble focussing at the moment.

So, I am taking a week off from blogland. I'm thinking of you lot, I promise. Otherwise you'd just get a blog-vomit of how I feel a bit crap at the moment, and you don't want that.

I go back to work on Wednesday. This should give me a bit of a kick up the bum if nothing else. In the meantime, however, I can tell you that I am very much enjoying AN Wilson's The Victorians. He writes a mean history, does Mr Wilson. It's a long 'un at just over 600 pages, but I'm already a quarter of a ways through it.

Apologies for the silence this week. Hopefully next week I'll be up and at 'em again. :)

Progress!

I think I have finally found the book to yank me from the depths of my reading block despair: The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Sean Greer.

The book isn't actually out yet - Faber & Faber very kindly sent me an uncorrected proof copy last week - but let me tell you here and now that on the strength of the first 70 pages alone (out of a modest 195 pages) this book is something quite wonderful. The writing is beautiful, and there are twists and secrets that made me gasp without it being hackneyed or ludicrous.

I don't know very much about Andrew Sean Greer. I do know, after a quick Amazon search, that he wrote The Confessions of Max Tivoli, which I actually remember from my book shop days (though I didn't remember who wrote it, if I'm honest). That seemed to be a quirky book about a man whose body ages backwards, if I remember right, though his mind ages forwards. I do vaguely remember it being applauded at the time, and if the critics have any sense, they'll applaud his latest book too.

The Story of a Marriage is published in July.

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Talking of marriage, some good Glasgow friends of ours got engaged yesterday. Congratulations D & E!

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From tomorrow, I have two whole weeks off work. Two. Entire. Weeks. It will be a beautiful thing, and I'm fully intending to have the time to power through a chunk of Mount TBR, in between having my mum to stay for a couple of days, and nipping around seeing some interesting places. Oh, the luxury of a late lie-in. Yum.

A duck on his own

I still can't seem to finish a book, though I promise I have been reading. This weekend, for instance, I read:

• two short stories by Grace Paley
• the first chapter of A Literature of Their Own: British Women Novelists from Bronte to Lessing by Elaine Showalter
• the first chapter of Literary Theory: A Very Short Introduction by Jonathan Culler
• The Observer Book of Books, which came free with the newspaper, and was worth the cover price alone

So, reading continues, it just seems to be all over the place at the moment.

We had Boyfriend's mum and stepdad down for the weekend too, which is always nice. Lots of lovely food and wine and much laughter. On Sunday we went all went for a really long walk round Oxford, taking in the usual tourist sights such as the Radcliffe Camera, Christ Church, Botanical Gardens etc. Oh, and Blackwell's the book shop. I managed not to buy anything! Was tempted though. They have whole shelves JUST for Victorian lit crit. It's a beautiful thing.

Anyway, favourite sight of the day was when we were at Christ Church. We walked up through the Memorial Gardens, over the little bridge. And what should we spy as we did so? This fellow here:

There were no other ducks in the immediate vicinity, he was just there himself, having a bit of a sit down. He was a vocal little chap, no doubt wondering why all these people were idly watching him as he took a rest from his ducky business. Several minutes of quacking later, he took flight, almost cuffing Boyfriend right in the face, but to be fair, it's probably Boyfriend's fault for being so tall.

Kirsty Likes To...

Yes, this is another meme. In my defence, I have really awful hayfever today, it's pissing down with rain, the work canteen has run out of shreddies (scandal!), and I have to drive to London tonight to give a presentation for the MA. Moan, moan, moan. Also, neither Michael Sophocles or Helene Whatshername got booted off The Apprentice last night, so I'm Officially In The Huff.

Raef in a bearsuit was, however, a wonderful moment.

Anyhoo, I spotted this meme over at Little.Red.Boat, and thought I'd give it a bash. What you have to do is type "Your name likes to" into Google and post the results. More amusing than it sounds, I promise. Or maybe it's not, either way, I've done it, and you don't have to read it. Though I might cry if you don't.

So. Kirsty likes to:

• ...shower naked.  I cannot deny the veracity of this claim. When I shower, I do tend to take my clothes off. Doesn't everyone?
• ...to think of herself as a vixen, though inside she knows her sexual bravado with men and her awkward, less functional relationships with women... and then it tails off! What about my awkward relationships with women!? I don't think I have awkward relationships with women. Maybe some women, but not because they're women. Also, I am quite aware of my non-vixen status. So. This statement is basically false.
• ...to be independent from her twin. I'm not a twin, but if I were, I'm sure I would want to assert my individuality at times.
• ...to kiss me. Me? I like to kiss me? That is physically impossible, you do realise that, don't you?
• ...to comment on interior layouts. Hmm, I've not really thought too much about this. I suppose I do, should said layout move me in enough to comment. Much like the wedding dresses did on The Apprentice last night - some were properly hideous. Anyway, that's another story.

After this point, it all descends into variations on the "likes to" theme, and I'm nothing if not a meme purist.

In other news, a new Oxford book blogger has recently sprung up. Go and say hello to The Oxford Reader. Merci. 

Information Overload

This isn't in the slightest bit book, or feminism, related.

I added a new stats tracker to the blog yesterday and now I know a freakish amount about all of you. There are a few regular readers who I can put my finger on thanks to knowing where they work/how they mispell my blog name/they keep landing on a random old post from last year, etc. But now I can see all sorts of graphs about how many pages people read, which search engine they used, their search terms, even whether they have java enabled or not.

On the one hand, this is all really fascinating. There is an inherent nosiness in me that is satisfied by being able to see who is reading the blog, and it's always gratifying to see the stats climb. On the other hand, this all means that other people can see the same information about me, and that freaks me out slightly. I know that all sorts of people and companies store all sorts of information about everyone on various databases and god knows what - I'm sure the good people of Nectar have a pretty good idea of my lifestyle from what I buy at Sainsburys. For instance, they could easily work out that I have cats, that I have an alarming cheese addiction, that I'm now living with a vegetarian from the amount of Quorn we're suddenly buying, and that I am developing a bit of a dependency on parma ham. They probably also think I have a cider problem because every so often we buy a plastic bottle of Strongbow. What they don't know is that sometimes I drink cider out of a champagne flute for my own amusement, but enough about my bizarre foibles.

Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'm an information hypocrite. I like being nosy about other people, but it scares me that people know so much about me. But I write a blog , there are therefore elements of my life that I'm happy to share with whoever reads this, and I have a facebook profile (though with the very strictest security settings). What I mean is that people can see where I work, my computer's specs, what pages I read and for how long. Weird.

Hmm. This has turned into a bit of an odd ramble. I shall stop. Anyway, my eyes hurt. I have hayfever, and my eyes are all puffed up, and people keep asking if I've been crying. I haven't. Pollen hates me.

Reading Block and Possible Cures

I am having trouble settling on a book.

I keep starting things, getting 50 pages in, then losing interest. It's nothing to do with the books themselves, I think it might be me. I want to read all of these books, I really do. I know enough about the characters to care what happens to them. It's just that my brain seems to want to wander off in its own direction and think about... cake or cats or aeroplanes or aardvarks or honey or hats. Anything, it seems, other than what I've been reading.

I think the only course of action is to put everything down, move them all away from the bedside table, where they are growing into a menacing pile threatening to teeter over and bash me on the head, and pick up Mrs Dalloway or Jane Eyre. They are my favourite books, I can practically recite them, and they might be just what I need to kick me back into reading shape.

Also, I bought The Collected Stories of Lorrie Moore this weekend, so a few short stories might be excellent therapy too. Wish me luck!

Chunks of Bits of Things and Stuff

Today, some bite-size chunks of Kirstyness, or things wot have occured to me recently:

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It's the start of summer, and the smell in the air is gorgeous. Every time I step outside I can smell new flowers and green things and... summer. It is glorious, and I would give just about anything to be lying in the back garden, reading a book, hanging out with Boyfriend and the mogs.

Instead, I am in the office, staring out the window. Roll on the weekend, I say.

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Speaking of books I am reading, you will have perhaps noticed that I have banished the "Current Reading Pile" list at the side of the blog. This is because I'm going through a stage of finding it hard to settle on something, and keep picking things up, reading 30 pages, then putting them down again. Currently on the go are: Vanity Fair (still), Proust, Inglorious by Joanna Kavanna, and The Victorians by A.N. Wilson. The latter is a re-read, but it might as well be a first time read, it's been a long time since I read it, and I seem to have forgotten large chunks of it.

Of course, this list may have changed by this time tomorrow.

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On Saturday it's the bi-annual Big Oxfam Book Sale in Oxford, and Scottish Friend and I are chomping at the bit to go along. I have been clearing out a lot of books recently - BookMooch is amazing - but I keep ending up either having another charity shop haul, or getting books from BookMooch. I fear I will not leave the Oxfam sale empty-handed.

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I love baking cakes. I haven't done any baking for a few months. I shall do some baking this weekend.

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Everyone must watch The Daily Show tonight, Thursday if you are in the US, or tomorrow if you are in Blighty. The author of our book Blog Wars (David Perlmutter) is going to be on talking about political blogging. He talks about it on the OUPblog here, and while you're there take a look at the last two posts I have contributed.

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I only have one more week of university to go. Then I'll be finished my first year. How scary is THAT? It's gone so fast. Next week is the final presentation on the Opium Wars. What a note to end on.

I want my Yeats essay back. I imagine it'll be weeks yet.

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It's the bi-annual beer festival at our local next weekend. 19 ales over four days, plus some organic lager and some proper scrumpy. Lovely lovely lovely. The In-Laws Elect are coming down for the weekend specially and everything. These are the things I look forward to in life.

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Anyone know how to stop cats eating plants? I have a new little cherry tomato plant, and three new little sunflowers that I want to put in the garden, but the mogs are showing an unhealthy level of interest in them.

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Thus, the round-up of Kirstyness endeth. Tomorrow: more books. Now, where are my sunglasses...

I got tagged! Again!

The lovely Sara at A Salted got me right back for tagging her with the 'Six Random Things' meme by tagging me for a more bookish meme. This time the rules are:

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.

So, given that I spent a large part of this weekend getting myself right back into the Vanity Fair zone, and that I am now carrying it around in my bag, that's the book which is closest to hand at the moment.

Page 123 sees us right in the middle of one of the devilish Rebecca Sharp's letters to Amelia Sedley, and the three sentences after the fifth find Becky at her most scheming and spiky:

"Your India muslin and your pink silk, dearest Amelia, are said to become me very well. They are a good deal worn now; but, you know, we poor girls can't afford des fraiches toilettes. Happy Happy you! who have but to drive to St James's Street, and a dear mother who will give you anything you ask."

Ooooh, she's a sly one, that Becky Sharp.

Now, who am I tagging this time? Well, I don't want to tag the same people again, but that doesn't leave me with many options. So, I tag anyone who wants to have a go. Hurrah!

I got tagged!

Blog tag is a wonderful thing. It reminds me of primary school, with people chasing each other around trying not to be 'it'. This morning, though, I am 'it'. Dovegrey Reader tagged me in the 'Six Random Things About Yourself' game, so now I have to tell you, er, six random things about me. I'm not sure how interesting they are, but never mind, here goes anyway:

ONE: I have tiny kneecaps. They haven't grown since I was about 9 years old, but the runner things that my kneecaps sit on have. This means that sometimes if I turn too quickly then my kneecaps pop out of place then pop back in again. It is excruciatingly painful, but doesn't happen to often now, happily.

TWO: I was on TV when I was 13. I was a member of the Paisley Youth Theatre at the time, and STV (Scottish Television) needed some bright young things to faff about in the background of a new computer game show called T.I.G.S. (Totally Interactive Game Show... yes, really). We had to pretend to answer phones, hold up picture sent in by the audience etc, and - most embarrassingly - do the T.I.G.S. dance as the end credits rolled. One of the presenters was a very young unknown called Gail Porter.

THREE: I failed Higher Maths (Scottish equivalent of A-Level, sort of) despite my father having paid for a private tutor who I worked with for three hours every Sunday morning for 6 months. Turns out I'm just not very good at Maths.

FOUR: I'm allergic to sticking plasters and certain types of metal. This makes jewellry quite hard to buy sometimes. Not sterling silver, or pure gold? I'll be out in a rash the likes of which you've never seen. I am also intolerant to tannins, so no red wine or tea for me thanks. Cranberry juice gives me a nasty headache too.

FIVE: I can swear very impressively in Italian.

SIX: My love affair with all things Victorian started when I was about 10 years old and my mum and aunt took me to a museum somewhere in Kent which showed you the inside of a Victorian house, with lots of posters and adverts for Victorian products, and the clothes, and the books, and it was amazing. I just fell in love with it. Then, a few years later I read Jane Eyre and it all clicked into place. The Victorians have always had a little constant space in my head ever since.

Right, so there you go. Now I have to tag six more bloggers, as per the rules:

• Link to the person that tagged you - i.e. me.
• Post the rules on your blog.
• Write six random things about you in a blog post.
• Tag six people in your post.
• Let each person know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
• Let the tagger know your entry is up.

So, my tagees are....

• Sarah at Filmknitter
• Sara at A Salted
• Elaine at Random Jottings
• Chartroose at Bloody Hell, it's a Book Barrage
• Simon at Stuck in a Book
• Lindsey at Matching Curtains

If you lot are up for it, then I look forward to seeing your answers!

I return, and the Orange Prize Shortlist

Afternoon people, I am back home in Oxford. It's been a bit of a frantic few days, and as much as I adore London and had a great time at the Book Fair, the relief as the bus rolled back into Oxford was palpable. It was lovely to get back into my house, to see Boyfriend and the mogs, and to just... be home. Phew.

I hope you've been following my exploits over at OUPblog, and there's most posts to come about my time at the LBF over there, so keep checking back. I got some excellent freebies, including another nice bag, some Guinness World Records mints in a fancy tin which I broke within 5 minutes, and two books (one of which I'm giving to mum as it's not my thang), not to mention crabcakes on the first day. Yummy. The book which I'm keeping for myself is a proof copy of Chris Cleave's new novel, coming out in August (I think): The Other Hand. I read his first novel, Incendiary, a couple of years ago and was very impressed. The fact that as I sit here now I can remember a good slice of that book is testament to his talent I think. I'm looking forward to it.

I also picked up a bundle of catalogues from other publishers, so I can start forumlating my wishlist for the autumn fiction frenzy.

But, to business. The Orange Shortlist has been announed, and the lucky nominees are:

Nancy Huston Fault Lines

Sadie Jones The Outcast

Charlotte Mendelson When We Were Bad (Hooray!)

Heather O’Neill Lullabies for Little Criminals

Rose Tremain The Road Home

Patricia Wood Lottery

Lots of first time writers, Charlotte Mendelson, and The Outcast, which I heard on Radio 4 the other week, and was rather taken by. Good list!

Now, back to Yeats for the last essay push.

Childhood Delights

I confess that my recreational reading has slowed to a mere crawl over the last couple of weeks. In my defence, when I've not been zooming all over Oxford like a publicist possessed, I have had my head stuck firmly in academic books about the early poetry of WB Yeats (and just occasionally crawling as far as the pub for a brief, rejuvenating pint or two). The essay is due in on 18 April, so just a couple of weeks to go, then five intense weeks of a group research project on the Opium Wars, before the summer vacation stretches out before me like a shimmering pool of gorgeousness. Then, and only then, will I be able to catch up properly on all the lovely books waiting for me, tempting me to cheat on WBY with them.

Who knows, maybe I'll even finish Vanity Fair.

In the meantime, though, I was recently reminded of the children's books I loved when I was a little 'un, and it prompted my to clamber into the loft and find the plastic bag that holds a handful of my very favourite literary relics of childhood. As you can see from the picture on the left, I only have a few of my childhood books left, but these really were my true favourites. Starting from the top, John Wyndham's Chocky was something I read possibly too early in life, in fact I think my dad read it to me because I couldn't read all the words yet. There was a big blue cloud called Chocky, and for ages afterwards I was convinced it was following me around. I used to talk to Chocky a lot, but in my defence, I was the only child living at home, I needed someone to talk to. Then we have two books from the Teddy Robinson series: Dear Teddy Robinson and Keeping Up With Teddy Robinson, and below that the wonderful, brilliant, splendid Matilda by Roald Dahl. I have read this book too many times to count, and in fact intend to read it again shortly. Forget your Harry Potters, Roald Dahl is what it's all about for kids. They are timeless books. Then we have a battered and bruised Christopher Robin Story Book, which is actually older than me. This edition is from 1975, but it was passed down to me from older half brothers and sisters. I can still recite the whole of "James James Morrison's Mother", and one of my earliest memories is of my mother in one of her well times, sitting me on her lap, and reading all the poems to me over and over again because I loved them so much.

Next down is a book that I got when I was about 10, of scary stories. I remember one in particular about a group of teenage boys watching a snuff movie that freaked the hell out of me at the time. Looking back at it this weekend, I see that the story was written by none other than Mr Philip Pullman. I had no idea! From these humble beginnings, etc. Then we have a hardback edition of another Roald Dahl, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator. Now, this may be controversial, but I always much prefered this sequel to the original story. I am perfectly aware that not everyone will feel the same as me, but I'm afraid that that's just the way it is. Lastly, Don't Forget Tom. It was a twee, clumsy attempt to teach children about disabled people, that ended up being horribly patronising to all concerned, but as a child it had me in floods of tears every single time I read it. For that reason, I couldn't possibly part with it. It's too much a part of my childhood.

When I was a teenager, I moved away from children's books, mostly after the life-changing experience that was reading Jane Eyre. And also a teenage obsession with all things Terry Pratchett. But these books I could never part with. And it looks like I knew even then that I wouldn't want to part with them:

Reading Progress

When you work in publishing March and April can be ridiculously busy. Next week is the Oxford Literary Festival, and I will be there for three and a half days out of seven. I have authors speaking every single day. I also have events that I'm going to as a Regular Punter.

What I'm most looking forward to, though, is an event on Monday night: Blogging the Classics. We are sponsoring the event because our classics series has just undergone a major facelift, and they're about to relaunch. Speaking at the event are John Carey, John Mullan, the lovely Mark Thwaite of ReadySteadyBook and Book Depository fame, and the inimitable Friend of Other Stories dovegrey reader. I'm not just saying this because of work, I really can't wait for that one. Do come and join us!

When I'm not hanging around the Festival Green Room (oooh, get me) I shall be sweating over my essay. And probably drinking a lot of coffee. The stress, the stress, I really don't need anymore at the moment. Seriously, everyone be nice to me next week.

At least I have lovely, calming books to read. My current main read is Sebastian Barry's Annie Dunne. I have never read anything by him before, but Academic Friend rates him extremely highly, and that is good enough for me. So far, I haven't been disappointed, it's shaping up to be a real treat.

Vanity Fair is still on the go too, I promise. I seem to have been distracted by other things recently, but I haven't given up, I swear! I'm at page 250-odd out of 900-odd, so the end isn't yet quite in sight, but I will get there. I am really enjoying it, or I was, before I got sidetracked.

On top of all this, I have taken delivery of another couple of review copies: Hearts and Minds by Rosy Thornton, and Fresh by Mark McNay. One is a campus novel about a man in an all-female Cambridge college, and the other is a brutal drama set in a rundown area of Glasgow. I fear the first may be more relaxing than the latter, so I think that might be first up during my week of busy-ness.

Well, I could have told you that...

So I was doing some of those silly internet quizzes because of a link at Harriet Devine's blog, and stumbled across one that was going to tell me what kind of intellectual I am. Turns out, I'm a Bibliophile. Well, obviously.

Mind you, not sure about this "politics and business" thing. They didn't see my 2nd year Politics presentation at uni on Scottish fisheries. Not my finest hour.

You are The Bibliophile!

There's nothing you love more than the raw digestion of ideas. You spend your time collating the many works you've encountered into a grand enlightened whole.

Most of the things you observe in the real world become consistent and easy to explain--a hundred different factors all add up. But because you know so many facets of the issues, you can have a hard time explaining them to other people. You may find success in a practical discipline like politics or business, where the results speak for themselves!

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 30% on empiricism

You scored higher than 51% on publicity

You scored higher than 35% on pedagogy

Nota Bene

Some things to note:

1. I have having some technical issues. Things don't appear when I want them too. There should have been posts between Thursday and now. They've disappeared from everywhere, and at the moment I don't have time to re-type.
2. Technical issues, part the second: my sidebars aren't updating.
3. I have been in Scotland all weekend, with a sum total of 10 minutes internet time. Scotland was alright. Scottish. Spent most of the time with my mum, which was largely very enjoyable. Slept in my old bedroom and rued the day when I was 15 and painted my room DARK purple. Felt oddly compelled to go out and buy some nice, neutral paint. Apologised to my mother eleven years on for being the most appalling goth and forcing her to have a purple room in her house. That said, I haven't lived at home since I was 17, and she still hasn't got around to repainting it herself.
4. Guiltily eschewed essay reading and finished Clear by Nicola Barker instead. Loved it. Loved it more than I loved Darkmans. (CLAIRE! I know I forgot to point out to you how commuter-unfriendly Darkmans is, but trust me on Clear. It's paperback! And only 340-odd pages! If you enjoyed Darkmans, you won't regret this, I promise.)
5. Did make serious progress with old Herbert G W, though, and I aim to finish it tonight or tomorrow. Still not loving it, but can now say with absolute certainty that The Island of Dr Moreau is the best Wells I've read, tinge of racism not withstanding.
6. Lewis, 9pm Sunday nights on ITV, is amazing. Last night they blew up a house just along the road from me.
7. I have recently become massively addicted to this bread.

That is all. I am beavering away at battling the gremlins, and normal service short resume shortly.

Meme #3589643

I can't resist them. I see a questionnaire and I just have to fill it in. This one came from Stuck in a Book.

What is your favourite word? Melting. I think it's a lovely word.

What is your least favourite word? Schism

What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? Creatively: reading good books, hearing good music. Spiritually/emotionally: much the same.

What turns you off? In terms of books, then complications for complications sake. Deliberate obscurity. Snobbishness. Kerry Katona.

What is your favourite curse word? Swearing can be quite delicious. I don't have a particular favourite, other than any well-timed, effective one.

What sound or noise do you love? Heavy rain, the sea, cats purring, wine pouring from a bottle. That glug-glug-glug noise.

What sound or noise do you hate? Polystyrene squeeking. Sellotape ripping.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Full time writer or academic.

What profession would you not like to do? Working in a restaurant. Dentist. Sewage worker. Quite a lot of things, to be honest.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? Given my fervent atheist stance, I ain't expecting there to be a heaven. However, in the unlikely event that there is one, and He lets me in, then if he could just point me to the bar and library then all will be good.

Birthday cheese

Happy Birthday to me! Happy Birthday to me! Happy Birthday to meeeee-eeeeeeeeeeee! Happy Birthday to me!

I am having a day of chocolate cake and wonderful presents. My colleagues, knowing me as well as they do, gave me cheese. Here is my birthday cheese:

I also got a very lovely cheeseboard to go with said birthday cheese.

Also, this weekend I get to go guilt-free book shopping because my mum sent me a generous amount of book tokens. Hurrah! And Boyfriend gave me beautiful earrings with my birthstone (amethyst) in them.

This is a good birthday.   :)

 

Moan complain whinge, etc

I have the cold, and it's making me grumpy. I'm also back to lectures this evening and at the moment the idea of shlepping through the London and back isn't filling me with a great deal of joy. I would very much like to be wrapped in duvet with a big mug of something hot and soothing, stuck in a book. Hurrumph.

In the meantime, here are some amusing felines, to the tune of 'It's oh so quiet' by Bjork.