tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72865481047703172222024-03-13T17:56:55.919+00:00Lucy Ann WhiteMy first novel, A Little Blue Jacket, came out in small format paperback in May 2007. So what's next? I've got the idea, started the research but what form should it take? Still working on this one: as I grapple with structure, narrative and style perhaps I can ask your advice. And it's a solitary business this writing: please keep me company as I scribble about books and art, ruminate about the countryside and enjoy the garden through my window - I should like to have you along.Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.comBlogger168125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-29498051462102516352012-10-30T19:26:00.000+00:002012-10-30T19:26:10.703+00:00Burying the Bones: Pearl Buck in China by Hilary Spurling<br />
What a fascinating book. When I first heard we would be reading the biography of Pearl Buck for our book group choice I was less than enamoured. I started reading and thought my doubts confirmed. By the time I reached chapter two I realised I was totally mistaken. Hilary Spurling has written an excellent portrait of this prolific and accomplished writer's life. <br />
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Pearl Buck was born in America in 1892 but was brought up on the breadline in China by an eccentric missionary father and long suffering mother. Pearl spoke Chinese, lived like her Chinese neighbours and thought of herself as one of them. She was highly intelligent but when she finally went to college in America she felt totally out of place and her peers thought her strange. <br />
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Married to an able mission agriculturalist his lack of empathy, vision, passion and appreciation for literature drove them apart. Buck turned to writing and it was her salvation. Her first novel, The Good Earth, caused a sensation when it was published in 1931. At that time little was known of the way of life of Chinese peasants and that the communist party did all it could to stifle literacy. The Chinese communist party did not want the raw side of life in China told and the middle class American audience was unwilling to hear it. <br />
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However, The Good Earth portrayed the Chinese people, for the first time, as individuals with passions, fears and unusual ancient habits and went on to become a best seller. Buck left her husband and as a result had to leave her beloved China, never to return. Her wish for independence and achievement combined with the need to provide for herself and her only daughter, who was retarded, drove her on and she wrote nearly forty novels as well as short stories and articles. <br />
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She eventually married her publisher with whom she had a passionate relationship in which they were intellectual equals. They adopted several children but, although she had a close relationship with her own mother, she was not naturally maternal and became an oddly distant mother. She seemed to have adopted the children as replacements for her siblings that died before she was born and the healthy children she could not herself have. <br />
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Battling alone, always an outsider, Buck became towards the end of her life increasing idiosyncratic and dogmatic, a strong and strange woman. Eventually she cut herself off, looked after by equally odd companions, and assumed the mantle of an ancient inscrutable Chinese woman she had admired as a young woman. <br />
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Buck was a woman who had struggled and suffered much in her life and this comes through in her fiction as does her real understanding and love of China and the Chinese. The Good Earth – her most successful novel – charts an interesting period in Chinese history and did more to dispel the discrimination that surrounded the Chinese in western society than any of the more usual channels. Hilary Spurling's biography Burying the Bones: Pearl Buck in China is an illuminating and really fascinating read. <br />
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I would probably not have read this book by one of the Dames of modern English literature had I not been on holiday. I really enjoyed The Childrens Book by A S Byatt. I say that as a stand alone, qualified statement because when you hear what I also have to say about it you may well be forgiven for thinking that I did not. It may be beautifully written but it is, quite simply, too long. I cannot imagine a publisher allowing anyone but a well respected and accomplished novelist to get away with a book quite as wordy as this*. <br />
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Olive, a poor working class young woman, marries a middle class banker and becomes a mother and successful fairytale writer. Indeed the book is a fairy story right from the start, but possibly in the Grimm mould. Dark things lurk beneath the surface. <br />
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The scope is vast, with so many strands to the story, so many characters and ideas that it could quite easily have been a trilogy. And better for it at that. It would take me pages to describe this novel, suffice to say that each strand is so interesting in itself it could quite easily become several. Think DH Lawrence, Bloomsbury, Tolkein, Pre-Raphaelites, Nesbit, Edwardian philanthropists, history, politics, domestic life, sensuality, birth and death. <br />
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You can read the outline of the plot and characters on any site but you may not read anyone who admits that they left chunks out. Now I am the sort of boring reader who reads every single word. I like words. If they are lyrical, a sentence beautiful or an idea challenging I read it again. So for me to leave out 'bits' is not in character. <br />
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The Children's Book is interspersed with fairy stories that Olive wrote for her children (hence the title), among others, and these I found interrupted the flow of the novel and became tedious. They seemed an indulgence that made the book far too long. <br />
<br />
I enjoyed the period in which the book was set, the social ideas, problems of being a working mother, the artistic and historical references. Some of the characters stretched credulity but it was all very colourful and interesting. In particular Byatt's references to WW1 and her portrayal of Germany just prior to it were fascinating. This was more than enough. But fairy stories too? Fairy stories I had not banked on. <br />
<br />
Lucy<br />
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*A novel by another famous writer has just been released and the same criticism has been aimed at that. <br />
<br />
PS So, Google has changed the format for downloading the blog - trouble is I have yet to work out how to Italicise on this new Blog format and how to download a photo! Please, could a fellow blogger could help me out? <br />
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We have left it until now because it was so wet in July we could not get it done and so decided to let the late summer flowers set seed with the additional benefit that an even greater number of insects and birds benefit. </span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZyoIb6ZofcmTPiT1JXrZCPBhGlz5B47sZGyhHTpqfOPPQmSFlyvDGWhEBoBA44bxDZbJVmNQnrpJ7JlEaYH-a1ELiicQougiwOkap7QFF4fTvOGO7Fl8Hp6SsVWfWc88Ed_e9q57msDN_/s1600/Bee+on+bloom.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5781410831694343794" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZyoIb6ZofcmTPiT1JXrZCPBhGlz5B47sZGyhHTpqfOPPQmSFlyvDGWhEBoBA44bxDZbJVmNQnrpJ7JlEaYH-a1ELiicQougiwOkap7QFF4fTvOGO7Fl8Hp6SsVWfWc88Ed_e9q57msDN_/s200/Bee+on+bloom.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Unfortunately it is now not a job we are looking forward too mainly because we have to rake up all the cut grass. A tiring and time consuming task but an absolutely essential one if we want to continue having a good mix of wildflowers.<br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>I have seen the stunning wildflower areas at the Olympic Park – what a triumph their waterside planting is – but wonder how they will manage the various areas. Wildflower areas are perfect for masking the dying foliage of daffodils but after the end of June the dramatic landscape of grasses and wildflowers starts to look messy, especially if children and dogs have run through it. So in a domestic situation it is best to cut your wildflower areas then and not wait till the late summer flowers have set seed. </div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tEqEFRpMQAstJshCn-haxroENMrxyGttajLgkowYVyjz0PFBlhxfO7b_zyY9LFEsRlAMtinjE9dxLtdehicSXDzPZ83srZ5DfWkWL_3NhC_ajBcGiVa6lLefYYoR3E_VCpWlNdB7ICGy/s1600/Olympic+planting.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5781419449515673026" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 133px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tEqEFRpMQAstJshCn-haxroENMrxyGttajLgkowYVyjz0PFBlhxfO7b_zyY9LFEsRlAMtinjE9dxLtdehicSXDzPZ83srZ5DfWkWL_3NhC_ajBcGiVa6lLefYYoR3E_VCpWlNdB7ICGy/s200/Olympic+planting.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Wildflower areas need not be high maintenance but it is a common misconception that they look after themselves. They don't. The grass can either be cut in late June when the early flowering species have seeded or left until the end of August to allow the late flowering species to set seed; in either case the grass must be collected otherwise it will enrich the soil and wildflowers only flourish on impoverished soil. It is also necessary to remove or treat any patches of the most thuggish and invasive species and grasses or the better behaved native flowering plants will be unable to compete.<br /><br />Whether you choose to scatter a wildflower seed mix on bare raked earth or put plug plants into established grass you will find that many wildflowers – naturally occurring or not – will not all appear the following year unless the soil is disturbed. The wheatfield poppies appeared annually because the soil was ploughed and other wildflowers reappeared because grassland was grazed. Grazing sheep kept down the thuggish species and cows feet disturbed the earth: hence the nursery rhyme, 'the sheep's in the meadow the cows in the corn'.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ9Uf5fRskKE8ej10cpbGwjZFSn_Zf2O5V89u7tZ1X7DvCAoDW-pbxrgT1XHKIv2ay55ysvSlpGwCWv9W3y3H-aCp2lMn7H9LVu5hEtd6e8MPogIzuaZ2PCEDBeTZ7RjhCP4SiaNqElASE/s1600/Cowslips.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5781416744543731794" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ9Uf5fRskKE8ej10cpbGwjZFSn_Zf2O5V89u7tZ1X7DvCAoDW-pbxrgT1XHKIv2ay55ysvSlpGwCWv9W3y3H-aCp2lMn7H9LVu5hEtd6e8MPogIzuaZ2PCEDBeTZ7RjhCP4SiaNqElASE/s200/Cowslips.jpg" border="0" /></a>So, after cutting your wildflower meadow, collect the grass (home made hay) and if you cannot get somebody's sheep to graze it for a few months keep it cut and get a team of very energetic children to play sports on the area kicking the stuffing out of the grass. A few tents pitched on it or some kids on cross country bikes might also give the same effect but putting some pigs on it may be going too far. They will plough it to such an extent that it is only good enough for planting potatoes.<br /><br />However small our plot we can all do our bit to encourage bees and other insects as pollinators and increase the bird and wildlife generally - it doesn't have to be on the grand scale of an Olympic Park. Even if it is only small areas of native wildflowers around trees or along garden boundaries, cultivating wildflowers will help counteract the sad loss to our wildlife now apparent by over-manicured hedges and verges and pesticide sprayed fields.<br /><br />Come on, time to go wild! Lucy<br /><br /></div></span></div></div></div><br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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Quite apart from the stupendous growth spurt that most greenery has produced there are various thugs that threaten to overpower everything in sight.<br /><div><br /><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDdYeW2zPdVAf7cIY-LidBzu4EOrBRj_-RDzLTV-GDIkW-3EamXwqlxhaOnuTvzIHGCw2pQ8fFha4NN_8bjeo8kys_J4Qyl6yJmnX7SMzrsQ86m5FgsvwUkKtZBw7rmOW0bI4cYauAVG0/s1600/bindweed+2012.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5769630014699728274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 133px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDdYeW2zPdVAf7cIY-LidBzu4EOrBRj_-RDzLTV-GDIkW-3EamXwqlxhaOnuTvzIHGCw2pQ8fFha4NN_8bjeo8kys_J4Qyl6yJmnX7SMzrsQ86m5FgsvwUkKtZBw7rmOW0bI4cYauAVG0/s200/bindweed+2012.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><div>Have you noticed that the most awful of weeds are often the most delicate or pretty? Bindweed is one of the worst culprits. The leaves are small and beautifully formed. The arrow like spades teeter on delicate sinuous curling stems that coil perfectly around any tall plant in their neighbourhood. Turn your back for a moment and there are several sinuous curling stems all coiling around each other like a great rope choking every living thing in their path. Reaching the extent of their host, elegant ethereal white spathes appear on the creepers. White, pure, innocent looking flowers. The bees may love them but what a deadly development this is. Beauty that conceals the beast's seeds. Even if you cut these off before they do their damnest, every inch of stem and root that clings to the plant or stays in the soil will produce a hundred sneaky, suffocating, crawly creepers. No wonder Sleeping Beauty escaped detection for so long. In a twinkling of an eye bindweed totally smothered her castle.<br /></div><br /><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2oS9-ULtIzYQ6GPjkNpjBi3_8LdzuAa24cLV6fuh00UBCqX8GYY6WSRAnJ_YHnLx9wL1HxBbqy5flnQMZjILG2WJQjxrmci6I70cuUTmjzI5sYbsQxWekyizDZBIBWmD7cZwKSN71N-I/s1600/Jap+knotweed+2012.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5769631232056811858" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 133px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2oS9-ULtIzYQ6GPjkNpjBi3_8LdzuAa24cLV6fuh00UBCqX8GYY6WSRAnJ_YHnLx9wL1HxBbqy5flnQMZjILG2WJQjxrmci6I70cuUTmjzI5sYbsQxWekyizDZBIBWmD7cZwKSN71N-I/s200/Jap+knotweed+2012.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Japanese knotweed is a similarly snake-like interloper. First you don't notice it at all. Mistake number one. By the time you do notice, it has been joined by several siblings. These are all medium height plants with the prettiest most delicate and exotic flowers. Pea-like, pretty and pink. They are far too attractive to do any harm. They add a certain elegance to the border. You decide to let them stay. Mistake number two. Soon, you are aware that these plants have multiplied rather alarmingly and are dotted about between the perennials. Nevertheless, they do look so lovely, now tall and stately. They add rather than detract from the border display. Mistake number three. Because one day – just when you are congratulating yourself for having acquired such ethereal additions to your border - everything changes. Their delicate pretty pink pea-like flowers explode. Yes, EXPLODE. They burst open with such ferocity and force that the seeds are expelled like exocet missiles across the entire bed, border, path, hedge and lawn within a ten meter radius. They will forever populate your garden and ensure that you will be pulling them out for the rest of your gardening lifetime.<br /><br />Finally there is that attractive little leaf that pops up in the bare earth between your burgeoning perennials. Is it the angelica you planted last year. Yes, the leaf looks familiar. You leave it to develop. You do love angelica. Soon there are several leaves. So attractively shaped, such a fresh green, and they are doing no harm. Soon enough a shoot appears surmounted by a delicate white frothy flower. It IS angelica. Just wait until the stem grows into something worth preserving. Stangely, this takes longer than expected. The leaves now totally cover all the bare earth between every single plant in the bed. A kind friend commiserates: what a shame it is that you have ground elder. You do a little research and realise that you have been nurturing one of the most invasive weeds in existence in the western world. And now it is here and well established, it is with you forever.<br /><br />That's gardening for you! Lucy </div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-65605960028880234282012-05-22T11:30:00.003+00:002012-05-22T11:47:48.113+00:00Brooklyn, Colm ToibinToibin, born and raised in Ireland , was brought up in Enniscorthy, the town he describes in the novel. It is therefore no surprise that he gives the story such a sense of time and place. <em>Brooklyn</em> is set in the 1950's and if the reader feels that the central character, Eilis, is a little unreal it is necessary to remember that women's choices then were limited and their expectations of freedom lower.<br /><br />Toibin writes using the third person, in the past not the present, because he believes that memories give greater depth. Themes of his previous novels have covered personal identity, Irish society and alienation, and all these are embraced in Brooklyn.<br /><br />Eilis, born in a small southern Irish town, is expected to emigrate to America as the only way to better her prospects. Her loss and homesickness come as a surprise to her but, for a mild character who sleepwalked into emigrating, she seems to embrace American culture with the determination of most émigrés and gains professional qualifications. However, she continues for the most part to maintain her sense of Irish respectability and religious beliefs.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4YUmWGVdEnX_or8xUQaK1gF12z6FT0F1FsvCmDXEoXAKFwjOkLPIVVMRzmWxWTPn0Axl8gtY0YcjtXHYT8tCc2UUnFsllOiqiycnd1y7to_uKqnuTTNdUujtj12rR95VoQ80DSFEvdbFa/s1600/Brooklyn.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5745320521707738050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 126px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4YUmWGVdEnX_or8xUQaK1gF12z6FT0F1FsvCmDXEoXAKFwjOkLPIVVMRzmWxWTPn0Axl8gtY0YcjtXHYT8tCc2UUnFsllOiqiycnd1y7to_uKqnuTTNdUujtj12rR95VoQ80DSFEvdbFa/s200/Brooklyn.jpg" border="0" /></a>Until she meets Tony, an Italian-American, who has an energy and optimism that Eilis admires and whom she grows fond of. He introduces her to his warm family life, a family unlike her own, that speaks its mind and shows outward affection. All looks set for a hopeful life of steady improvement. Then her elder sister, Rose, who has kept her ill health secret, dies and Eilis feels she must make a trip home to see her mother.<br /><br />The simplicity of Toibin's style – no long fancy descriptions and a very spare writing – is an attractive facet of the narrative. But it is not easy for a novelist to write so simply whilst still getting across depth of character and events. And in this case it is a style that is not always successful. Dialogue - which is brillaint - and situation drives the story forward but the story has no clear plot and little emotion.<br /><br />A poet and journalist, Toibin was the son of a frustrated writer and nephew of a poet. They were a family who liked writing down feelings and thoughts but apparently not one that spoke about them. It is that sense of what is felt but not mentioned that informs this novel. It is what is <em>not </em>said that is important.<br /><br />Belonging is perhaps the over-riding theme of the novel – Eilis does not feel she belongs in Brooklyn – she is alienated; eventually comes to feel she does belong; returns to Ireland where she thinks she belongs then finds she no longer does – she is alienated once more. So returns to Brooklyn.<br /><br />Another theme is loss – the loss Eilis feels for her home, her siblings, for her mother, later for her sister and finally for her previous life and the life she might have lived had she married an Irishman.<br /><br />A further theme is that circumstances determine the decisions we make in our lives – that very often the course of action we take is decided for us - time and tide decide where we will end up. Eilis is portrayed as a girl with no will of her own, a strong work ethic and a sense of duty.<br /><br />But themes do not make a book, characters can. Eilis does not come over as a wholly believable character or, at times, a particularly warm one. She displays no passion and drifts into life changing decisions. Yet, Eilis did make some decisions and not always the right ones. It is one of these decisions – to return to Ireland - that constitutes the most disappointing and unreal part of the story.<br /><br />The deceit that she exhibits on her return may be meant to reflect the deception of her sister, and later that of her mother. Or, possibly, it is an example of her less than perfect character? On the other hand, the deceit may be just another example of how the family concealed their feelings and refused to accept the undesirable.<br /><br />Earlier in the story there are also some other odd and annoying facets: the severe sickness and awfulness of Eilis' journey over to America were accentuated yet led to no revelation. When she returns to Ireland the privations and discomforts of the passage are never mentioned. Another unanswered and unnecessary point is that on occasions it is mentioned that Tony is blond, quite unlike his dark Italian brothers. This is left as a tenuous hint at a doubtful parentage in the mind of the reader, but there is no reference to why or how this could be.<br /><br />And it is this enigmatic writing that instead of stimulating the reader, annoyed many of our reading group. The denouement of the story was flagged as a dilemma but failed to live up to its promise, whilst the end left many dissatisfied. The book was easy to read, there was some lovely writing, great dialogue, mild humour and some touching scenes but only one or two of these really stirred the emotions. I quite enjoyed <em>Brooklyn</em> but, eventually, the novel that promised much, delivered much less than expected.<br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-71132675273285311202012-04-29T17:17:00.001+00:002012-04-29T22:01:53.622+00:00No literary agent, no publisher - no book.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;">Literary
agents are rare creatures</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;">. The official definition
for a Literary </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Agent
is: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a person who manages business,
financial, or contractual matters for a writer</i>.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;">
Or, as the free online dictionary defines agent: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1.</i> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">One that acts or has the power or authority to act. </span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">2.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> One empowered to act for or represent another: an <u>author's</u> agent; an <u>insurance</u> agent. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">But
in my book the definition is: Author's agent - an individual or ever dwindling group
of individuals with sufficient clients who are very unlikely to take on further
clients unless they are famous. Which rather leaves me out in the cold. I
understand their reason: a great deal of time has to be invested marketing a new,
or relatively unknown, author and if it reaps no rewards who pays the agent's
bar bill? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">So,
having contacted a few agents and having some kind encouragement but no-one
biting my hand off, I am starting to widen my circle. At the same time as
approaching agents who may just find my book so riveting that they are willing
to take my work on, I thought I would look into contacting book publishers
direct. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Book publishers are difficult
creatures to corner</span></b><span style="font-size: 11pt;">. The definition of a book publisher is roughly: a company that pays to
acquire, develop, design, produce and publicize a book. But the definition should
probably include 'after which outlay there is no guarantee of return'. I
understand the economics. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Unfortunately,
since my novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Little Blue Jacket</i>,
was published, few book publishers accept unsolicited manuscripts. An agent
wants a best selling author, likewise, a publisher wants a best seller. Like an
agent they know these are one in a million. So how do they wade through a slush
pile the size of a Swedish forest. And what are their chances of finding JKR II
in all that pulp. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">It's
for this reason that most book publishers only accept manuscripts through a
literary agent. By using an agent to do their sifting they have cut their costs
and increased their chances of success. I know that literary agents and book
publishers are bombarded with requests from wanna-be published authors. I know
that neither agent nor publisher can ever hope to cope with it all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">But
now you see my dilemma without my really having to spell it out: no agent, no
publisher. No book. So, tell me, how do I, a modest and talented writer (like
all hopeful authors) with a highly individual manuscript ready and waiting to
go, solve this conundrum. How is it to be overcome. Please give me a contact. Or
just practical advice. Even a teensy weensy clue would help ….anything? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Lucy </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-79878269250116417572012-03-27T17:54:00.005+00:002012-03-27T18:05:05.556+00:00Trees in the LandscapeNow, in the south-east of England at the end of March, when our many native and naturalized deciduous trees are not in leaf, it is still possible to see far and wide across the fields and hills. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicR7OYWz1c-XEQYYIVRbgx3cYpRBPSsmigFgKqUpeZWPx8CAKWTN1-f9x_l9YrX6x_8fXKSek6siwHsqH-_60hast1KXBEpQ_zMKx9N3FiFBbU86jjHQlp-TW-VKNuq3GntgPeJC7HXhu_/s1600/Tree+silhouette.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicR7OYWz1c-XEQYYIVRbgx3cYpRBPSsmigFgKqUpeZWPx8CAKWTN1-f9x_l9YrX6x_8fXKSek6siwHsqH-_60hast1KXBEpQ_zMKx9N3FiFBbU86jjHQlp-TW-VKNuq3GntgPeJC7HXhu_/s200/Tree+silhouette.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724637443334076066" /></a><br />We all love trees in glorious leaf but the Hockney exhibition reminded me of the structural contribution that trees devoid of leaves make to the landscape. It is now in their unclothed form that we can see their bones - their silhouette - clear against the sky. And the overlapping canopies of tree belts, like medieval or Art Nouveau tracery, can be quite beautiful. <br /><br />Tree identification is usually taught when trees are in leaf but, in fact, when trees are bare it is sometimes easier to appreciate their habit and identify them: how their branches divide, their twigs grow and the position of their buds or seeds is clearer. <br /><br />Trees bare of leaf should of course be an important consideration when designing a landscape but so seldom are. Quite clearly, leaves are very important factor when choosing a species of tree. The colour of the leaf, the habit of its growth, the leaf size and shape and its texture will all form part of the decision. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF78Ux79mCdlmKTIdI8cXKQ-ETRomGwXI_wfFWbkFTDam0llE1b54_umCWCCitpgBigUA-n5m8P42hJMxcprOy841Q7d9PL_fdqjPN7XatQSKimrkCX2znkfNxNsdtL_wHIqwICDzsvGR3/s1600/winter+tree.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF78Ux79mCdlmKTIdI8cXKQ-ETRomGwXI_wfFWbkFTDam0llE1b54_umCWCCitpgBigUA-n5m8P42hJMxcprOy841Q7d9PL_fdqjPN7XatQSKimrkCX2znkfNxNsdtL_wHIqwICDzsvGR3/s200/winter+tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724637987510339410" /></a><br />Trees in our gardens and surroundings form boundaries and screens, views, enclosure and shade and there are species to suit them all. Their form or shape, habit and scale all contribute to the suitability of the choice. But it is, after all, for half the year that deciduous trees are bare and therefore this should be as important an aspect of the design as when they are in leaf. <br /><br />There is only one book I have that celebrates bare trees in winter and that is a wonderful American publication, <em>Trees in a Winter Landscape</em>, and it is inspirational. Most books I have major on trees in leaf: some of them are beautifully photographed, others aspirational, most give good solid advice but, when you think of it, a tree in leaf is only half the story. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzU7gSnMcnLdH5u2EfZaRftkZfvc_163jQ05u7Z15jk565dNOiScObPwotHvwXb5BCumwdByoXuu5HtyI6ACXYC2CGB1JnRSL9l8pBtskuvJVRvmiYZqU0tfX8N7E-TzT4yOIZMDt7XVnm/s1600/Eltham+blossom.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzU7gSnMcnLdH5u2EfZaRftkZfvc_163jQ05u7Z15jk565dNOiScObPwotHvwXb5BCumwdByoXuu5HtyI6ACXYC2CGB1JnRSL9l8pBtskuvJVRvmiYZqU0tfX8N7E-TzT4yOIZMDt7XVnm/s200/Eltham+blossom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724638305709469490" /></a><br />It is in winter that the wonderful peeling silver bark of the birch really makes an impact, that the rich red textured bark of the cherry adds such interest. The dramatic flowers of the magnolia stand out against its bare branches in our gardens, palest pink almond blossom - so delicate that it would be overwhelmed by leaves - covers the bare branches of the trees along our suburban streets. In the rural lanes, on bare hazel limbs, catkins already hang like lamb's tails while soft furry yellow and grey catkins glow on pussy willow branches. <br /><br />With April just around the corner, the leaves have begun to unfurl and, given a few more sunny days, they will soon be out in all their cheering bright freshness. But please spare a thought for the bare old bones of the trees and remember to love them in winter too. <br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-34106514081979166352012-02-17T16:13:00.005+00:002012-02-18T08:04:06.186+00:00David Hockney exhibition 'A Bigger Picture' at the Royal Academy, LondonWOW! What an amazing exhibition. Right from the start the visitor has an over powering sense of positivity – it's as if Hockney has brought all the colour of California that he loves back to old England and washed the grey away with it. <br /><br />The tree is his central motif, running through the whole exhibition, and the landscape of his Yorkshire youth is the subject. The first rooms lay the background for Hockney's new paintings, showing how from his earliest works he was interested in landscape painting. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF9PEOo8R3Y94jAZMv35NlaVo8QjGaN6YgoWUy1PP_E2fbs1r0GvHdYzHIOMvlxuUkvuwFyTnc0PCB60w6_4DIUPibdI2YvjOTnQSEoRNC0AP9UL-KftblA1H5mHZr-fDjNks0AoA7e4iR/s1600/David_Hockney%255B1%255D.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF9PEOo8R3Y94jAZMv35NlaVo8QjGaN6YgoWUy1PP_E2fbs1r0GvHdYzHIOMvlxuUkvuwFyTnc0PCB60w6_4DIUPibdI2YvjOTnQSEoRNC0AP9UL-KftblA1H5mHZr-fDjNks0AoA7e4iR/s200/David_Hockney%255B1%255D.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710383263822944978" /></a><br /><br />His photocollages – the term conjures up school art projects but these are slick use of modern technology - clearly show how he builds up and later portrays wide panoramic views. Later paintings, almost naïve in style, show the patterns of fields and hedges, ploughed surfaces, houses and lines of hedges and trees. In these all traditional perspective is skewed and the sky is reduced to form a thin strip quite unlike the proportion usually adhered to in a classical landscape painting. <br /><br />However, in the next room Hockney reverts to a study of the style of the old masters – the paintings hung en masse in a block - and here the classic proportions hold sway. After studying these in oil he returns to watercolour – the effect quite different of course. <br /><br />A room devoted to his interest in 'tunnels' shows masterly perspective and one devoted to 'woods' is truly architectural in feel. I loved his charcoal sketches displayed in these rooms because they show his ability as a real draughtsman and how he used these quick sketches to work from – giving rein to his imagination - on the final oil paintings in his studio. <br /><br />Throughout, Hockney demonstates how he has divided his large panoramas into separate 'blocks' to build up the whole. Allied with this is his use of the camera. But this is not to be sniffed at – he is merely reflecting history. The old masters used such tricks as the <em>camera obscura</em> to perfect their perspective and divided their canvases up in much the same way as Hockney does. The difference is that Hockney leaves us the signs. <br /><br />The hangings entitled 'Trees & Totems' is a culmination of all that has gone before. These are painted in such vibrant colour that they have quite an electrifying, exuberant effect. The show was packed, so many visitors that we were forced into closer proximity than normal and this produced it's own dynamic: a woman next to me turned and said – unable to contain herself, wanting to share her feelings – "It's so exciting, so life-affirming, isn't it?" I had to agree. <br /><br />His painting, 'The Arrival of Spring', is vast and very graphic in traditional Hockney style. It was produced after many sketches on his ipad and, hung all around, these form the basis for the final work. What a marvellous use of modern technology and what a wonderful tool it is – the 'brushes' facility is not technology subsuming the artist but technology aiding him - able to sketch quickly using the tablet is a bonus in such changeable weather as ours. <br /><br />In a couple of rooms near the end of the exhibition there is film to show how Hockney engineered the recording of the landscape – concentrating on the close-up of the grasses and the hedges and lanes, it made me think of Thomas Hardy's novels - and a collection of his sketchbooks gives a fascinating insight. <br /><br />Throughout, Hockney is celebrating the English countryside - it is landscape with a capital L – and those well trod lanes and hedges, tree lined fields and pitted roads that we all know in our locality take on a new persona – a different character – when we use his vision. With this show, Hockney has introduced a fresh way of looking at them for many of us – these landscapes are not all boring brown and grey in winter, not all the same old green in summer. <br /><br />Do see this exhibition for yourself: it is COLOUR, it is TREES, it is BRILLIANT!<br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-16164790334720488832012-01-29T22:36:00.003+00:002012-01-29T22:43:29.055+00:00Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas HardyAs an English classic, the story of <em>Tess of the d'Urbervilles</em> is well known. It is, I acknowledge, not one of my favourite Hardy novels (not that you would guess from the well thumbed copy you see below!) There is an over-riding sense of doom right from the start, and it makes me uneasy. However, that was not what made its original audience uncomfortable. The story draws attention to the hypocrisy of Victorian times and the behaviour of the heroine made it a very controversial story. <br /><br />To sum the novel up in a few words, <em>Tess of the d'Urbervilles</em> is a romantic tragedy. The central character is shaped by her landscape: her moods and her pleasures are rooted in the countryside and the landscape plays a large part in what befalls her. There is passion and there is pain in Tess' story but - as in most of Hardy's novels – there always seems to be more of the latter.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5QAX2kt2SMhEI4qhUcRGk-z94tNP7NlgS9TmtSB0aA8QZmsy1MZCQdMWhH35RWtTsc6XyLuA_RXpwSw_YM5uqbH23DPTBq5fkgq9voI5CnOLv_mwFbKuXJf-dhfCgMGExdH5ENpT9tKS6/s1600/Tess.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 119px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5QAX2kt2SMhEI4qhUcRGk-z94tNP7NlgS9TmtSB0aA8QZmsy1MZCQdMWhH35RWtTsc6XyLuA_RXpwSw_YM5uqbH23DPTBq5fkgq9voI5CnOLv_mwFbKuXJf-dhfCgMGExdH5ENpT9tKS6/s200/Tess.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703187731860869442" /></a><br />Tess is the original tragic heroine but a very complex one: simple yet knowing; unspoiled but eventually quite spoiled; sometimes victim sometimes not; innocent yet sensual. What happened to Tess, Hardy shows us, was due to her naivety and looks: a beautiful but good natured, simple woman was at the mercy of those men who had no morals and no forgiveness. This was asking a lot of his readers and not surprisingly the novel was not an instant success. <br /><br />But it is, for me, in the descriptions of the landscape and of the vanishing rural life that Hardy excels. He was a poet, and his descriptions throughout the novel are testament to this. Those relating to landscape – the countryside of Dorset he loved – are particularly moving and evoke a sense of beauty but also a real understanding of not only the minutiae of nature – the grasses and insects – but also the larger aspect of woods, forests, vales, moors and skies that give the reader of <em>Tess</em> such a true sense of place. <br /> <br />Many find Hardy a bit heavy – I will admit his descriptions are rather long-winded – but I love his work for not only the poetry of his descriptions but also for the realism of his settings: life was hard for the working country man and nature had an over-powering influence. <br /><br />Walking with Freddie today in the rain, mud underfoot, wind through the trees, I could just imagine what it must have been like to have to battle with such elements everyday. Reading <em>Tess</em> one is aware of the physical discomforts of country folk then and fully appreciative of the mundane things we take for granted such as waterproofs and wellies and the luxury of being able to sit in the warm and read a well written book.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-28292363739370582152011-12-20T23:52:00.005+00:002011-12-22T00:34:56.780+00:00Italian Shoes by Henning MankellThis is surely the time to read Mankell's 26th novel, <em>Italian Shoes</em>. Firstly, because the book is shortly to be made into a film starring Judi Dench and, possibly, Anthony Hopkins. (There, you have the main characters of Harriet and Welin drawn for you.) And, secondly, like his Kurt Wallander series, Mankell's story is set in the Swedish archipelago and the wintry sense of place is spot on: the reader can positively see and feel the snow laden countryside and the people that are moulded by this harsh environment. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdyoHSyBTM0bWO99L92Hbi27ai1M9vHvjHwNE_zoycs8-C2sT4GAnbE53zfGpV21LiLa4zqUiZkWJpobZx1H8IoSO7bEOU8hFz0DEJmZPvlhJHK_inmlUxWRtn8i1ozH2znHA5QBgQeR9/s1600/Italian+Shoes.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdyoHSyBTM0bWO99L92Hbi27ai1M9vHvjHwNE_zoycs8-C2sT4GAnbE53zfGpV21LiLa4zqUiZkWJpobZx1H8IoSO7bEOU8hFz0DEJmZPvlhJHK_inmlUxWRtn8i1ozH2znHA5QBgQeR9/s200/Italian+Shoes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688363811821693602" /></a><br /><br />The central character, Fredrik Welin, is a retired surgeon fleeing from a particularly harrowing professional error. Indeed, abandonment is the central theme of the novel. Welin is also fleeing from his personal life – what there was of it – and from himself. He had already abandoned his mother, his former lover, Harriet, and will come to abandon even his closest relation. <br /><br />Welin is an outsider, an unsympathetic character with no empathy. He cannot tell the truth but admits to himself that he is a shit whilst he continues to be one: snooping, abandoning, lying. This is the psychological insight that Mankell has come to be known for in his Wallander books. Welin is so estranged from society and so isolated on his island that he has to cut a hole in the ice every day and swim in the frozen water to prove to himself that he is still alive. <br /><br />When, twelve years on, the dying Harriet arrives looking for him to fulfil a promise, Welin reluctantly has to face his former life with all its painful reminders and start to interact with others. Physical contact is difficult for him. When he finally has close family contact he still makes the sort of wrong decision that has characterized his life to date. <br /><br />Almost too late, when he is ill, Welin comes to realise that he has wasted his time cutting himself off from society, that he has lost the chance of precious relationships. The secondary characters in the book are all as odd as Welin but while Mankell makes him a fully formed character, they somehow remain marginal. And as it unfolds the story to some extent loses its credibility: belief is stretched too far. <br /><br />The central character comes into contact with the political beliefs and hobby-horses of the author: the break-down of Swedish society; refuges and asylum seekers; foster families and suicides; the parlous state of the ecology; how pollution is affecting cave paintings in France; the sad fact that no-one treasures the artisan (those hand-made Italian shoes) any longer. <br /><br />Similarly, the work of the violent and talented artist, Caravaggio, is a theme - the dark and light of his paintings an analogy for those of his character. Unfortunately these factors are too obviously something that the author wants to make a point of and sit uncomfortably with the narrative. <br /><br />Yet this light book, this occasionally unsatisfactory story, is so well-written (and it is very well translated) that it is a pleasure to read. The descriptions are wonderful, the prose spare, the structure good. Suspense is built up although usually to no end. The possibility of redemption is there, but in true Mankell style there is no reassuring happy ending. This is a book for real Mankell fans but not, I think, one that will automatically convince the uninitiated. <br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-80901016362148632082011-11-27T20:10:00.005+00:002012-01-18T12:14:37.236+00:00Brazzaville Beach by William BoydI did not realise that <em>Brazzaville Beach</em> was a real place in the Congo until I heard it mentioned on the radio the other day. So much for my geographical knowledge. However, it is a slightly confusing title because the story is really set in Angola. <br /><br />Few who have read Golding's other novels would fail to agree that he is a good writer. Indeed, <em>Brazzaviile Beach</em>, written in 1995, was nominated at the time for the James Tait prize. I can see why he is popular: his books are easy to read and appeal to both sexes. I too liked the book. Mostly. Although, sometimes it jarred, occasionally it disappointed. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0WUQZMmgh_Y-b9zsUKlXY1OBl-369q8UD_QShc76vAWzizoDaC-bBxfeXZjokw-V_Cs82LIRCCKantp3rKlnj-eQkTkc0Ort6XLk8TeB6fNVVV0yDOcYI_ZASVjCO8Nbc85JlwP5mx_U/s1600/Brazzaville.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0WUQZMmgh_Y-b9zsUKlXY1OBl-369q8UD_QShc76vAWzizoDaC-bBxfeXZjokw-V_Cs82LIRCCKantp3rKlnj-eQkTkc0Ort6XLk8TeB6fNVVV0yDOcYI_ZASVjCO8Nbc85JlwP5mx_U/s200/Brazzaville.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679770894467475058" /></a><br />The main character, Hope, leaves her floundering maths whiz husband and goes off to study chimpanzees in Angola. Soon, Hope discovers that the group of chimps she is studying show aggression. Her boss, Eugene, refuses to believe her theories or findings: funding for further research is dependent upon the publication of his book about the passive chimps. <br /><br />The denouement of the novel comes when there is a murderous fight between the two chimpanzee groups in the study. This part of the story is most certainly based upon the findings of Jane Goodall, whose famous and expert research in Tanzania (circa 1965) showed that chimpanzees could be very aggressive, killing other chimpanzees if necessary to maintain their social group. And, generally, the theme of the novel is the parallel between how the chimpanzees and the researchers behave. <br /><br />Allegory is played upon: apart from the fighting chimpanzees being an allegory for the war torn setting of Angola, so it is that Eugene's behaviour towards Hope is as unpleasant as that between the groups of chimps. Then there is the break up of Hope's marriage as an allegory for the crumbling politics of the region. <br /><br />Obsession is another theme that runs through the novel: Hope is obsessed with her research, to such an extent that she leaves her husband for months to pursue it. Her husband is so obsessed with his mathematical theories that he goes crazy; her boss so obsessed with his theories that it leads to violence and his assistant is obsessed with him to such an extent that she abets his attempts to doctor research. <br /><br />This is all very well, and the chapters about the chimpanzees (surprisingly for a person like myself not naturally drawn to chimpanzees) was interesting and very readable, but there were some annoying facets to the book. Some of our groupies did not like the way the book jumped between fist person and third person, which was used to differentiate the past and present. Nor did they enjoy the time-switch itself, back and forth between former married life with nutty professor husband in England and current chimp research. <br /><br />This did not worry me in particular but I did agree that Hope's husband was a conceptual character and agreed that we could have done without the married bit altogether: it added nothing and did not hang together. We would all have preferred hubby's (nonetheless interesting) maths theories as a separate novel altogether. <br /><br />However, we were all in complete agreement that the most unconvincing part of an otherwise entertaining read was the characterization of the heroine, Hope. Why on earth did Golding have to make the main character a woman? She was not only unbelievable as one (too masculine and unemotional) but difficult to like. Her love for her husband and her lover did not ring true and her self-sufficiency and obsessions took a very male form. <br /><br />Nevertheless, I enjoyed <em>Brazzaville Beach</em> more than I expected and will read one of his novels again, whenever I happen across one. <br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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Would it be appreciated by those who live out in the sticks?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVseEJQbGlxC1m5d6fuWZK9JkzpQaOztvVryqrWUjNkwPd31xwDF-4nsy2v9X8W9geke3W9xyrWx52g3XoZLsjRbo6HPuyRybRZeriVcgVfV6szf8MGyjr1oTBhqgXhu0JMPr9vvdoGFgD/s1600/Turner+1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVseEJQbGlxC1m5d6fuWZK9JkzpQaOztvVryqrWUjNkwPd31xwDF-4nsy2v9X8W9geke3W9xyrWx52g3XoZLsjRbo6HPuyRybRZeriVcgVfV6szf8MGyjr1oTBhqgXhu0JMPr9vvdoGFgD/s200/Turner+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664819911052696834" /></a><br />Well, one hopes that these doubts have been dispelled: the building and facilities have been completed in the best possible taste. I like the clean lines of the structure and the mass of it is in scale with its surroundings. The inspiration, it seems to me, was to be that of the bulk of an ocean liner and it certainly sits comfortably in its landscape: the outline is simple and pleasing and does not jar with either the Georgian buildings on the esplanade nor the coastline. <br /><br />The expectations of those who had the vision have surely been vindicated. Residents should have pride in a forward looking and classy development and well as having a cultural icon at its centre. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqRmsCywzPlDNnkYxv3T3Jbzf13CAHRFdsT2Ch8Q4x7JESxcKoi-Ga_NWhzYtwUkG6pNMzBPeaDtYfu9QuDzuOB0lp-NW_bpQdnHPL1QmlMAmvcms9ukt7ZIL4Pwxqn_KxITvkl6YUr8ZK/s1600/Turner+int.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqRmsCywzPlDNnkYxv3T3Jbzf13CAHRFdsT2Ch8Q4x7JESxcKoi-Ga_NWhzYtwUkG6pNMzBPeaDtYfu9QuDzuOB0lp-NW_bpQdnHPL1QmlMAmvcms9ukt7ZIL4Pwxqn_KxITvkl6YUr8ZK/s200/Turner+int.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664820202376216594" /></a><br />I admit that I went to see the building: it was the structure and its setting that drew me to visit. I also admit that I did not expect much of the exhibition, <em>Nothing in the World But Youth</em>. But I did the exhibition and youth in general a disservice. I was reminded of the creativity of those teenage years: we so often see the ability to take risks and the need for experimentation as negative aspects of youth. They can sometimes be but they were, and are, more often the years that shape tastes in fashion and music and teach the value of friendship or spirituality. <br /><br />As ever, some youths are rebellious whilst others are saddled with responsibilities in advance of their years. Many are overcome by fears others by fantasy; some agonize over their bodies and sex, others celebrate it. Whilst some youths are bent on destruction others are idealistic and embrace our ecology, feeling passionate about sustainability. <br /><br />All of these aspects of youth were demonstrated in the exhibition and what struck me most is that none of this is new. Photographs of gangs of street youths in the 1950's looked surprisingly familiar; similarly, sadly, girls gave birth to illegitimate babies. Conformity in the uniform of the gang or the need to be different and make a statement were no different than they were when adolescents were first called teenagers in the 1940's. In between the works of young people were dotted paintings and drawings by such well-known artists as Peter Blake, Daivd Hockney, Andy Warhol and even Turner himself: nothing could illustrate the point better.<br /><br />Some visitors found several of the images disturbing but I prefer to think of them as challenging. What is the point of an exhibition that is merely window dressing; we all love to see something pretty, to appreciate a beautiful image or a sublime sculpture. But surely we need to question, just as we did as teenagers, and seeing the world through the eyes of a youth can remind us all that we too were once both fearful and brave, experimental and yet desperate to be one of the gang. And in showing the complexities and contradictions of youth I think the exhibition, <em>Nothing in the World but Youth</em>, succeeds. <br /><br />Lucy<br /><br />PS The café is excellent – better than those in most London Art galleries – so treat yourself to brunch or a delicious Catalan fish soup for lunch. If the soul is a little less than uplifted I often find good food helps!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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Most particularly it chronicled the loss that Brittain personally suffered – her brother, fiancé and their close friends – and gave a very personal account of the contribution made by women during the war. <br /><br />This was the war that was to lead eventually to the emancipation of women, not only by their gaining enfranchisement but also respect for the role they played and could play outside the home. Brittain and Holtby met at Oxford just after the war: both extraordinarily bright young women who had a mutual interest and ambition to write. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI69IjER7fxkF9VKDsNRhXVODplWyQvDfTrUvBAWzOjjFgCqXqAgeAQmvLrgiQdS6hvPYTiJ91TOF2va-3GmuSjwqsPb0TA97R7ykm5e8uHgIwLDadXT15Xa4QsRPocN9HCEf5hHwQkm0g/s1600/Brittain+%2526+Holtby.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 139px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI69IjER7fxkF9VKDsNRhXVODplWyQvDfTrUvBAWzOjjFgCqXqAgeAQmvLrgiQdS6hvPYTiJ91TOF2va-3GmuSjwqsPb0TA97R7ykm5e8uHgIwLDadXT15Xa4QsRPocN9HCEf5hHwQkm0g/s200/Brittain+%2526+Holtby.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656324065581534914" /></a><br /><br /><em>Testament of Friendship</em> is Brittain's homage to Holtby, who tragically died of Bright's Disease at the age of 34. Both women had a strong ethos of public service, a desire to further women's equality and to work towards peace. Both not only dedicated their lives to writing about the peace movement but also their time to supporting and furthering its causes. <br /><br />The book tells us as much about Brittain, the author, as it does about Holtby, the subject. Both women were committed, industrious and passionate but where Brittain comes across as intense and serious, Holtby appears inspired and larger than life. <br /><br />Young Holtby is portrayed very much as the Principal Boy of pantomime. Brittain was devastated by the death of her brother, Edward, her closest and almost only childhood companion. She was desperate for someone to admire and to take his place and Holtby seems to have willingly stepped into this role. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg5El5errPMqgdE-2tgcysRaryJXrz2wDR75atWHF-N8fFdMh3hlWhnA4QPww-bOp-Zb5lI4KyQ4Ncc8Bizosx9PeNliMcfP9xx9xUY5z81MNHnMfzMQXtDGgtKrmxjspSN7Jt0HpU6iWQ/s1600/South+Riding.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg5El5errPMqgdE-2tgcysRaryJXrz2wDR75atWHF-N8fFdMh3hlWhnA4QPww-bOp-Zb5lI4KyQ4Ncc8Bizosx9PeNliMcfP9xx9xUY5z81MNHnMfzMQXtDGgtKrmxjspSN7Jt0HpU6iWQ/s200/South+Riding.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656323648884950738" /></a><br /><br />It is as an <em>Adonis</em> that Winifred Holtby is portrayed in <em>Testament of Friendship</em>. She is tall, attractive, confident, kind and clever and - if we are to believe Brittain - there is nothing she cannot do. Nothing except get the man she loves to propose to her. Brittain's style is probably too florid for our taste today, and one wonders if her superlatives regarding Holtby are an attempt to assuage any guilt she may have felt because she often ignored the seriousness of Holtby's illness. <br /><br />There is no doubt that Holtby packed a lifetime of achievements into a very short span of years and it is fascinating to read of the famous historical figures she met and the places she visited. There is one major flaw to this book, however, and that is its length. Too long by half, it can bore and bog the reader down. This is a shame because there are few books that give us such a picture of life at that time. <br /><br />Nevertheless, I think the book worth reading (for the second time as I first read it about 15 years ago) if for nothing else but as a sequel to the women's movement: a snapshot of life for the educated middle class woman of the 1920's and 1930's. These inter-war years - after WW1 and before the role of women would change yet again with the advent of WW2 - deserve a closer look and <em>Testament of Friendship</em> goes some way to plug this gap. <br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-13322478831436110932011-07-28T18:42:00.000+00:002011-07-28T18:45:43.341+00:00The Birth of Venus by Sarah DunnantA mysterious and arresting start, an historical and action packed narrative and an enjoyable read. There we are. That's it in a nutshell. A novel dripping with historical details with a bit of sex thrown in. But the sign of an ex-thriller writer is there right from the start. <br /><br />Preparing the corpse of an elderly nun for burial, two sisters find she has not only a stinking mass of rotting intestines strapped to her and not the tumor they supposed, but also an erotic snake tattoo around her torso! <br /><br />As it is almost impossible to guess how this could possibly come about the reader simply has to read on. Transported to Florence in 1492, we meet the fourteen year old heroine, Allessandra. Dunant has done her research and describes the setting in the most colourful way. We see the beauty of Florence, we smell it, touch it, sense it and eventually are shocked by the historical turn of events. <br /><br />The narrative is in the first person so it is through Allessandra's eyes that we understand the restrictions – not allowed to leave her house un-chaperoned, to be alone with a man, to be employed in anything other than household skills – that were current in the merchant and upper classes at the time and that she felt so keenly. Her passion was to paint and that was definitely not a suitable occupation for a girl. <br /><br />Historical knowledge of the banking dynasty of the Medici family is well known. We are aware of the beautiful architectural structures they built, the wonderful paintings and art they commissioned and we are aware in a cardboard, factual way of the political machinations of the time. But what Dunant does is to bring it and the other Florence alive too, the one that is peopled by the lower echelons, one in which by the side of beauty and knowledge is pestilence and the fear of persecution. Where rabbles jostle to hear the mad monk, Savonarolla, preach Christian restraint and similarly jostle to witness torture and death and the original bonfire of the vanities. <br /><br />This novel has been published for some years now and many readers will have read it or read the reviews so I won't repeat the plot. Because, for me, it is the sense of place that Dunant conjures up that is the most impressive feature of the novel. Read it if you intend to travel to Florence and, when you stand in front of a piece of stunning architecture or a beautiful painting, conjure up Dunant's description of the city at that time and be even more amazed. <br /><br />I mention the mystery in the opening scene and Dunant continues to feed us clues throughout the story: "He will give you the freedom you desire"; "For Tomaso a silver belt rather handsome I thought". But, eventually, it is as if the author having thought of a great opening chapter, and having taken us back to the start of it all, cannot then quite complete the circle convincingly: the dead nun cannot be elderly, the tattoo has no authenticity, the method of faking the disease is improbable, her female life companion could not possibly have travelled to find those she sought. <br /><br />Those are my only criticisms, and it sounds churlish to mention them when there is so much that is excellent about this novel. Dunant has very successfully changed her genre to historical novelist – she writes well, fluidly and colourfully – so the quality of the ending of The Birth of Venus is a mystery. <br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-61912379245661286062011-06-29T23:02:00.007+00:002011-07-09T22:05:22.404+00:00Birds of a FeatherIt is always a lovely surprise to look out of the window, often soon after dawn, and see some unusual visitor on the bird table. Greenfinches are one of them, as are the other finches: chaffinches and goldfinch. Their beaks are a little too wide for the wire on the nutfeeder but once they have cracked it (terrible pun) they make short work of the contents. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUdEaF11RNYhP8PO1ceWkjmZ6gD5R5oaprWJMmrfxiCqso_oBYcr2R98yIhhwYxDwwAq9FrxKLBmVgOfLw7AGO0xBC1Fo5TTfzvnwipJ42ji9HEgdDb5naRoCugy3UgcEwRG0g5kJ7WK9l/s1600/Greenfinch.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUdEaF11RNYhP8PO1ceWkjmZ6gD5R5oaprWJMmrfxiCqso_oBYcr2R98yIhhwYxDwwAq9FrxKLBmVgOfLw7AGO0xBC1Fo5TTfzvnwipJ42ji9HEgdDb5naRoCugy3UgcEwRG0g5kJ7WK9l/s200/Greenfinch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623783588050479362" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Our regulars, however, as if aware of the competition, have managed to come up with a pleasant new angle: their chicks. Obviously to date we have only watched the parent birds having a feeding frenzy in order to satisfy their hungry brood. But now the chicks are nearly reared they accompany their parents to learn table etiquette. Basically this is: give way to anyone bigger and more threatening than yourself. As one of our largest visitors - with a very big beak to make the point - is the woodpecker. When the chick first appeared I could not believe it was one. Nearly as big as its parent, only the fluffly feathers gave it away. <br /><br />At first it hung on the nutfeeder with mum or dad by its side: a bit for me a bit for you. But by day two the exhausted parent absented itself and Woody soon managed to feed himself. Not as nervous as his parent - he still has to learn to be wary - he<br />managed to cling on and finish off most of the feeder. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilAMO4FBfjuITGFwDDbUyxc2q5oPg89ocJrJik5lEdvRcWqqOjGszgER39z1ebtL_26w0NgmyYis8yY87uco18UHahBTx3oWQoApl2DsbAf1gYv_8RZY1GPhr1lMXggO9aKcKEQPaN6rQA/s1600/Woodpecker+chick.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilAMO4FBfjuITGFwDDbUyxc2q5oPg89ocJrJik5lEdvRcWqqOjGszgER39z1ebtL_26w0NgmyYis8yY87uco18UHahBTx3oWQoApl2DsbAf1gYv_8RZY1GPhr1lMXggO9aKcKEQPaN6rQA/s200/Woodpecker+chick.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623781137031516786" /></a><br /><br /><br />Our second best nut eater is probably the nuthatch owing to its long narrow very effective beak. And today, with a thrill, I noticed that it was a nuthatch chick that was feeding. Again, only the last few remaining fluffy baby feathers give it away and, again, it was not nearly as nervous as its parents would be as it allowed me to creep right up to the window before it flew away.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxYiE-Jnhcbeb-V8AECxsZAd2h7rNK7bRFZYhMV8i4sOahjZDF8fI8gHppt5DllPIqTRnYkNgElTh8Bv_p5KsnhrNK4oi93t27vgb4f5rzwBRTBok78nsI6DqeBbJydoT_m_ch7HivoUdn/s1600/Nuthatch.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxYiE-Jnhcbeb-V8AECxsZAd2h7rNK7bRFZYhMV8i4sOahjZDF8fI8gHppt5DllPIqTRnYkNgElTh8Bv_p5KsnhrNK4oi93t27vgb4f5rzwBRTBok78nsI6DqeBbJydoT_m_ch7HivoUdn/s200/Nuthatch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627470071166391474" /></a><br /><br /><br />But perhaps the most exciting birds to visit the table again have been a pair of long tailed tits. I have yet to see their offspring, but to know that they have survived the winter is a very cheering and wonderful sight. Their bodies are so very small that one wonders just how they did manage to stay warm thrugh our below freezing temperatures this year. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0b7VhZHH3snvHonVA-6aQmZ4JbQhp-yl-E7hpcoqnV_kenx227iOW-lVq3uFRumBoS5Abr98qunctk-lnlr8pC0TP0A-2p3zO7pYFdHwqu8kQpFxsNptZeyJGA6Qejz28DgX9Dfdh6rEh/s1600/Long-tailed+tit.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0b7VhZHH3snvHonVA-6aQmZ4JbQhp-yl-E7hpcoqnV_kenx227iOW-lVq3uFRumBoS5Abr98qunctk-lnlr8pC0TP0A-2p3zO7pYFdHwqu8kQpFxsNptZeyJGA6Qejz28DgX9Dfdh6rEh/s200/Long-tailed+tit.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623784527166278562" /></a><br /><br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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And the lime trees to pleach on the nearby path. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGLZFfwGE5_7n2-GrUc0BHtS7SXEZWdwLOPV_C46AvBaWHBR5ZmCM5B23Rq3axs9Axpm5fkQd9GAu9rt33jTSpqeh8VK2vPeaZ5jNJQkuXGQtdcmiOyVRl5F8YeHpWGwkoNcLnn6R5sYf5/s1600/bleeding+heart.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGLZFfwGE5_7n2-GrUc0BHtS7SXEZWdwLOPV_C46AvBaWHBR5ZmCM5B23Rq3axs9Axpm5fkQd9GAu9rt33jTSpqeh8VK2vPeaZ5jNJQkuXGQtdcmiOyVRl5F8YeHpWGwkoNcLnn6R5sYf5/s200/bleeding+heart.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598321667280849474" /></a><br />These thoughts fester as the clearing goes on and the mulching with compost is done bit by bit. But by the time I'm finished the odd inch of rain and even odder days of sunshine have worked their magic. Suddenly the phlox and tradescantia, the aqualegia and bistort have burgeoned. <br /><br />Geranium phaem and Bleeding heart is flowering prettily; Heuchera and Alchemilla mollis seem to have doubled in size overnight. What was I worried about. I had forgotten that every year – cradling some purchase bought in a weak willed moment at a plant stall – I walk around the garden searching for a spot in which to squeeze it in. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhggWENI4yAH48QKEXvLuYjmfSI8SUMQB5pJzM_gxCir3L9AFmDiNDsq2NuglolRoWRVnCAeNcRglZWPpztYXXTfC49ICJrk9hoQ-4rTeEKughJns2hi27vRU7bB6WKRkF6JWQVq0oi24Fs/s1600/beech+leaves.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhggWENI4yAH48QKEXvLuYjmfSI8SUMQB5pJzM_gxCir3L9AFmDiNDsq2NuglolRoWRVnCAeNcRglZWPpztYXXTfC49ICJrk9hoQ-4rTeEKughJns2hi27vRU7bB6WKRkF6JWQVq0oi24Fs/s200/beech+leaves.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598322050763194290" /></a><br />By now the purple beech tree has been through its wondrous leaf opening cabaret. First small leaf buds tentatively open, salmon pink, soft and ethereal. After a day or so of sun they stretch out their leaves and with more confidence start to turn that glorious shade of copper. Another few days of good weather and, overnight, every branch is covered in the richest of copper leaves. <br /><br />In fact a few days of absolutely glorious weather has fast forwarded spring to such an extent that plants and flowers normally performing in May are out now. And blossom that usually lasts a week or two is over in a couple of days. The lilac is in flower but the blossom of the weeping pear has already faded. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs5gqWmlu9iSPQIiXjETupGbyCGRhZeo7A5R0jjmVw-5CsAFc5M5dU0JbxhaTQ6b8WwAbLXrS9aYuG7TjpXOtkbmojGqGEuJvy05GNH-aRAHJtEICulC4rZbrwjMUeK7FrhWwmYIa38Isf/s1600/lilac.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs5gqWmlu9iSPQIiXjETupGbyCGRhZeo7A5R0jjmVw-5CsAFc5M5dU0JbxhaTQ6b8WwAbLXrS9aYuG7TjpXOtkbmojGqGEuJvy05GNH-aRAHJtEICulC4rZbrwjMUeK7FrhWwmYIa38Isf/s200/lilac.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598322252436154658" /></a><br />If I work like crazy from now until June getting all the worst weeds out, then it should set me up for the summer. In the wall border the plants grow until they are cheek by jowl. The idea is that they will choke out the weeds and I won't have to do anything for the rest of the summer. But that remains a theory for now. <br /><br />There is one border so overgrown with ground elder that we have had to take all the soil out, burn it, and start again. Cow parsley self seeded to such an extent under the beech and Judas tree last year that its going to take days to dig it out. And the nettles! How come they have colonized every corner? Another digging job, I'm afraid. <br /><br />I am happy for pockets of nettles – similarly buttercups – to grow in the wild garden, I'm trying to do my bit for conservation by encouraging habitats. Why else was I down on my hands and knees trying to balance rotting logs into a tidy pile like nature never intended? But nettles, buttercups and dandelions in my herbaceous borders are a step too far. <br /><br />So I better keep at it. There's a long way to go. But it's hot. Too hot to garden. I better sit down – it's tiring this gardening – have a rest in the dappled shade of the beech tree and dream of manicured lawns, meticulous flower beds and..........<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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A glorious abundance of colour. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflhBRADPLK-vDfb2fsx7STEg1yLYM3CB4il8CdvnKfaci1wc0BbBkmdYhgeS6AtmQGF2I4KrvudIqUDmgg4NipF11yZt-2_knNYWBlxevNNqOBkXeH6EgrML9ySbX6_fbGVlED21DYwoi/s1600/Crocus.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflhBRADPLK-vDfb2fsx7STEg1yLYM3CB4il8CdvnKfaci1wc0BbBkmdYhgeS6AtmQGF2I4KrvudIqUDmgg4NipF11yZt-2_knNYWBlxevNNqOBkXeH6EgrML9ySbX6_fbGVlED21DYwoi/s200/Crocus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583336317836795154" /></a><br />The shrubs have not been quite so quick off the mark: walking up on the wooded hills at Emmetts, the National Trust garden in Kent, rhododendron and azaleas are in wonderful colour and I can only imagine in such gardens at Exbury in Hampshire, or Stourhead in Wiltshire, the display of these dramatic shrubs must be coming into their peak. <br /><br />In my garden, less acidic, the wonderfully scented pink flowered <em>viburnum bodnantense</em> and the winter honeysuckle, <em>Lonicera fragrantissima</em>, are in bloom. The first flowers on the bare wood and, although leaf is a wonderful clothier, one can really appreciate the flowers when they are not disguised with green. The honeysuckle is actually an evergreen – but it is such a straggling, poorly leafed bush in the winter that you could be forgiven for thinking it deciduous. But the scent! And both are hardy – they have to be in my frost pocket.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5Hxi2p-c-9it3WGM7Lf88FJ1OwvqDekXsluKQZyO9NV2PSJijPWgzOeqdnKKD-Xky9krcCYOmXoSDPNR_uWTAnjzJhwNGLjE1VyayVC1_zEbWL7vC2kbq42Une2H8Ib6N398_2vPBWiP/s1600/Hellebore.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5Hxi2p-c-9it3WGM7Lf88FJ1OwvqDekXsluKQZyO9NV2PSJijPWgzOeqdnKKD-Xky9krcCYOmXoSDPNR_uWTAnjzJhwNGLjE1VyayVC1_zEbWL7vC2kbq42Une2H8Ib6N398_2vPBWiP/s200/Hellebore.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583336942567582850" /></a><br />This is the time of year that I look at my borders and think they are empty. Some sign of life is there: the odd shoot, the occasional leaf, the first inkling of a mound of something. I must mulch and quick. Keep down the weeds now and warm up the soil with a blanket of compost and, you never know, the plants might be the victors. Leave it another few weeks and I'll have a fight on my hands; the weeds will win. <br /><br />Lately, on a freezing day, I spent a happy couple of hours online planning my vegetables. What a list I've ordered! I can see them now all growing in glorious technicolour, looking like all those beautiful potagers we see in magazines. Oh yes, I'm good at the planning. Great at imagining. It’s the growing and the looking after I'm not so hot on. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5j0_Yx6ewIA_HuQV5Q1QU1t32fz4pO-RyiD1cfsD5Edg4uF4OGqheIu1FyAElxV8319OA0fuFugNBzLL4tkQWOcRKXlLqgkyNOnJ3gqd4KlKlbATNi2teTMf_rCmAhTj-iVwkc1vuRdX6/s1600/Chard.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5j0_Yx6ewIA_HuQV5Q1QU1t32fz4pO-RyiD1cfsD5Edg4uF4OGqheIu1FyAElxV8319OA0fuFugNBzLL4tkQWOcRKXlLqgkyNOnJ3gqd4KlKlbATNi2teTMf_rCmAhTj-iVwkc1vuRdX6/s200/Chard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583335706231263058" /></a><br />So it's only the foolproof I grow – the ones that don't take too much TLC. Nothing too precious. Courgettes of course. Perpetual spinach with the addition of ruby chard this year - I fancy a bit of colour; cut and come again lettuce; beans; tomatoes - preferably the bush variety that needs no care and attention - herbs; pumpkin and squash. Best Beloved has cracked leeks, so they are on the list. And I have heard the golden beetroot is delicious so I'm having a go at that. <br /><br />And, yes, I am still struggling on with my asparagus bed. Every year it is threatened with annihilation but every year it gets a reprieve. How come everyone else has asparagus coming out of their ears and I am still only producing enough for a monk on a diet? Mind you, Freddie was caught in the act - eating the spears just as they surfaced. Thought he had found the perfect grass (for medical purposes of course) for a quick nibble. Chicken wire over the top should put paid to that little trick. Any tips (excuse the pun) gratefully received. <br /><br />Now I only have to make sure that I plant them in time, rotate as I should, remember to water and hope the summer brings forth fruit or, in this case, veg. Vegetable gardening for me really is a case of hope over experience. <br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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Some knew themselves to be more able than their husbands, capable of much more than they were permitted to do. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqiLvJwCCX848QWMW17si0yw5pkk7TMvBIHjGCvjQM0nIMwIQovqgqliLk-K4uwozjEp_P1NvzVwUoYH3yIuC6YiwaNt9B_WAnLbXU9JlPchL6YZLnHBkn2qmugNo_b3iVOkCZOkodV_-/s1600/Bennet+TH.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqiLvJwCCX848QWMW17si0yw5pkk7TMvBIHjGCvjQM0nIMwIQovqgqliLk-K4uwozjEp_P1NvzVwUoYH3yIuC6YiwaNt9B_WAnLbXU9JlPchL6YZLnHBkn2qmugNo_b3iVOkCZOkodV_-/s200/Bennet+TH.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566977350716031298" /></a><br />Pre-war, wives were judged on the cleanliness of their homes, mothers on that of their children, and so many put their vigour – and sometimes their vitriol – into it with a vengeance. All this comes across in Bennett's monologues - fortunately with the most wonderful humour. <br /><br />Eavesdrop at a bus stop today, a works canteen or social club, and you might still overhear much the same sort of conversations as Bennett relays. But the directness and deadpan delivery of northern humour is not universal. And it needs someone with an 'ear' for such things as innuendo and a masterful ability to form it into something that an audience wants to hear. Not as easy as it may seem. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjn-hhyphenhyphen9YSxylFDtIXRugFDodAN8cAjhKfwxH0x1My5rSHnwz3YCTL8KDwQHrDkbF_bAsLdczh1YL-lXDoClobekZjaja9jbi6nXf09vS9Z2oF9ULHODXOTNbGvJYwpcEXTi4Hz_H303Bs/s1600/Bennet+Walters.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 175px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjn-hhyphenhyphen9YSxylFDtIXRugFDodAN8cAjhKfwxH0x1My5rSHnwz3YCTL8KDwQHrDkbF_bAsLdczh1YL-lXDoClobekZjaja9jbi6nXf09vS9Z2oF9ULHODXOTNbGvJYwpcEXTi4Hz_H303Bs/s200/Bennet+Walters.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566978210418226914" /></a><br />Although in the majority of the monologues we associate with the views of an elderly mother or grandmother, in some - <em>Bed Among Lentils</em> and <em>Her Big Chance</em> for instance - we can recognize characteristics or emotions that could apply to those of any generation. We all know a character like Lesley in <em>Her Big Chance</em> who tries to convince everyone of her worth – a woman who thinks her talent is greater than it is and whose morals are unimpeachable – but who is quite unaware that she is fooling no-one. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxtxxCgKpwkOXaZo8Q4scazqPO_sy5eAd-bx-xpN_AstjozbnmlNmrGR73-HE8p0X6nAEp3sSoPTSh0vVelKAPguZVysbo76CO-ue3DkoXecWFKj-TyFWalO-Qs5r6QLlmaH7-GnGWhiwr/s1600/Bennet+Cole.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxtxxCgKpwkOXaZo8Q4scazqPO_sy5eAd-bx-xpN_AstjozbnmlNmrGR73-HE8p0X6nAEp3sSoPTSh0vVelKAPguZVysbo76CO-ue3DkoXecWFKj-TyFWalO-Qs5r6QLlmaH7-GnGWhiwr/s200/Bennet+Cole.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566977790920793202" /></a><br />Most of Bennett's characters do not 'see' themselves at all, and he cleverly lets the character reveal this bit by bit as the monologue progresses. Muriel, in <em>Soldering On</em>, really knows that her husband is reprehensibly responsible for his daughter's 'problems', and that their son is a conniving cheat, but she still keeps up appearances and maintains a stiff upper lip – in denial right to the end. <br /><br />His characters are often disappointed or disempowered in some way. I guess this is simply because happy, jolly characters would not make for such interesting stories. The bitterness of the narrator of <em>A Lady of Letters</em>, and the extent of her meddling, slowly unfolds. In <em>Bed Among the Lentils</em>, the dissatisfaction of the vicar's wife in drives her to drink, but the joy of an illicit affair gives her the strength to carry on. <br /><br /><em>A Chip in the Sugar</em>, written in Alan Bennett's 'voice' – and indeed recorded by him – is one of the best. This one is not a monologue and the straight talking characters are sometimes cruel but their love for each other is not only a taken, it is spoken. This mother and son are - to the onlooker at least - 'married'. They are as close to bickering husband and wife – with their point scoring and their pretence at independence – as any real married couple might be. Their inter-dependence is clear, humour their saving grace. <br /><br />Bennett picks up on social taboos and bigotry and shows us how easily these infiltrate and affect ordinary peoples' lives. The stories are sometimes poignant, occasionally sad, but the way that Bennett manages to convey this with humour is nothing short of masterful. Dig out a copy, read and enjoy. <br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-44852479030615690832011-01-12T19:34:00.003+00:002011-01-12T19:59:39.181+00:00Planning on GardeningThe ground is soggy after the snow and nothing looks appealing in the garden. Surely no-one enjoys gardening in the cold, wet, winter weather anyway. I know I don't. Fair weather gardener, me. But it is the perfect time for planning. For looking at your plot and seeing the bare bones. Because the structure is obvious now, not overshadowed or softened by billowing plants. <br /><br />The structure in many an urban garden may be the hedges, fences and walls, the paths and pond. But in my country garden it is trees and evergreen shrubs that constitute most of the structure. Sure, there is a wall, and a stone and gravel terrace, but the clipped box and yew are just as important. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzALzz1bJmw23t_PFOBQ9ZcAJLzwxnf_maz_gFnD0MlXg-KcrFUugaFmvBGMrjrRdlyph2TEqZh2g0DJv1cBlxcq-2F0InQuL3hjCuA8C7bMXRe2ySTnwUKx7mMERliF_bsfiILlOKoHW7/s1600/lilac.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzALzz1bJmw23t_PFOBQ9ZcAJLzwxnf_maz_gFnD0MlXg-KcrFUugaFmvBGMrjrRdlyph2TEqZh2g0DJv1cBlxcq-2F0InQuL3hjCuA8C7bMXRe2ySTnwUKx7mMERliF_bsfiILlOKoHW7/s200/lilac.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561390955309178098" /></a><br />Here hedges mark the boundary, trees give the sense of enclosure. But lest I mislead, darker forces are at work threatening this idyll of nature controlled. It is now, in the depths of winter, that all the evils – in summer covered by leaf and deciduous shrubs – are apparent. The bank of brambles that has got out of hand, self-sown saplings grown into trees, hedges too large, shrubs too leggy.<br /><br />So, waterproof, thorn-proof gear donned, we go as if into outer space, pruning saws drawn, secateurs pocketed, to battle with the triffids and enormous green monsters. Slashing and burning, hacking and chopping we grapple with the overgrown shrubbery and the vicious brambles. My romantic little border of ferns and lily of the valley has been ravaged by ground elder. Sneaking in undercover in some alien pot plant. <br /><br /><em>Rubus cockburnianus</em>, which looks so wonderful with its frost blue white stems, has taken cruel advantage and gone where not intended. <em>Sambucus</em>, common elder to most of us, has multiplied and magnified to terrifying proportions whilst <em>Clematis montana</em>, which flowered so prettily and pofusely for so long, is now a mass of twiggy stems. All my fault for not pruning hard enough. <br /><br />And that under appreciated evergreen, <em>Eleagnus ebbengei</em>, has somehow grown to take up three times its allotted space, completely smothering some shy little shrubs close by. I love its glossy silver green leaves, and the perfume from its retiring flowers, but it's time it was cut down to size. Slash and burn. Hack and chop. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfV6euqnYKjJhf2drgp2kS_Tgc5eLxquEGLe1P0L18fqf2fWurvKTx-WgBY8Pg4jzQCg5NY7Pfhm2jXIsnrxywnlnufr7rjZaP_bz5I4KGxNM6ZjRiKFdtuwu_3S0ehiuyh-vhsdKEAxk/s1600/bleeding+heart.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfV6euqnYKjJhf2drgp2kS_Tgc5eLxquEGLe1P0L18fqf2fWurvKTx-WgBY8Pg4jzQCg5NY7Pfhm2jXIsnrxywnlnufr7rjZaP_bz5I4KGxNM6ZjRiKFdtuwu_3S0ehiuyh-vhsdKEAxk/s200/bleeding+heart.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561390578151388882" /></a><br />And whose bright idea was it to plant <em>Euphorbia characias</em>, in the Pet Cemetry. Meant to be a quiet corner – only white and pastel pink flowers allowed – where beloved dead pets could be assured they'd not be dug up. Get this, plants chosen: the tiny white rose 'Little White Pet', a pink and a white bleeding heart; the above mentioned ghostly rubus; snowdrops; geranium; lilies; heavenly scented philadelphus and lilac and a Kiftsgate rose climbing over the pear tree. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixw_ph9I93tOzum72YSh2QxDZdgGT24zlg5AuYre3I4wqThNIbT5ZRGnG5XyhTzlBYOr7dCbYNc4fmBV9FHGOY7p-pd2l0Y8rxuKF4YBitF70RjgqfLT3cdzsL5F-phBgeqxN9NoH1SlKH/s1600/lily.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixw_ph9I93tOzum72YSh2QxDZdgGT24zlg5AuYre3I4wqThNIbT5ZRGnG5XyhTzlBYOr7dCbYNc4fmBV9FHGOY7p-pd2l0Y8rxuKF4YBitF70RjgqfLT3cdzsL5F-phBgeqxN9NoH1SlKH/s200/lily.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561391359470806066" /></a><br />Should be the sweetest place. Pretty, perfumed and subdued. Instead it has become a battle ground with the euphorbia and <em>Geranium sanguinem</em> fighting for supremecy. The euphorbia is not only the <em>wrong</em> colour (though I love the acidic green), it is a positive thug that looks like overpowering everything in sight. And the Kiftsgate rose – a wonder for two weeks in June – has decided to wage war and send out its vicious thorny shoots over everything including the fence, the wall, the lilac and the veg patch, quietly minding its own business on the other side of the hedge. <br /><br />It is a relief to get inside to the gardening books and warm fire. To plan and dream that my jungle will look like the beautiful photographs of tranquil gardens where shrubs are pruned to perfection, lawns roll smoothly out into the distance and borders display the most wondrous, tastefully chosen flowering plants. Fat chance. <br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default/-/books</div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07134351651021525069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286548104770317222.post-39468424234244466652010-12-24T00:46:00.007+00:002010-12-24T01:01:49.352+00:00Snow is for the BirdsThe first unexpected snowfall in November was magical. A white fluffy blanket covered the landscape, trees were dusted with icing sugar and everything was beautiful. Pure and unsullied. A still and serene scene. Progress of the odd car was muffled, the sky was on mute and only the very occasional murmur of a snowplough or tractor was heard. Bliss. For a while. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXqQYGcPW2LtdUi1LnnQVE_qX40eM-VIyeLWErK8hwq5cPlWCNwedVuNB-4YGQSC8L0rqPFzGQpAH9-7a76ro6BtFKsuP-6WC8VlXoSzPLlxeVJqpOhj_YyN_qgDXff-d7uWY1sJdkjMY/s1600/snow+balls.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXqQYGcPW2LtdUi1LnnQVE_qX40eM-VIyeLWErK8hwq5cPlWCNwedVuNB-4YGQSC8L0rqPFzGQpAH9-7a76ro6BtFKsuP-6WC8VlXoSzPLlxeVJqpOhj_YyN_qgDXff-d7uWY1sJdkjMY/s200/snow+balls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554047412780774386" /></a><br />To start with I couldn't get out. What to do about it? Nothing. Make the most of it. I loved the peace and quiet. I was even glad of the chance to catch up on all those things I should have done long ago but had not because I was too busy rushing about. I wrote, I filed, I sorted. My telephone and internet access meant I was able to contact whomever I chose. Realising that I may not get out in time to buy presents I ordered them on the internet and managed to write all my Christmas cards. Wrapping up warm I could still walk Freddie. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8l4PD5mOy-CqoGMWYRFcoOL_RMcol-EIJ04a7wMUm-C_XiejOgAlH6yEN6NYCIbq0SXEsz7SbnJBgS66QlTwRf_bINf59Rvisljrw87rMlWSgKEJRh97mYLFab2MAoMRmK3y0Pqx5Kw_I/s1600/Robin.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8l4PD5mOy-CqoGMWYRFcoOL_RMcol-EIJ04a7wMUm-C_XiejOgAlH6yEN6NYCIbq0SXEsz7SbnJBgS66QlTwRf_bINf59Rvisljrw87rMlWSgKEJRh97mYLFab2MAoMRmK3y0Pqx5Kw_I/s200/Robin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554046950614189090" /></a><br />Nevertheless, I managed to waste the precious time available to put my house in order. And I lay the blame fairly and squarely on the birds. Right outside my kitchen (where I sit up close to my beloved aged AGA) I have set up the bird feeders so that from any window I can watch them. The lesser spotted woodpeckers came regularly and, although they can polish off a whole bag of nuts in a day, they are still a welcome visitor.<br /><br />At one time there were two on separate feeders and a green woodpecker (who usually is usually seen eating beetles and worms from the lawn) creeping up the nearby oak tree. More insects populate an oak than any other tree and in this weather they are a rich source of food. The blackbirds polished off all the pyracantha berries and the Tits pecked the mahonia flowers to shreds. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPSIPcZoxevrxfWTTfP92s4194rIS8iGiPHi3CaX8ku5jgaTuhgN4E8xUJtvvvZfKxfiSQVAbz7Z-wTfsPxe-rAZ838aBps073axRO9onQpAicG_NQcF2KOK7Jbnqy9EWzHlK0wk6J47c/s1600/coal+tit.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPSIPcZoxevrxfWTTfP92s4194rIS8iGiPHi3CaX8ku5jgaTuhgN4E8xUJtvvvZfKxfiSQVAbz7Z-wTfsPxe-rAZ838aBps073axRO9onQpAicG_NQcF2KOK7Jbnqy9EWzHlK0wk6J47c/s200/coal+tit.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554045925152110882" /></a><br />On the feeders there are mostly Great Tits, Robins and a whole busy little band of Blue Tits. Dunnocks - also known as Tree Sparrows - are also regulars, picking up whatever falls fro the feeders. But only one Sparrow to date. And where is the Nuthatch? The snow finally forced more than the usual visitors to take advantage of what was on offer: thrushes, jays, collared doves. But the undoubted star was a Coal Tit. At first I was not sure. But soon I was able to distinguish it quite quickly by its distinctive white Mohican haircut. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMUmhC2SkzpGDrksMGxqEQRlYQFzFeGKecJu0J2fewtQiBFV6xkeZK_LMrw39H97DTL9B0hq0mGya2XY3gku6UfSa496dxl352qriDJXQtxSI3Kt1_CZbZ82hyxIaL31D5VMFacEnxVvrK/s1600/Coal+tit+goggles.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMUmhC2SkzpGDrksMGxqEQRlYQFzFeGKecJu0J2fewtQiBFV6xkeZK_LMrw39H97DTL9B0hq0mGya2XY3gku6UfSa496dxl352qriDJXQtxSI3Kt1_CZbZ82hyxIaL31D5VMFacEnxVvrK/s200/Coal+tit+goggles.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554046284784961586" /></a><br />This tiny bird with his highwayman's mask is as nervous as the woodpecker. I was so excited. Pathetic, but it’s the simplest things. I wasted hours, like a groupie at the stage door, waiting to catch a glimpse of it. Set up my camera and hovered. I can only take photos through the glass and cannot work out the setting to use. It's not a professional camera but still, I manage to get some surprising shots. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-DW4WAWzNSCJndagT4h6OEQmcg73o7vjw4v7grh1DyEFr87XeBjt8svmfMW44-7kXLdipYvHKctqtmXCiQeLDbSKfvXnsXltq50WepzqZldsv50aWP2OXHHmGR6fs5IHJthsYx3Ptm9xU/s1600/mouse.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-DW4WAWzNSCJndagT4h6OEQmcg73o7vjw4v7grh1DyEFr87XeBjt8svmfMW44-7kXLdipYvHKctqtmXCiQeLDbSKfvXnsXltq50WepzqZldsv50aWP2OXHHmGR6fs5IHJthsYx3Ptm9xU/s200/mouse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554045585790582914" /></a><br />Then, one day at dusk (is that a non-sequitur?) I noticed an odd shaped thing on the feeder. Peering out into the gloom I saw it was a mouse, big ears listening, small feet gripping, munching greedily. He had found a ready supply of rich fatty nuts to boost his diet. The camera was there, waiting on its tripod, and I took a shot or two. They are not very good but a record nevertheless. What terrific entertainment these visitors have been, the highlight of a snow bound week.<br /><br />But of course this whole 'stay indoors warm and safe – don't go out unless strictly necessary, why put yourself and others at risk', sort of thing palled. We had finally eaten all those tins dated 1999 from the back of the cupboard, and the boxes of home-made mystery main courses from the freezer. I couldn't get to an appointment in London, failed to make a party in our market town and missed my Pilates classes. Driving was hazardous. <br /><br />Finally, our rural roads became more manageable. At last, 'Life' would be back to normal. A trip to the supermarket was an event – sad, I know – and we even managed to get to a department store to buy a present or two. Then, on the way home, it started to snow. Again. Snow on snow. At this rate neither the Prodigal nor the Princess will be able to get to us, we won't be able to get to them, and Christmas will be just Best Beloved, me and Freddie. And the birds of course! <br /><br />Lucy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"
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