In which Jen is a little bit more awesome...

Today I am flitting between putting flyers together for National Allotment Week [which is next week if you're the green-fingered type] and day-dreaming about holidays. I blame Helen for the latter; she is nothing if not a distraction. Not that I mind being distracted - there is such a thing as the National Vegeatable Society, did you know that? That is the kind of information that I need distracting from, and what better way than to think about holidays.

If you're reading this post as your own kind of distraction, then I high five you; us procrastinators should stick together. I offer you the highest of fives, and suggest you head away from my blog and over here: http://jen-campbell.blogspot.co.uk where the lovely and supremely talented Jen is giving a way a copy of her poetry collection 'The Hungry Ghost Festival.'

I have a copy of this [naturally] and can safely say that you will love it. It's very lovable. You may remember my post earlier in the year about poetry, namely Siken's 'Crush' where I mentioned how often I thought poetry was pretty. Jen's collection is a fine example of that. It's a very pretty, very thought provoking and at times very moving collection of work and I am so so proud to be able to call this talented girl my friend. I urge you all to go get to know her now if for no other reason than when she is super duper famous, you'll be able to say you were reading her way back then. Go, enter her giveaway and if you don't win then buy a copy - there is a PayPal link on her page - I promise you, you won't regret it.

That is all, short but sweet, but hey, allotment week waits for no bookworm, not even this one.

The Land Of Stories

Do you ever wonder what you could have achieved by age 22 if you hadn't spent so much time dinking cider and black and vodka, or dancing all night and sleeping all day, or lying awake putting the world to rights with your best friend with Frasier on in the background, or waitressing for a living and going out with just a £5 and a smile, or learning to headstand in your boyfriends front room when you should have been doing homework? No, me either. Or at least, I try not to because sometimes, regrets, I have them. I mean, my life is good and I have memories that will last a lifetime and I'm pretty proud of who I am and what I've achieved but sometimes just sometimes something happens that makes you think wow, I really did not make the most of myself.

This is one of those times.


Christopher Colfer, how are you real?!

Seriously, this kid: He was so severely bullied at school that he was homeschooled for two years and now? Just look at him. He's a superstar on Glee; he's had his first book published [and that is why we are here right now, to talk about that book]; he's written and starred in a film due for release later this year; he's won a Golden Globe and been nominated for 2 Emmy awards, as well as being named GQ's man of the year and one of Time Magazines most influential people, and he's just turned 22. I don't know whether to hate him or love him. Right now loving him is winning out.

So, the book.

I didn't buy 'The Land Of Stories' because it was written by a guy off Glee. I am not that girl. I won't deny that I am a fan of Chris Colfer: I make no secret of the fact that him and Darren Criss are pretty much the only reasons I even watch that show, but I didn't buy this book just because Colfer wrote it.

And I'm being serious right now, I didn't.

I bought it because Amazon told me that I should - it does that sometimes, Amazon [sorry Jen!] emails me and says 'hey Jo, we know you've no money and a full bookshelf but look at this' and I'd been drawn in by the pretty cover before I even noticed that it was written by Chris Colfer [ooh, Land of Stories? What's that? That's a gorgeous cover. Chris Colfer? Chris Colfer?!] and I downloaded it to my Kindle because I liked the concept: the book is about two children who fall down the proverbial rabbit hole via a charmed book of stories and end up in a land full of their favourite storybook characters, it pays homage to all of those stories children have been in love with for generations.

I wondered what it'd be like actually: just because Chris Colfer can sing and dance and act and is growing into a fairly attractive young man (see above if you're still seeing him as Kurt Hummel, because the boy grew up people.) doesn't necessarily mean he can write and what if he only got a book deal because he is America's darling? Call me cynical, but these things happen.

Here's the thing: this kid can write.

"Happily ever after’ is something that you make. It’s not given to you."
-Chris Colfer

TLOS is one of those books you wish was around when you were 8 or 9; one of those books that you'd lose a weekend reading and would wish all your friends liked reading as much as you did so they could read it too, one of those books that you dove into and got lost in and wanted to live in forever. Hell, I kind of want to live in it myself and I'm about 20years older than it's target audience.

This book awakens in me some of the same feelings I have when reading Harry Potter, as in when I'm reading Potter there's always a part of me that wishes I'd been younger when those books were first released because I'd love to have experienced them through the eyes of a child, and that's how I feel about this.
I know I would have fangirled so hard over this book when I was 8, so hard because Colfer has pitched it just right: it's smart and funny and magical and the two characters are just awesome and so relatable too, if you're 8 [and pretty adorable if you're not] and some of the phrasing is gorgeous and the world he has created is the kind of world any 8 or 9 year old would want to be a part of.

It's not perfect: there are parts that could maybe do with being tightened up a touch and parts that dragged a little and some of the language is a little basic and there's a lot of 'he said, she said' but hello,  how sophisticated does it need to be: this is a kids book and I'm 29 not 9, and I think the same thing when I re-read Enid Blyton or other childhood favourites. From a pure storytelling point of view it works.  It's a smart and intelligent book, with clever interpretations on the background traditional stories - the Charming Dynasty idea is awesome, as is the Queen Red-Riding Hood/fugitive Goldilocks feud and the Evil Queen's backstory is well worth reading for. It carries a message without being patronising and it has the amusing little bits in there that are obviously aimed at the parent reading aloud [or the 29 year old with no book-buying self-control.] and I didn't guess the ending. All in all, I think Colfer can count this as another success; I can certainly think of a handful of children I'd like to read this book.

Seriously, Chris Colfer is so much more than Kurt Hummel, and Glee and I would not be surprised to see him take over the world. You read it here first.*


*unless you didn't, obviously.

The books of 2012...so far

I'm a little late really, considering we're well past the 'halfway through 2012' mark but as the saying goes, better late then never. That's not always strictly true, actually, because sometimes, if you can't be arsed to be on time then it's maybe better you don't bother but this is just a blog and the only person my tardiness will be bothering is me, mainly because nobody was expecting this post but me. I digress.

It always interests me, making a note of my top 5 books of the year in June, and then again at the end of December and seeing if they remain the same, and that's the point of this post: making a note of my 5 favourites of the year so far so I can make the comparison later. So here you have it and, drum roll please, the bestest books I have read so far in 2012 are.....:

1: Without a doubt the best book I've read this year is Richard Siken's Crush which I talk about here and which I love beyond words, almost. It totally got under my skin, and I've flicked back through it several times since I read it in May.

2. The Borrower By Rebecca Makkai which I don't think I ever blogged about because I've been lax this year, but which, if you're at a loss for something to read, is definitely worth picking up.

3. Annabel Pitcher's My Sister Lives On The Mantelpiece - you can read my thoughts on it here but I am warning you, it will hit you right in the feels.

4. The Siege by Helen Dunmore, which I won't talk about too much as I do plan to blog about it properly at some point, but which is incredibly incredibly moving and heartbreaking and inspiring. And which you should read. It will make you cry though, so don't say I didn't warn you.

5. The Stranger Next Door, by the wonderful Amelie Nothomb. I adored this. I love Amelie Nothomb anyway, I think she's incredible but this was far and away my favourite of hers. Amazing.

Apart from Crush which is absolutely at the top of this list, the others go in no particular order, because they were all super and I'm shit at making decisions. It's a character flaw, sorry.

Today is somebody's birthday.

Let me tell you a little about this somebody.

She's hilariously funny. She's smart and she's witty and so so perceptive. She calls me out when I'm being a dick, and she holds me when I cry and she holds me when I laugh and she rolls her eyes when I spam her inbox with You Yube videos of a certain attractive singing celebrity. She went all the way to Africa and took a photo of herself stood Under Milk Wood because I love Dylan Thomas. She makes the tallest cakes and the flattest scones and she always makes my ribena in the right sized glass. She knows me better than anybody else in the world and she gets me like nobody else does.

We share jokes and secrets and memories almost to the point of being an accidental clique of two: people tell us all the time how hard it is to be around us because we speak our own language, of half sentences and nonsensical chatter.

She likes giraffes and manatees and champagne cocktails and bacon fries even though she's a vegetarian and Wuthering Heights and Joey Lawrence and Harry Potter and she has more dvds than you can even imagine and she understands all about Billy from Ally McBeal and how nothing will ever be that sad. She dances with me to The Arctic Monkeys at weddings and she makes me write in paragraphs and she makes me stickers when I have to go to the dentist.

She isn't perfect though: she hates ginger and peanut butter and meat and sometimes she laughs at me til she cant breathe and she wants to re-read Breaking Dawn and she thinks Remus really truly loved Tonks and she once tried to drop a pen lid in my mouth when I was asleep and her feet are unreasonably small.

She's Helen and she is the Meryl Streep to my Julie Walters (and yes, that's a mamma Mia reference) and I am grateful for her every single day.

Happy birthday to you, Helen. You will always be my stupid person.

Cat Antics

JasperCat: *walks past*
Me [from sofa]: *makes cat summoning noise*
Jasper: *stops, pricks up ears, looks around*
Jasper: what?
Jasper: what was that?
Jasper: who said that??? was it you, rug?
Me: *repeats cat summoning noise*
Jasper: *spins around* did you say something, tail?
Jasper: THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED!! *jumps on sofa and snuggles me for safety*
Me: mission accomplished!

Consider the Hairpin Turn

-You are Jeff, Richard Siken

 I don't read a lot of poetry.  I read some, but not a lot. I should probably read more. The stuff I do read is ususally thrown at me by Jen with a 'JO YOU HAVE TO READ THIS' and I do read it and usually I love it and think 'hmmm, I should read more of this,' but then I don't because I'm never quite sure I understand much about poetry other than that it's pretty. And maybe that's the problem; maybe I need to accept that I can love poetry just because it's pretty and I don't need to try and understand it on a more intellectual level because isn't that the point, really, to draw pleasure from the words you read?????

Anyway.

The point is that most of the poetry I read is recommended to me, but, I've stumbled across a collection all by my own self [proud Mama moment for you there, Campbell. ha.]
It's by Richard Siken, it's called Crush, it won the 2004 Yale Series of Younger Poets competition and I am in serious serious book love, and not just because it's pretty.
It is pretty, so much so that it hurts, just there just right, but it's also just really incredible. I'm not going to try and give some kind of wonderfully eloquent review because like I said, I don't know much about poetry other than I like how it makes me feel. I just, I liked this book and it made me want to write that down, for posterity: in May 2012 Jo liked this book.

The foreword says that this is a book about panic. I'm not going to argue with that, after all, what do I know and to be honest I kind of understand the sentiment but, for me at least, it's more than that; it's a book about love, I think. Deep love, real love, painful love, unrequited love and requited love, love that hurts in the way that love does and it's beautiful and raw and it just gets under your skin and stays there. And it makes you think.It's the kind of book that just gets you, right in the chest, something that has happened to me before with prose but never I don't think, with poetry. The emotion in some of these poems is palpable and I kept going back, reading and re-reading, making notes of parts that I wanted to quote and then I got to the end and realised I might aswell just type out the whole book and so maybe just maybe I am a poetry girl after all.

This book gave me goosebumps, from the opening poem 'Scherazade' 
 ['...how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces.']
through pieces like 'Saying Your Names' and 'Wishbone' and 'Boot Theory', and the 'Snow and Dirty Rain' and through the whole first stanza of 'A Primer for the Small Weird Loves'
['...you know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division, and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut...']
it gave me goosebumps and it made me think and it made me feel and if you do nothing else this week, this month, this year then read this book, just, find a copy if only so you can read the wonderfully wonderful 'You are Jeff'  [see above] and then tell me it doesn't move you in a way you can't explain.


Do it, because you might never hear me talk about poetry this way again.

And that is all from me, for now. I leave you with this, from 'Wishbone' which is one of my favourites, I think.


You don’t, I say, you don’t owe me squat, let’s just get going, let’s just
               get gone, but he’s relentless,
keeps saying I owe you, says Your shoes are filling with your own
damn blood, you must want something, just tell me, and it’s yours.
               But I can’t look at him, can hardly speak,
I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons, I’d just as soon kill you myself,  I say.

We'll eat you up - we love you so!

I am beyond busy today and do not have time to properly blog, but I had to make a little post because today is a sad sad day in the world of children’s literature; Maurice Sendak, author of the amazing ‘Where The Wild Things Are’ has passed away, aged 83. 

I had no idea.

I was browsing Facebook this afternoon and spotted my pal Jen’s update, ‘but the wild things cried, “Oh please don’t go”’ I recognised it immediately and quickly typed out a reply in the form of the next line of the story, smiled to myself and moved on. Jen text me a few moments later telling me of Sendak’s passing and wow, so sad. 83 is a ripe old age, of course it is, but it’s a pretty ineffective consolation, as I realised when I used it upon myself when my Grandpa died last month.  Sendak, no matter how old he was, will be very sorely missed. The thing we have to remember of course is that he left a legacy that, as long as there are children who love stories and grown-ups who love to read to them, will live on forever.

I don’t know many people who aren’t familiar with Sendak’s most famous work, ‘Where The Wild Things Are,’ and I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn by suggesting it’s a picture book favourite of most people, it is certainly one of mine and Twitter is alight today with people talking about Sendak and about Wild Things; about their memories of it; about their love for it; posting links to articles where Sendak has talked about his work and his inspirations  and you only have to read a few of these to see why he was considered one of the most important children’s writers of the 20^th Century.

Where The Wild Things Are will surely be read at bedtimes across the globe tonight, as it should be.

RIP Maurice.

My Sister Lives On The Mantelpiece

Every so often I read a book that just gets to me somehow. In 2010 it was Never Let Me Go, in 2011, The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. 

Recently it was My Sister Lives On The Mantelpiece by Annabel Pitcher, a debut novel about a family torn apart by grief, told from the point of view of 10 year old Jamie.

Jamie was 5 when his older sister, Rose, was killed in a terrorist attack in London 5 years earlier and he knows he’s supposed to be sad that she’s dead but he kind of isn’t, really. He’s sad that his Mum has left for a chap she met at grief counselling and he’s sad that his other sister, Rose’s twin, is sad and going off the rails a bit and he’s sad that his Dad is so lost in his grief for Rose that he has all but forgotten his other two children but Jamie doesn’t really remember Rose all that well.

Just before what would have been Rose’s 15^th birthday, Jamie’s dad uproots Jamie and Jas and takes them to the Lake District for a ‘fresh start’ which is actually code for ‘a place where there are no Muslims.’  He places Rose’s ashes on the mantelpiece in the new house and continues to drink himself into oblivion. Meanwhile, Jamie waits desperately for his Mother to return home and tries to settle in at his new school, where he thinks the fact that nobody knows about his dead sister is a blessing and so doesn’t say a word, befriending a Muslim girl and trying to ignore the bullies.

This is a beautifully written book, and paints a heartbreaking picture of a family torn apart by grief and of a little boy trying to figure out how the world works. 

Jamie’s father is racist beyond belief, blaming the Muslim religion as a whole for the death of his daughter but Jamie never takes sides – his sister was killed in a terrorist attack, the end and I love that about him, about children in general. His developing friendship with the Muslim girl at school, his slow realisation that not all Muslims fit in the box his Father tries to place them in and his guilt at becoming friends with a Muslim at all are incredibly powerful; the scenes where Jamie visits his friend Sunya at home and realizes she has more of a family life than he does despite her religious beliefs, his guilt later when learning about the ten commandments and trying to relate them to his friendship with Sunya and the responsibilty he feels towards his father and the eventual showdown between Sunya’s parents and Jamie’s Dad left me feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach; Pitcher’s storytelling is so simple but so effective.

This book sounds depressing. I am aware of that. It’s really not, though. It’s sad, of course it is and there is a scene where Jamie eventually figures out what loss is all about and why Rose’s death affected everybody so deeply that you will need a pack of tissues for, but it’s also uplifting and funny and so so lovely; so lovely in parts that it brought a lump to my throat. It carries an important message as well: please don’t judge people based on the colour of their skin or who they choose to pray too because people are so much more than that. Muslims might have killed Jamie’s sister, but a Muslim kind of saved Jamie’s life too – it’s what’s on the inside of a person that counts and that is such an important message right now. The word Muslim shouldn’t make you turn the other way, or stiffen up, you shouldn’t look suspiciously at that guy on the train just because his skin is dark and he’s carrying a rucksack. People need to be more like Jamie, they need to be open to life and to love and to not let their prejudices stand in their way.

How to be a fangirl, aged 28

This is the story of how I proved I still have fangirlish tendencies.

That should serve as a warning for what is to come in this blog post and I make no apologies.

If you know me, or if you read this blog on a regular basis, then you will be aware of my love for Glee. It's my current tv obsession, which makes me sound like a screaming teenage fangirl, which I kind of am - except I'm almost 30.

It's a weekly fixture in our house, Glee. Ian rolls his eyes but he watches every episode with me and has a crush on Rachel Berry and says I remind him of Sugar Motta. And me? I love Kurt. & Blaine.  Oh, especially Blaine.

Spoilers. Spoilersspoilers. Feel free to read no further....

In last week's episode, aptly titled 'Big Brother' we met Blaine's older brother.

Cooper.

Let me tell you something: the Anderson family look like they walked right off an Abercrombie billboard. I'm not even kidding. These are two men very fortunate in face - I'm talking Fiennes brothers levels of hot.
And very fortunate in voice.
And together enough to leave me flailing around and eternally grateful for Sky+ - I got my money's worth out of the rewind/replay function when I watched the episode, that's for sure.
Why?
Because Blainers and his dreamboat brother [and yes, I did just use the term dreamboat in actual real life, watch the episode, you'll understand] sang my current favourite song: Gotye's Somebody That I Used To Know. I love that song. I downloaded it from ITunes after the first time I heard it, have listened to it pretty much constantly since then and told Ian WEEKS ago how well I thought it would suit Darren Criss's voice and that I thought they should do it on Glee and lo and behold they did. And it was amazing.

The whole episode was really really good actually and it reminded me a little of old Glee in that it broke my heart a little and it made me laugh so hard [which after the week I've had is quite the achievement!]

We had beautiful Blainers and his hot brother and the DuranDuran mash-up and Kurt [generally, as a person, always Kurt] with his crush on his boyfriend's brother:

'Blaine, your brother is the most good looking man in North America.' 

'Oh no, Blaine, you have to, you're both so handsome and good.'  

Chris Colfer should win awards for his facial expressions, he is such a scene stealer.

We had Fighter and Blaine's naked back [cue audible intake of breath followed by 'oh dear that's my boyfriend sat right there.']
We had Cooper's 'lesson' which was the funniest thing Glee has done in a while, I think, and some really touching scenes between other characters which were lovely but which I don't want to spoil.
All of it was Glee magic but the addition of STIUTK made it for me. I thought Cough Syrup from the week before was fabulous but wow, that song made me happyhappyhappy and I loved the character development we got for Blaine; I always love the more character focussed episodes of Glee, I loved this one more because it was Blaine-centric, I'll admit that, but the whole back story to his relationship with Cooper, the way it explained so much about things we've seen of Blaine in the past, the continuity [which isn't always Glee's strong point, let's be honest] all just worked really well and left me feeling rather pleased.

The bar has been set with this episode and they'll do well if they ever manage to beat it, especially since recent Glee has never quite matched up to the standards it set with its first season.

Anyway, yes. That was a nice time. In other news this week has been up and down. It was my Grandpa's funeral on Tuesday which was, well, sad. Really sad. I am not going to dwell on it though because I have spent far too much time in the past week and a half being sad and Grandpa wouldn't like it and oh my goodness nobody wants to read about it.

Let's focus on the ups.

We [we being me, Helen and our respective Mums] saw Phantom of the Opera last Saturday in Manchester which was quite possibly the most amazing thing I have ever seen on a stage. Seriously, wowzer. So so good.
The guy who took the part of the Phantom [John Owen-Jones if you wondered] was absolutely incredible. I actually didn't think it was possible to sound that good in real life. I had goosebumps. And I kept forgetting to breathe. I was just sat, jaw dropped, totally astounded. Helen was sat in front of me and she kept turning round to look at me with this massive smile on her face, she said at the end when I was just all wowwowwow, 'I just knew exactly what your face would be doing.' Ha. [That girl is so amazing. I would not have gotten through this last week, or in fact the last decade of my life, without her and her ability to make me smile even at the worst of times. I am lucky to have you, Helen.]
So, Phantom is my new favourite musical in all the world and I still can't get over how good it was. I would like to see it again please. We went for food afterwards and our Mums were suitably amusing, as ever and it was generally just a nice time.

Tomorrow is more MotherDaughterQT as we have tickets to go and see Strictly's Vincent & Flavia in Midnight Tango. Again, excited. There will be dancing and chatting and eating and coffee and shopping and probably more amusing Mum stories. I am looking forward to it.

I shall do a book post next week, I promise. This has not been a very bookish blog of late and I apologise for that.


And now if you excuse me I'm off to pencil in a time rewatch Glee again and to download the Glee version of STIUTK to my phone because I need it like I need air and to email Helen and ask her if she loves Blaine yet because seriously, that shower scene, and to continue to be a [very old] fangirl.


If you need me, I'll be somewhere watching this episode in HD. On a very. large. screen.

PS. I love this. Look at Cooper and Blaine being all hot. Look at Kurt in the background, stealing the scene. Ha. 

Love you, Grandpa

Today the world lost a great man.

My grandpa.

I think most people probably think their grandparents are wonderful, my Grandpa really was. So many of my childhood memories are tied up in my Grandparents; in family holidays and day trips and school holidays spent playing hide and seek in their big farmhouse and so many of them, particularly from the first 8 or 9 years of my life are tied up in my Grandpa.
I remember the way he smelt, of cigarette smoke and outdoors and of home; I remember the way his arms would fold around me as I clambered onto his lap, the way his whiskers tickled my face as he kissed me; I remember squealing with laughter as he scraped his beard across my face, chin pie; I remember how he'd always greet me with a 'well then Josephine, what's new' and how his eyes crinkled as he smiled; I remember how he'd always fall asleep and how we'd all fall about laughing til he opened one eye 'I'm not asleep, I'm just resting my eyes'; I remember sing-alongs on long car journeys; I remember his scrambled eggs; I remember my hand in his slightly calloused one; I remember the way him and my Granny would bounce off one another telling stories of my Mum's childhood, how those stories always made me laugh; I remember him telling jokes, his comic timing making even the worst Christmas cracker joke funny; I remember New Year's parties and how he'd kid us we couldn't leave until the massive feast had been finished; I remember pulling on my wellies to follow wherever he went; I remember his patience; I remember thinking right up until now that he was the cleverest wisest man I ever met, and the bravest. I remember loving him so much when I was small that I felt my heart would burst and feeling so lucky now as an adult for having him for as long as I did; I remember visiting him in hospital two weeks ago and him squeezing my hand and telling me he loved me and how even then when he was so weak how he still seemed so strong; I remember him chatting with Ian and how I felt so proud.

It doesn't seem real somehow, to think that he's gone, that I'll never hear him laugh, or smile as him and my Granny griped at each other in the way you only can after a lifetime of love, or talk to him about his life before I was even born, it doesn't seem real that he's gone and yet it hurts so much, I know what he'd say to me though, if he could. He'd smile and he'd say 'Chin up' and I'd smile through my tears, so that's what I'll do.

Chin up, he's just resting his eyes.