My darling daughter was told of the engagement yesterday morning (the first to know!).

She has been a wonderful bag of excitement ever since and on top form.  As some might notice I think she has great potential as a creative person and (who knows) maybe even poetry.  Her first effort was very impressive to me, even though I am her Dad others have said as much.

Well when we went to our favourite restaurant last night she was very eager that they know about the engagement (they are after all a family restaurant and we eat there regularly so they all know us).  We had finished the meal and still it had not revealed what we were celebrating.  In her eagerness for us to say it and be done she used a sudden and impulsive turn of phrase;

“GO ON NOW, GET THE BONES OUT OF THE FLESH!”

And we were all very impressed by her `turn of phrase` - she immediately followed up our astonishment by telling us that we were never to use the phrase without attribution that they were her words - she was very specific about that as only a nine year old daughter can be - I’m even prouder of her for asserting “copyright” to her utterance than I am by the almost Donne like turn of phrase!

PS I scroogled to check the originality, and this was all I turned up pertinent so far as I could see!

PPS Happy birthday today to;

Cathy

Robert

The Sunday Program on Radio Four

It is not too often the personal intrudes on this blog (I hope!) But today I would like to indulge myself a little.  Anyone who has been here before will perhaps notice that there are a couple of new categories creeping in here.

One is cycling - and the tandem features (Now enhanced with lights and super bell and ready to roll!).

The other is marriage - and this is because I am now engaged to be wed, I have plighted my troth!  It will be a long engagement, but if any matters come up which I think I can talk about here (or even if I read anything which seems connected) then I may post to this category.

On which subject my fiancee thinks this blog would reach a much wider audience and I can see what she means (though am uncertain I really want the world and it’s brother to be reading this - my hosting could not cope for a start!).  BUT I have decided to see if I can register the domain “eclectic.me” as a possible alternative.

UNLESS anyone has any better ideas for the name of this blog?  AND YES; I do realise the heading banner and design would be due for a complete overhaul as a result, then again I am quite keen to improve the site’s accessibility and so should not mind this.

A post should be forthcomng to review the book “Chicago” soon and not sure what will follow from that, perhaps a thrilling account of the first tandem tour involving panniers and distance!

This was written by my daughter at the weekend, I shall photograph the original text and post it, but this is my version typed as faithfully as I can:-

Look! a leaf
Scrunkling my life away.

Look! a rabbit hole
Like a bowl
Eating my life away.

Look!…a nest
Like a bed
Sleeping my life away

Look at the green grass
Like  a bean
I roll my life away

Isabel Eleanor Amelia Wrighton, November 2009.

I may have mentioned Tobias Hill in an earlier post but since then have read his first published novel. The title of “Underground” works on two levels, it is both the London Underground and a more murky underground in the past; a subteranian incident from our protagonist’s childhood.  It could even be argued that the sub-plot from childhood is using the term “underground” in another sense, the one of the shadey dealer who is not legitimate.

The writing is probably even more strikingly original than it was for “The Cryptographer” which I have already mentioned (see that earlier post of mine).  I especially enjoyed the way we are given to understand the attraction between the feral female who he finds inhabiting the underground and the subsequent play on our emotioons when we discover she is not all we might have hoped for.  But this plot development is entirely necessary in the context.

And it is this context, one of childhood and the abuse that can occur there, both from monstrous parents and from others who are not parents but perhaps even more monstrous, it is this which forms the actual “meat” of the novel.  I truly loved the way these issues are explored tangentially and yet the plot remains one of a gripping thriller which accelerates towards the ending with a born and assured gifted writers natural grace of expression.

There is a new person in my life, and she suffers a degenerative eye condition ( retinitis pigmentosa) which means that her vision is already severaly compromised and will eventually fail entirely.  Although at the time of reading I was not thinking about this, with the benefit of hindsight I am finding all sorts of resonances with that.  He seems to find both loneliness and comfort in the darkness.  He wants to be alone and at the same time recognises it as a special quality, and not necessarily a healthy one.  I think it is no accident that the flourescent light which is his only source of illumination at times is coming from a watch his father gave him as a boy, one which incidentally bore the image of Stalin’s head on the watchface.  Many times in the story being in the absolute darkness of the underground, be it a mineshaft or a train tunnel, is used as a great way to sharpen our sense of danger or even perhaps to enhance the erotic.  These moments in the writing are used as springboards for us to speculate or join with the protagnoist exploring emotional issues.  he is clearly profoundly affected as a young man both by his mother abandoning him (and his father) and by his subsequent perception of his father as a monster whom he in turn abandons when he leaves the country and comes to London.

All of these observations can only be made after completely reading the novel - and many of them only after a little time to digest it.  So I fully recommend this fine first novel to anyone who chances upon this post in my blog.  And if anyone can comment and add their own opinions, well that too is most welcome!

I wrote earlier about setting them up (see About NaNoWriMo page) and now they are finally all set.  I have put the first installment there too.  If you wonder why the word count to the right is slightly higher - this is because I include the concealed plot lines which are on the page - they get trimmed from the text in the nano blog which previews the book as it is written.  I should not call it a book - since I doubt it shall ever see paper!

On that subject though my daughter is so sweet - she has decided that the “when the wind blows” story should be printed and made into a small book on which she will add some pictures to take to mum for her to read to Isabel and to the other children there!  I cannot help but feel flattered at the idea, she is already learning how to pamper a mans ego!  I feel sorry for any boy that falls in love with her one day!

WOW!  What a fantastic bonfire night I had!  It was the first time I had hosted one, and my memories of the family ones with fabulous fireworks laid on by my daredevil Dad and great grub from my yummy stepmum were always going to be hard to live up to.  Especially since I was the eldest boy in the family with four younger sisters, somehow that made it all the more special for me.

There were always lots of friends around and a great sense of fun.  Normal bedtimes were set aside.  Most discipline (not that we had much) was sacrificed.  The only discipline left was more or less a self-imposed regime of safety - probably I had to be the most responsible one for my little sisters sakes.

In the present day I am unsure if things remain the same or if it is because I am an adult, my daughter certainly missed the odd firework due to playing with her friend.  The bonfire was great fun though - and they did like to sit around it with the marshmallows (early) and the sausages (later).  Of course all us grown ups enjoyed a beer or two or a glass of wine.  There was the customary libation of the “lost sausage” to the Gods of the bonfire!

But my daughter had to go and get a teddie and make up a game with her friend - the festivities did not hold centre stage.  Has the world changed?  Or did I just grow up?

For whatever reason, I had one of those clearing out the loft moments going through ancient boxloads… and I turned up this exercise book that had something in it I wrote years ago intending it to be a childrens story perhaps for my daughter (she was just a babe at the time).  I thought I would type it up as a post.  Wish there was a way I could incorporate it in my novel (have to think on that!).  Here it is anyway:-

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There’s a wind that blows, and it starts over Spain.  In Spain the sun shines so hard it makes the rocks very hot in the day, but the sea keeps cool because it’s so big and blue.  Then, when night falls, the air rushes in from the cool sea to the hot rocks and a special wind is born.

It starts from the sea to the rocks as a gentle breeze, only just enough to blow a crisp packet along.  But as the night gets cool it blows a little stronger and starts to blow its way further up the hills.

The hills in Spain can be very steep indeed, and in some places they are like mountains, except that they are flat on top.  As the wind blows up these hills it gets very strong and can even blow some small trees up the hill if they haven’t got their roots into the soil properly.

Here the wind often helps birds to climb up high into the sky without even having to flap their wings - it is like an up escalator for the birds. They soar high into the early morning sky, because that’s when they start their hunting.  It has taken all day and all night for the wind to blow from the sunny seaside to the top of the hills in Spain.

Up at the top of the hills in Spain it is called the plain.  It’s called the plain because it is very flat, but it also happens to look very plain indeed because the sun burns so brightly that not much grows.  Here the wind gets tired in the midday heat, just only blowing hard enough to make the grass sway a little and ruffle the manes of the horses that play there.

The wind pauses and thinks of a place where it blows into the Americas; here there are ponies too.  Some of these ponies have come all the way from Wales a long time ago.  They are very pretty ponies and their owners still speak to them in Welsh.  This place is called Patagonia and the people who live here have to live a simple life.  When the wind blows they are glad because it often brings some rain.

On and on the wind blows across the plain, leaving the rain behind as it blows along.  After another day the wind reaches the end of the plain and here there are mountains rising up high into the clear blue beyond.  The wind gets thin and cold as it goes higher and higher to pass through the Alps.  It gets so cold that the rain that’s left turns into snow and hail.  The wind finds gaps to blow through in the rocks that make the mountains, whistling as it blows higher and higher and thinner and thinner through the mountain passes. It seems to be calling out a sound which might be the name this wind is given in Spain.  Here it is called the Scirocco.  Or perhaps it just got the name since it blows from the sea to the rocks of the Andes mountains.

After a while the wind blows right up to the tops of the mountains - here it is so fierce it can turn the snow into the hardest ice in an instant.  If a man stood up straight when it was blowing its hardest he would be blown straight off the top of the mountain into the valley below.  There is a rumour that a creature called the Yeti can stand up here without getting too cold, because the Yeti can live here - but no man has seen such a creature and lived to tell the tale.

The next day the wind blows down the other side of this mountain range into a new country, far from the sea where it started out all those days ago.  This country is called France, so here the wind has a new name.  It is called the “Mistral” and it brings the cold weather that is the start of winter for the countryside of France.

The people in this French countryside are used to a wonderful long hot summer, so it is a big shock when this wind arrives from the mountains blowing along lots of snow and ice.  All the French farmers rush inside and put their heating on at full blast to keep warm in the storm as the Mistral blows through.  If any of them have left their grapes still growing on the vines then they get very upset because it’s too late to harvest them when this wind blows and brings the cold to freeze them on the vine.

After another day and night the wind has blown all the way across France and left the cold of the mountains far behind,  It blows over the channel and picks up plenty of rain to worry any farmers who haven’t finished making their hay or harvesting their crops.  But this rain only falls on the hills where the sheep are feeding - so the farmers can relax and the sheep can enjoy nice green grass for pasture.

After another few days of peacefully breezing over the English countryside - where the wind is known as Gale if it gets too strong - then the wind blows up to the lowlands of Scotland where the land starts to rise and the wind gets a little bite to it again.  Because Scotland is lucky at this time of year the sun is shining and the wind gets warm again in the lowlands.

Then after another day and a night the wind gets up to the Scottish mountains where the Golden Eagle nests in the mossy crags at the top.  The eagles fly out from their eiries (that’s what these big nests are called) onto the breeze, which lifts them up high over the plains below so that they can hunt baby sheep and rabbits.  Here the wind blows so peacefully and quietly that it hasn’t even got a name - or perhaps its name is just forgotten in the peace and quiet.

Eventually the wind reaches the sea at the end of Scotland.  Here the land is quite barren and rocky and the wind blows more strongly with all the open sea and islands ahead.

This is where the wind blows over the sea to Skye (which is one of the islands) and it once took a Prince to hide away on an island - but that’s a story for another day.

As the wind blows out to sea at the end of its journey, and at the end of summer too, it lets out a long sigh after blowing so far and falls gently off to sleep on the softly rippling waves of the deep blue sea.  Just like you and me at the end of the day when we go to bed.

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I remember being happy with it as a bed time story for a child at the time.  Now when I read it I feel less than satisfied with my writing and unsure how a child would receive it, but I still like the idea behind the story… Perhaps I’ll print this post and try reading it to Isabel tonight… Perhaps a reader or two may like to try reading it to their children?  If you do any comments from them would be appreciated.