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I don't know what's wrong with me. Every new book that I pick up I feel like hurling across the room. Admittedly I did set myself the onerous task of reading Dance to the Music of Time by Anthony Powell over the holidays. - three hundred characters. Yes. Three hundred. Then there was The Stranger's Child by Alan Hollinghurst. And someone who was raving about it gave me The Rules of Civility....oh dear. Well, let me say that Dance to the Music (12 volumes. Yep, 12) is going to have to dance on without me and Alan Hollinghurst who is a fabulous writer lost me on that one too... As for Rules of Civility - well, I don't feel like being very civil about it to be honest - Dominick Dunne dun it better guv. Honest. Oh yes, and I read Pure which won plaudits and prizes galore and I was like - meugh...I've read better. So it's not that I haven't been reading (frankly that will never happen) but it's just that I haven't been inspired. AT ALL. I even in a moment of desperation picked off the shelves an old Iris Murdoch - The Philosopher's Pupil. Crikey.I gave…
Well, it's been a while and I do apologise... Holidays and life has got in the way and a general dearth of what I call GOOD books. I knew I was in trouble when I was sitting at the airport waiting for a flight to Sicily and I realised that I had no shampoo or conditioner with me but I did have a lemon zester and seven paperbacks. Most of them old books that have recently been re-issued. Holiday reading fills me with panic. Madly dash around the airport books hop - NO. I once relied on that at Heathrow and it was closed - can you imagine the horror? So I bought a load of Stella Gibbons old novels that have just been released. Hmm, well... Oh dear. I mean I know that if you're written a big stonking best seller like Cold Comfort Farm you probably never need to write another book - and really, I wish she hadn't - or that I had lower expectations of them and simply hadn't bought them. 'Nuff said.
However due to the joys of The Harpies (book club) I have certain prescribed books that…
Gosh, I love foodie books. NOT cookery books (though I do of course like 'em) but books that lovingly recall forgotten meals along with memorable friends and relatives. Of course *ahem* I wrote one myself, so I would, wouldn't I? But Anna Del Conte who wrote
Risotto with Nettles raises the bar. The first thing I learnt which really surprised me was that whole towns were built in Italy to capture the sea breezes, purely for drying out pasta. So whole streets had massive fringes of fresh spaghetti drying in the sun. Must have been a wonderful sight... Also, fresh home-made pasta was in such demand and held in such high regard that women in the war would gather together over the kitchen table, often pulled out in a sunny square and make ravioli or tagliatelle to sell - and then with the money buy dried pasta to feed their families. The food is mouth watering in itself but her life story is amazing too. Shot at, nearly thrown in prison, her first job as an au pair in England, her marriage, her career as a cook are spellbinding. And then, there's…
Yes, it's cull time again. I try to be ruthless. Honest. But then sentimentality gets the better of me. Politeness, too. I mean, I KNOW some of these authors and even if I'm never, ever going to read them again, I can't chuck them. And then I'm vexed as to what to actually DO with 'em. Yes, yes, of course I do charity shops...well, to be honest, I do when I can cajole someone with strong arms to carry them there. Then we have the 'library' in the entrance hall where the top post shelf are full of the 7 flats here unwanted books. The theory is of course that you 'borrow' one and replace one. That's the theory. In practice what happens is that it gets chock with unwanted Dan Brown and Jeffrey Archer (NOT mine I hasten to add) Then I take a book bag to book club every month and dish 'em out. Ditto to friends. But even with all that I swear the pesky things are breeding. Then, the other night, it happened. The thing that I'd been dreading and…
It's my own silly fault. I was seduced. Yes, yes, by the 'one click' on Amazon. (I swear it will reduce me to bankruptcy) But those Penguin classics look so, well,
classic. Who can resist them? Also, and I lay my hand on my heart here, I thought that I would have binge of GOOD books. Now don't get me wrong there is absolutely nothing wrong with chick lit - or - women's contemporary fiction as we are all meant to call it now, Indeed, I have written books myself of that genre. But I wanted something a bit more, well, classic... So, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers seemed to fit the bill.
I'd heard of her, and she also wrote The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, so I thought I was on to a winner. But, then, oh dear... the eye started to skip paragraphs, the fidgiting got worse, and in the end I'm sorry to say I gave up. But then, what a fool I was to think that I could appreciate it anyway. Set in small town southern states in the fifties....that ALONE should have…
Of course, it isn't called Keef, but it should be...
Life by Keith Richards published by Phoenix is a whirlwind of read. The question that's always, with unfailing regularity, asked about Keef is - HOW is he still alive? Shouldn't he be dead? Well, yeah, but that's rock 'n roll baby. Actually he answers pretty early on why he's NOT dead. Quality control. Yes, you got it. Quality control. He's never been in the awful position of taking really, really cheap drugs - or as he puts it - 'Mexican shoe scrapings'. Not our Keef. It's TOP DRAWER stuff. And - hold the front page - he's never mainlined. He just banged it straight into a muscle. Phew, well that's OK then...
Keef comes over as rather a sweet old fashioned kinda boy. I think we all knew a Keef when we were younger, he never made a move on you, but somehow you ended up in his arms. Or bed. And there have been many of the
laideez in Keef's life, not least his rather formidable mum, Doris, who once told them all off in a studio in Jamaica for wasting time…
Oh no. Not another bloody vampire book I hear you groan. Well, umm, yes. Sorry about that. The Twilight saga, True Blood and all the others that seemingly breed unchecked on the shelves have been joined by a new trilogy. Well, new to me, that is. Kim Newman (a rather glorious eccentric figure himself and an utterly impeccable film buff) and his
Anno Dracula series. It seemed appropriate reading somehow. It's an English summery weekend in June. The heating's on, I'm wearing a jumper and the dog is warming my feet. Pimms? No thanks, I'll have a hot chocolate with a slug of rum in it. To warm up.
Let me introduce you to the world of London 1888. Queen Victoria has sensationally remarried to the Prince of Darkness himself - the Wallachian Prince known as Count Dracula. His (polluted) bloodline is sweeping London as more and more people are choosing to 'turn'. It's quite fashionable really. Oscar Wilde turned, still hiding his bad teeth behind his hands. Smoked glasses and the gothic look are affected by the fashioables. Of course, all that rubbish put about by Van Helsing about garlic and crucifixes doesn't…
Now, I must admit that the re-working of fairy tales with a modern twist never appeals to me. Too much whimsy and it can border dangerously with magic realism. You know, one minute your protagonist is looking in a mirror and the next minute she's turned into a snake. Oh no. Not for me thanks. So this book - well, I say book, but it's an unbound proof copy in the tiniest print you can imagine, has languished for weeks under a pile of books beside my bed. On the floor, actually, as said bedside table is about to collapse under the weight of far too much printed material (another nudge to buy a Kindle? No, banish that thought) Anyway, the time came when I had run out of reading material and I reluctantly picked it up. The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey published by umm...gosh, I don't know...it doesn't say. I'll google it in a moment and let you know. But my goodness I'm SO glad that I did. I had to finish it one swoop. It's wonderful. It made me realise that I really love anything set in the snow - it's so seductive...and it reminds me of those wonderful…
Aren't librarians nice? And most publishers, too. I was at The Reading Agency Roadshow which was held at Brighton library (an opportunity to pitch new books to libraries) and at the end of the day the generous publishers gave some books away (or perhaps they just didn't want to carry them home - no - banish that unworthy thought) And I was given The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh published by Macmillan. Now, clever,
clever Macmillan have also published a little handbook as well by Mandy Kirby with a forward by Vanessa to accompany it. Double whammy huh? But well worth it. Enchanting. I loved it. The novel is fascinating, but the concept of the Victorian language of flowers bought up to date is charming. Of course, the Victorians didn't actually make up bouquets telling a story (of a love affair - natch) but they were used as talking points on a dinner table, or a conversation piece on an over mantle. Geranium? True friendship. Marigold? Grief. Nasturtium? Impetuous love. Moss? Maternal love. Violet? Modest worth. Periwinkle? Tender recollection. Awww.... Roses of course had many, many meanings depending on the colour. So I…
Don't, what ever you do, read
Redeeming Features by Nicholas Haslam in one sitting. You may be tempted to, but don't. You'll be exhausted. Honestly. It's like going to a giddy cocktail party that you can never leave. One more enticing nibble, maybe another of those prawny things and half a glass of champagne and a quick chat to that fascinating man who's wearing a rather divine paisley shirt tinkling on a piano and you'll make your goodbyes. Two hours later and the room is even more crowded and somehow you're drinking a Manhattan and agreeing to go on holiday in a villa share in rather a marvellous undiscovered island somewhere in the Adriatic.
When you finally tear yourself away, you have to go and lie in a dark room and sip ice cold water for a few hours and then feel that your life up and till now has been rather dull indeed.
It then give you time to wonder if maybe it would have been all so different if a) you had been born a pretty gay boy with a sparkling wit, a good eye for the finer things in life b)…
A clutch of freshly laid eggs were delivered to me yesterday by Mr B who keeps bantams in his garden. The Girls, as they are known, practically have their own web site, so popular are they. They are indeed splendid creatures and have regular spa days
chez Mr B.
I was pretty bird-phobic till I met them, but they have won me over with their endearing habit of 'pock pocking' calls of greeting and being very fond of being stroked till they fall into a pretty feathered coma of contentment in your lap.
Anyway, I got to thinking about all things hen-like in books and a remarkable thing arose: All clearly bonkers people have, at some time, lived in a hen house. In fact and in fiction. I adored the story of Lady Gladys, who had one of the first nose jobs that went a little awry. She had demanded a nose based on a classical bust, and it was duly done but filled with wax, so that she could never sit in front of a fire lest it melt (which apparently it did). She had great beauty and wealth and…
Well, I am quite aware that some of you, well, thousands of you went to Trafalgar Square to hear starry authors (amongst them the perfect poppet that is David Nicholls and the sublime Margaret Atwood) but here in Brighton we made do with Brighton Library. And being Brighton is was... well, it was somewhat
different. We had performance poetry about dog poo, we had pirates, we had a 90 year old woman reading her first book that she'd had published last week into a non-working microphone and a blind woman was emoting in Children's Corner to a group of spellbound kids. There was also Shedman (don't ask, I haven't got a clue.) Oh yes, and there were the Library Whisperers - a group of thin young men in dodgy looking raincoats who accosted you to 'whisper' about their favourite books, but they were all a bit too nervous and congregated in the Green Room eating kit-kats. Our brave author, Andrew Kay read aloud from his favourite book (
My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell) straining to make himself heard over the unprecedented noise and chaos of the library. And jolly well…
Love it loathe it. Personally, I love it. Thinly spread over warm toast with butter. What's not to like? Umami to the nth degree. And I was given some marmite chocolate to try a few months ago. Sounds horrible. T'was delish. But I was breakfasting with six Germans, one Dutchman, a Norwegian and a lady from Kenya last weekend and I saw their reactions. Good grief. International relations had never looked so rocky. Moues of distaste rocketed around the table. They had to be distracted by a 7 mile muddy walk and a country pub, where thank goodness, Harvey's ale redeemed the taste buds.
Books can be the same, I know.
Lord of the Rings? Well, I'm with CS Lewes.
'Not another f****** elf?" he was reported to have uttered as Tolkien read aloud another chapter to the prestigious Inkies. I struggled through it when I was about fourteen I think, only because it was
the book at school and it was too dreary to have to pretend that I had read it when I hadn't. Oh dear. Hobbits Schmobbits. Who cares? Yes, I know it was all about Nazi's and…
Well, yes. And what red blooded female doesn't? Fancy 'em. That's what. When Gordon stripped his chef's whites off down the corridor on
The F Word to that music, I always gave a little grin, and a frisson of pleasure rippled over me. Swearing? check. Rude comments? Check. Battered charm? Check. Then there was the Christmas special. Oh dear. We saw him in his kitchen being all dadsy with the kids. No. Really. Leave that to Jamie.
But of course the Grand Fromage of the lot was surely Anthony Bourdain. When I first read
Kitchen Confidential I was cooking on gas. High octane. No protective oven gloves, so to speak. Phew. It was that good. Reckless and fast and furious. What a bad boy made good, and through food. I mean, what's not to like? Nothing. Not in my case anyway as I've (along with countless others) have a soft spot for the rogue, and a rogue, let's remind ourselves, who COOKS. Wow.
So it was with huge delight that I turned to
Medium Raw his follow up
. Hmm. Well. I persuaded myself to read it again, carefully this time,…
I freely admit I am an obsessive reader. You know, the sort that reads the label on a marmalade jar over breakfast, the sort that has to scan the back of other peoples newspapers on a bus. Oh yes, and I simply cannot sleep till I have read for at least half an hour and I never leave the house without a book in my bag - and can I say - jolly useful that has been, too - delayed trains, gruesome waits in the dental surgery or just a boring journey. So you can but imagine the weight of my bags when I go on holiday.
Last year I went to Argentina (lovely place - hideous plane journey) and I was going for three weeks. I had a separate suitcase just for the books. Then I had a bit of a panic attack and spread them over the two bags in case one got lost en route. Then I had another panic attack in case three books weren't enough for the flight (how right I was.) So.... I can quite see the use of a Kindle. Have I got one? No. And I don't really know why....A friend of mine (Damian Barr)…
There's something very appealing about making something from nothing. Well, not nothing of course, but very little. I expect one chicken to make at least three meals for two. Roast chicken, chicken and leek pie enlivened with some chestnuts perhaps and maybe a risotto. Then soup. Or at the very least some gorgeously golden home made stock. Or you might want to go the Asian route - chicken with ginger and garlic, or a five spice and pomegranate chicken salad with some fresh mint, the possibilities are pretty endless. Though a keen cook I have remarkably few cookery books in my kitchen. I don't know why really - well I do, I suppose. Sheer laziness on my part. I never have all the ingredients for a recipe , I never measure anything, and frankly, I can't be bothered. But what I do like doing is taking the suggestion of something and making it my own. A book that has been described as 'The Bible' and 'The best friend you can have in the kitchen' (Nigel Slater) is
Leiths Meat Bible by Max Clark & Susan Spaull. It's published by Bloomsbury and is…
Sometimes it's better to just give up on a book. Though it pains me to do so. I can usually finish anything right to the end (skipping if I have to) But not this one. Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. It's not him, it's me, I'm sure. He's been described as 'one of the world's greatest living novelists' By the Guardian, no less. He's written oodles and noodles of books, and has legions of fans, so it really doesn't matter, but, oh crikey... Doomed love, suicide, an expensive clinic set in the mountains of Japan and endless music. What can I say? Just not my cup of tea. And...and I missed the details. It's painted with a broad stroke and if you are not Japanese, surely half the pleasure in a foreign book is in the detail. I want to know what the trains are like, what the noodles are, what the mountains are like, but that's all glossed over.... though the concentration of a certain butterfly hair slide that re-occurs with monotonous regularity made me want to scream. 'Foreign' means foreign to ME. So I want to be swept up in the very foreignness of it, if you see what…
Well, it was a panic buy. It was a few days before Christmas and I was determined to buy some NEW books. Not re-issues of the favourites (which is what I normally end up doing) and it was freezing cold. Bone achingly cold. The sort of cold that you only go out in if you have to (lack of chocolate or the dog looking so pleadingly at you that you give in. Of course, then there is the joy in knowing that you have deserved the spiced rum tea that you are going to have when you return.) Anyway, so there I was, muffled up to my neck in many layers of very unflattering winter wear in front of the Waterstones 3 for 2 table. Cold hands and cold feet were troubling me, as well as the fact that I didn't see any books that I really REALLY wanted, but then, 3 for 2 is pretty irresistible, isn't it? Though I do draw the line at practically anything set in Australia or that has soldiers in it. Yes, I know... but I can't help it. I was enviously thinking of last year when I was in Argentina for…
Well, of course I had to buy a new edition. Amazon one click is about to bankrupt me. It's a fact. I will end up begging for gin and gruel, in Newgate. Wearing a thin shawl and playing cards amongst the likes of Forever Amber and Angelique. You see? I have succumbed to the age old fantasy that we all are prone to around this time of year, when we all get a bit Christmassy of going all 17th Century. Or Victorian. I have no idea why. I blame it on Dickens I suppose. Snow and roast goose, Tiny Tim and cobbled streets, horse drawn carriages and bonnets. It seems impossible to enjoy the present without looking wistfully back to different times.My Christmas book is
All This and Heaven Too by Rachel Field. It's a cracker. (sorry) But it is. A dense book certainly, but what else are you going to do in front of a roaring fire, dark early evenings and roasted chestnuts? Well, OK, huddled under a throw with the central heating on full whack?It's a true story, as well. Which always gets a nod of approval from me.In 1841 Henriette Desportes…
There is a good six inches of snow covering Brighton right now. It won't last, of course, but it has turned us all into Narnia lovers merrily tobogganing (naked in some cases, check out Matt Whistler's Merry Christmas on YouTube) or grumpy old people muttering about how Germany, Switzerland and Canada doesn't grind to a halt for a few inches of the white stuff. Me? I veer wildly between the two camps. But it did make me grab from the shelves
Mrs Mike by Benedict and Nancy Freedman. I can't work out when it was first published, but at least 50 years ago, I would think, and looking on Amazon I see that it has been re-printed and it can be bought at the bargain price of £4.50. There is also a dim memory I have of a black and white film. My copy tells me that it was 10s 6d net. Bless.
I fell in love with 'Mike' when I first read it, I guess I was about 12. Gosh. What a man. Tall, blue eyes, handsome and no messing about. He was a Mountie. This was before Monty Python when…
Dear Jamie,
Let me start by saying that I am predisposed in your favour. I adore what you tried to for school meals, the Turkey Twizzler episode had me writhing with horror, and I appreciate that you really don't have to waste your time with causes that you don't believe in and that get you a lot of stick. I love that you inspire so many people to cook in an adventurous manner and that you appeal to a massive cross section of the Great British Public. I.m not going to mock your accent, lifestyle or that fact that you are a permanent fixture on TV. Oh no, not me guv. But......I bought Jamie's 30 Minute Meals for my flatmate (yes, of COURSE I have a hidden agenda - I would like a decent meal cooked for me) and, well, oh dear.... first the good points, great layout, easy to follow, clear instructions all on one page so that one isn't turning pages with olive oil coated fingers, and I admire the handsome foil blocking on the cover (working as I do in a publishers I know how expensive that is) but then…
Well, what I wanted to write about was
All This and Heaven Too. But when I went to pull it down from the shelves, it wasn't there. This of course gives the illusion that I have well ordered shelves, possibly alphabetised. but I don't. Far from it. I have loose sections - like, Travel, Food and Famous Old Dyke's, or Witty Queens in the 30's or Comfort re-reads or People I Know Who Have Written A Book and Might Come Round So It Has To Stay On The Shelf.... Anyway, I felt murderous rage when I couldn't find said book as it has a simply wonderful paragraph on roasting apples in a bonfire on the All Hallows Eve in the country home in France and I thought it would be topical.... but it's not to be.
But I did come across what was the Family Bible in my childhood kitchen.
Sheila Hutchins Daily Express Cook Book. Wonderful. Really wonderful and fun. With the sweetest illustrations. The pages are falling out, everything is stained, and I cannot find a publishing date, but it must…
It's a horrid word. Glut. With overtures of glutton. And all that's associated with 'letting oneself go'. That second helping of risotto, the extra slice of cake, the 'dividend' at the bottom of the cocktail shaker. But - I have had such a glut of good books that I am at loss which to write about. I have been re-reading the inestimable Ms Bedford, as well as Ms Keane - oh, and I am starting for the first time Stendhal. Oh dear. I am glutted out. So is the vegetable world. Tomatoes, courgettes, apples, quinces - they are making me itch to start bottling and pickling and chutneying and - oh you get the picture. It's the perfect time of the year to stand in the kitchen stirring something over the Aga, apple peel on the flagstones, low autumn sun streaming through the sparkling clean windows whilst something jazzy is heard through the open door leading to the music room. Ha, is all I can say. In my kitchen it's mismatched saucepans that really have seen better days but are kept on through sentimental reasons, scarred and burnt wooden spoons, a puppy begging for attention at my…
"He'll never marry her""How can you be so sure?"
"She pronounces the 't' in "often""So speak some of the characters in
The Two Mrs Grenvilles by Dominick Dunne about Ann Arden (real name Urse Mertens of Kansas) before she stared her heady climb into the uber-rich socialite world of old money in New York in the '40's. A tale of love, murder, social climbing and class peopled by semi-fictional characters and the real celebrities of the time.But, like Downton Park, it's plot is somewhat incidental - the real hook of the book is manners - or lack of them. Manners are a strange and terrible thing, aren't they? We inherit so much from our parents and then have to re-learn them when we fall in with the peers that we feel at home with. As a child I could swap quite happily from home where I had to say "what?" if I hadn't heard something to the mealy mouthed "pardon?" at primary school. The same with "loo" and the pronunciation of "Hoorah" It was just something - along with other incomprehensible things that didn't confuse me as a child. I put it…
Well, it was 75p in 1978. I found it lurking on my bedroom shelves, which was quite a miracle in itself as it meant that it had survived numerous moves, re-decorations and book culls. Perhaps a certain sentimentality? (It was certainly the first really RUDE book that I read) Or a premonition? Who knows.All I do know is that I met Molly Parkin about 16 years ago when I was producing a long running afternoon TV show (Watercolour Challenge if you must know) and we had her on as the critic when we were filming in Wales. She terrified the director and swept across the Welsh hills in her home made turbans and cloaks. I remember her being larger than life and good fun, but distracted and a little distant, Then she faded from the public eye.... that is till last week.She has a new book out - her autobiography -
Welcome to Mollywood, and I had the pleasure of re-connecting with her at The Shoreditch Literary Salon.It was a filthy night out in London (quite suitable for our Molly) - howling wind and torrential rain, and we thought that not many people would…
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