With my interest in crime I can’t help thinking of alibis, and how things change. New technology both helps, and makes things harder. I’m fairly well behaved (legally, at least) and shouldn’t really worry about proving my whereabouts to anyone.
But ever since discovering that Meg Rosoff is based in Carlisle on the Guardian books blog, I’ve had an unhealthy interest in checking where people are. Especially if I know that they are elsewhere. I found to my surprise that I was in Sweden on Friday. You’d think I would have noticed.
Carlisle must be a good place for authors, as that’s where Michael Rosen comments from on the Guardian blog, as well. Then I thought it had something to do with names. Meg and Michael have similarities in their names. But then I noticed that Meg managed to post from London and thought she was sorted, until she bounced back to Carlisle.
The Resident IT Consultant has officially posted from London, when he is at work in the North West. Could look like absenteeism. This week I was in Stirling, but posted from Edinburgh, which is close enough.
While in southern Sweden I have been registered as writing from Stockholm, so I thought they couldn’t fine tune it any closer than the capital of the relevant country. Until the other day when I found I was in Solna, which is pretty specific. It’s like saying Wandsworth instead of London, if you see what I mean.
I was on the train, as people say when they talk on their mobile phones. Just south of York. Not in Solna. Not in Sweden. I think I’ve read about someone else who’s also been picked up by a Swedish satellite. In my case it’s at least vaguely logical, but I do worry about my alibi.
Daughter was fifteen yesterday. One of her presents was a television script, from the first episode of one of her favourite American series. I hadn’t intended for her to read it. That may sound stupid, but I looked at it more as a fun thing to have. But before falling asleep she came and informed me that she had finished the script.
I did think it could be useful from an analysis point of view, as it’s something that tends to cause her problems. Knowing the episode inside-out as she does, I knew she’d be able to see where the script’s intentions differ from what they actually filmed. I also felt it might give her a more realistic idea of what scripts have in them, besides the obvious dialogue. So, an educational toy, almost.
I’m getting too cynical. Daughter was far more pleased with the gift than I’d anticipated. Thank you ebay.
Found this link on Tim Bowler’s website and thought it’d be worth sharing. For those of you who don’t get to meet Tim on a school visit, here’s the next best thing. This is what he’s like.
The young reviewers groups at Simply Books have some serious talent. I’ve been surprised by how mature some of them sound in discussions. I was never like that at their age.
In the last few weeks I’ve seen proof of how good they are. One boy brought in the story of his prize from Puffin. I’m not quite sure what the competition was, but Charlie’s review of one of his favourite books won him and a friend a survival weekend, along with other Puffin winners. You know how you sometimes cringe when precocious children write things down? Well, Charlie’s tale was nothing like that, and I’m so impressed both by his winning and the way he described it.
And if that’s not enough, Joe brought in a letter from the Guardian saying he was one of their winners for his review of one of the longlisted books for the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize. Some of those get published in the Guardian and I’ve long been green with envy over how good they are. Joe’s prize was attending the awards ceremony in London, a book token and the longlisted books for his school.
I’d like to think the reviewers’ club has had this effect on the children attending. And I do hope some of the talent will rub off on me. And the luck.
Did I mention how much I like Fred and George Weasley? I think I might have. Well, the other week as the witch, in one of her other incarnations, stuffed envelopes for the Hallé, she became aware that they were coming this way. James and Oliver Phelps, that is.
So blaming it squarely on Daughter’s very impending birthday, we took a friend each and went to see them. It was a family concert, and there were a disconcerting number of fairies and Harry Potters. And a Scooby Doo.
It was very Potterish, with Harry’s music to start with, and Fred and George narrating Peter and the Wolf at the end. They were good.
We argued on the way home over who’s the most good looking of them.