Didsbury Arts Festival

At this rate I’ll start my own festival soon. How does The Bookwitch Festival strike you?

Just joking. I think. You never know with me. Didsbury has its own festival, and it began on Saturday morning. For the witch family it was the Adèle Geras event that got us out of bed. It’s good that the festival organisers recognise the people living in or near Didsbury, and who better to do a book event for children than our Adèle?

It was a children’s writing workshop at RazmaReads, the newish children’s bookshop at one end of ‘downtown’ Didsbury. We were partly tempted by the idea of having some nice elevenses, while hanging out with interesting people. Ended up sharing our little table with a charming toddler who arrived in the most fantastic pushchair I’ve ever seen, and who proceeded not to eat her lovely pink fairy cake. But it looked good, and if truth be told; Daughter had one too.

Adèle actually began by buying some books. Then, as child after child arrived she learnt their names and told them a little about herself, and read short passages from Lizzie’s Wish and Candle in the Dark telling her audience about Lizzie’s walnut tree and Clara’s little Dutch doll. The task she wanted the children to do was to consider what they’d pick if they suddenly had to leave their homes and only could take a few things. And why. (No laptops allowed.)

As the children got going with their thinking and writing, Adèle went round to talk to them individually, giving help and advice in a suitably grown up way. Meanwhile witch and Daughter squeezed up in the minute sofa in the shop window, next to the display of Adèle’s books and half a dozen typewriters.

Lots of people in the shop, with parents sitting on the floor while their children learnt to write novels. Younger non-participants browsed confidently among the books, and I’d say some of them were old hands at this book-shopping, young though they were. There is a rather wonderful pirates’ ship in the middle of the floor, flying the Jolly Roger, and RazmaReads makes a good meeting place. I’d go all the time if I lived closer, and had a suitably aged child. Maybe I could borrow one?

Some more photos for you…

if you haven’t already had enough. In fact, here are more photos even if you have.

And that’s it. So called ‘normal’ service will resume here really soon.

‘This boy will never amount to anything’

Well, he did. Last week he received the Medal of Freedom from President Obama, accompanied by his daughter whose ‘charm is no substitute for hard work.’ I’ll get back to this father-daughter team later.

I will never ever get teenagers. Ever. Given the choice between seeing Jacqueline Wilson or Steve Cole on Sunday morning, Daughter went for Steve’s talk about his Astrosaurs. She enjoyed it a lot, although she felt she was the oldest child there. Wrong thinking I said; she was the youngest adult. Steve was so noisy I heard him through the walls. The press people apparently wondered what was going on next door to their yoghurt pod.

Meanwhile, the witch went to see Jacqueline, along with a vast number of girls and mums, and a sprinkling of dads. Jacqueline wore black jeans and a black and turquoise top, and the famous rings shone along with the bangles on her arms. She talked mainly about her teens, because the subject for the day was My Secret Diary which was out in the spring. And she did say that she might write a third autobiographical book about her time in Dundee, writing fake horoscopes and readers’ letters, as long as she can censor her diary notes a little. Sounds good to me.

As I raced along to the talk by the ‘lazy’ girl from paragraph one, Daughter was anything but lazy. Her task was to shoot Per Wästberg, part of the Meeting Sweden programme (How did they know I was going to be there this year?), when he emerged for his photo call. Except he didn’t, so when she saw a likely Swede she inquired, in Swedish, if he was Per. The poor man said he wasn’t, but took her all the way into the authors’ yurt ( a real no-no) and put her in front of this famous Swedish writer, who was even more confused with the idea of the Bookwitch blog, but posed anyway.

When the witch goes back to school, she wants to have Lucy Hawking for her science teacher. I can’t think of anyone who can talk so well and so sensibly on physics and space and anything else related. Lucy kept the attention of her roomful of children, while explaining dad Stephen’s ideas, which they have turned into two books for children. George’s Cosmic Treasure Hunt is new this year, and there will eventually be a third book about George. Lucy and Stephen are, of course, the people mentioned above. I think they turned out OK in the end.

We got to see how (not) to gargle in space. Asparagus will be a suitable crop on Mars, when the time comes. Comet’s go ‘very fast’. Robots don’t get homesick in space. The questions from the children were really very good, but not many people can say what went before the Big Bang or why it happened. Not even Lucy. And look out for the toothbrush in orbit round earth, if you happen to be up there. I asked Lucy if she wants to travel in space, and she does. Preferably to the moon. I was too shy to ask for the phone number for her co-writer for book one.

Lunch was gulped down fast, in order to catch Henning Mankell’s little publicised signing in the childrens’ bookshop. In fact, there was hardly a soul there, but I don’t think that was why he was pleased to see me. (Anyone would be pleased to see me, wouldn’t they?) He looked so morose that I addressed him in his own language, though his English is very good. The ‘mini interview’ went something like this:

‘Hello, we’ve met a few times in Gothenburg.’ ‘ Yes, I remember you.’ ‘Uh-oh, that sounds ominous’, said Daughter. ‘What do you mean?’ asked Henning. ‘Only that you may remember me for all the wrong reasons. I could be one of those bl***y old women you get everywhere.’ ‘I don’t think so. I’d have remembered. But there are a few of them around.’ ‘Yes, and I’m often one of them.’ He looked remarkably happy after this exchange. But you would, wouldn’t you, when ‘one of those’ leaves him in peace.

Next victim for a photo shoot was Klas Östergren, except he didn’t show, initially. Just as we were leaving for our next rendez vous he turned up in the rain, and as we departed he had someone’s lens half an inch from his nose. The man’s quite good looking, but that’s ridiculous.

The two witches had been invited to afternoon tea at the Roxburghe Hotel by the very, very kind Theresa Breslin, so the road was crossed, and the comfortable lounge was found. Daughter has clearly been deprived, and was very excited by the posh surroundings. Thank you Theresa, it was wonderful. The perfect respite to a busy day. And I’m not averse to similar offers, if anyone is feeling generous. Not all at once, though.

Back across the road to see Adèle Geras, and photograph her. We enticed her round the back, where all the big names get shot. As she left again, Theresa turned up, so we all trotted back to the ’studio’, whereupon the paparazzi fell out of their little pod and descended on Theresa big time.

Resting in the yurt, Klas Östergren appeared, looking for a place to be interviewed, so we offered our seats. He was also quite grateful to be encountering Swedes in a Mongolian tent in the middle of Edinburgh. He’s been brought up properly, so we shook hands.

In case nobody has noticed, my social calendar for Day 5 was quite full, really. We met up with Clare from Random (a really Randomy weekend), and apart from the fact I thought she’d have blond hair, it was as good to meet her as I’d thought. Clare brought out Bali Rai for a short chat. And more photos round the back. Predictably the paparazzi emerged again, just needing reassurance that Bali was indeed a real writer and a little famous. Even my copy of his book, City of Ghosts, was photographed. Don’t think Bali knew what hit him.

We breathed for a few minutes before trotting off to the talk by Adèle Geras and Jonathan Stroud. Really liked the way the two of them had planned it, with short introductions, followed by a reading, and ending with them asking each other questions, before letting the audience loose. Good way of doing it.

Our final port of call for the day was back in the same tent again, for the much awaited discussion with Rachel Ward, Melvin Burgess and Anne Fine. Daughter said she didn’t want to miss the Anne-Melvin encounter for anything. I wanted to see if they’d both survive it, and I think Melvin had wondered the same thing. There were one or two references made to the blasting Anne did of Melvin’s Doing It some years ago.

They were all alive and well when we left for the day. And the discussion was good.

(Photos by H Giles)

Mr Treemountain and other stuff

We travelled to Bali Rai-country on Sunday, to retrieve Daughter from outer space. On the drive to Leicester, which it is better known as, we listened to the second outing of Quote Unquote starring Adèle Geras, which the Resident IT Consultant had thoughtfully recorded and saved and remembered.

I had hoped that the lovely round library we went past last year, would be Oadby Library, which Bali praised back in June. It’s not. It’s Southfield Library, but it’s still very nice looking. We were late for our rocket launch, but so were the rockets. Spectacularly so, in fact. And luckily the ‘Cape Kennedy’ aspect of the sports field rocket launch pad broke down after about ten rockets, or we’d still be there now.

We returned to witch territory via another route, which took us past the prison where Stephen Booth did his research for one of his Fry and Cooper novels. I always like to feel literary when out, and seeing the bus shelter where the newly released prisoners catch the bus from, is pretty literary.

As we sped past the Dovedale walking centre we once stayed in, we debated when exactly it was we were there. The conclusion was between Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, which takes us to spring 2000. That was when three of us mothers, having returned from a really wet walk with the small children’s group, relaxed in front of the fire with cups of tea, agreeing that we all loved – and fancied – Lupin. The bonding you can do over the most unexpected things…

Date decided on, the Resident IT Consultant had had enough of conversation, so switched the radio on, which I tend to hate. We accidentally hit on ‘Allan Ahlberg at 70′, which had just started, so we got to listen to most of this repeat. And it was good. I’m not all that into the Ahlbergs, Swedish name notwithstanding, but found it both fun and informative.

But let me tell you this, Allan. Your name does not mean Treemountain in English. You are Mr Aldermountain. Although your own idea of calling yourself Roald Blyton is not a bad one. Almost rhymes with Aldermountain.

Book Fairs and Festivals

Programmes have been perused at length. Why do they have to be quite so long? Could be because book events have a lot to offer, which is good.

I’ve had the printed programme for the Gothenburg Book Fair for a few weeks, and it’s made me see spots. Probably due to the cover being very spotty, in black and white, and I hope they’ll do something less dizzying next time. Might mean that the book bags and the water bottles available at the Fair will be spotty, too. Won’t find out, as I most likely won’t be going. If money grew on trees I would. The programme lists many of the usual suspects, like the archbishop and Mark Levengood and Henning Mankell. Plus lots of Spanish writers, as the emphasis is on Spain this year. ¡Hola!

Bath is also on in September, and usually clashes with Gothenburg in my diary. Bath is special, being children’s books only, so it’s right up my street. Except it’s a bit further away than that. The annoying thing with events spread over two weekends with a week in the middle, is that there is usually something particularly good on at each end of the thing, and you either go for too long, or have to go twice. Or, horror of horrors, you may have to choose.

Most of my recent muddling has been around the Edinburgh programme, which I’ve tried to decipher online, which is very green of me. Or maybe not, as I burn electricity every minute on the computer. It’s a lovely, long programme, covering three weekends with two weeks in the middle. ‘Luckily’ Daughter’s needs mean that the beginning and end of my available period is decided for me. So I have a shortlist of people I want to see. Except by now most events are sold out, so I have to hope that they will want to consider this outstanding (!) blog as press-worthy. Don’t know yet. But do feel free to tell them that you need to hear what went on in Edinburgh from me.

Witch goes to County Hall

‘What kept you?’ said Daughter when we found each other at Preston’s very grand County Hall on Saturday morning. Well, it was Tabitha Suzuma, who sort of got mislaid for ten or fifteen minutes as we were setting off. I was busy composing a story about a lost author, when Tabitha appeared, and all was well. So, nothing to do with me. I had simply enjoyed breakfast with Adèle Geras and ‘the shortlist’. (Now, that could be the name of a rock group!) I could really get used to chatting to interesting people at breakfast. I missed the Weetabix, but one day without won’t be harmful.

We mingled. And Tabitha’s Mum had a go at Adèle with a hairbrush. It was with the best intentions, but the fluff wouldn’t go away. No harm done, as I felt everyone looked stunning, with or without fluff. Post-mingling, we filed into the Council Chamber, which is much more impressive than Chester Crown Court, and the seats were so comfortable. I’ll be a councillor in my next life. I sat on the Labour side and Daughter accidentally turned into a Conservative…

The important people were sitting in front, facing us, and they were eight children from the judging panel.  The award winner Sophie McKenzie and facilitator Adèle and three grown men sat alongside them. Lots of beautiful speeches, especially from the young people, and before long the awaited hanky moment arrived. One charming young man said how Sophie McKenzie was a ‘worthy winner, even if Sarah Wray’s The Trap is better’. How can you beat our future adults telling it as it is?

The judges have discovered reading, or they have discovered new ways of looking at books and reading, and they all seem to have changed – for the better, I hope – while on the job. Boys have discovered it’s possible to read books with pink covers and survive. Girls similarly found they could read a book featuring an exploding plane, and still enjoy it. One young lady pointed out that as someone who loves books and has lots of opinions on things, this was the perfect task.

The schedule did extremely well until Sophie got up to talk about her writing. I suspect it was the live story telling about banana-eating gorillas that did for the time table, but it was fun. There were flowers for Adèle, a large check – in more ways than one – for Sophie, and masses of books for the judges. As an extra bonus local author Joseph Delaney had been called in to hand out even more books. His own, I believe. But at least there was no need for the intricate red and green light system the county councillors have to adhere to. No speech longer than five minutes!

More mingling followed, and then there was the usual book signing and some good photo opportunities. Craig Simpson is still thinking about what he’d like to look like, so we’ll have to get back to that subject. I stuck my nose into the bags the authors had been given. 

After so much fun the lovely Lancastrians could have been forgiven for turfing us all out, but instead there followed the most delicious lunch in the County Mess. It looked fine to me; no mess at all. Lancashire specialities like Bhajias, spring rolls and Pavlovas all tasted great. Words fail me when it comes to the Lancashire Lancashire cheese. I usually love it. This time it was way beyond my wildest dreams. I’ll be back. If you’ll have me.

I can’t go without mentioning Alison and Jean and Jake. Thank you! (I do realise there are more people who should be listed, but I just don’t know everyone’s names. You know who you are, I hope.)

(Photos H Giles)

Lancashire reads

You’ve all heard the joke about the traveller who jumps into a taxi and demands to be taken to his hotel, and is refused. The hotel turns out to be just across the road. I thought my taxi driver looked a little less keen than I’d have expected. It wasn’t quite across the road, but let’s say the meter didn’t have to tick for long. I’ll consult google maps next time I go somewhere, though Haggis-knee was quite happy to be driven.

First things first, so it was lunch in the company of shortlisted authors and library staff. Before much time had passed, we were given advance notice of one of the young readers, a boy who has taken part in the Lancashire Book Awards. He sounds just like my kind of person. The Lancashire awards people are very nice and friendly. There is literally room at the inn, even for bookwitches.

Not all the shortlisted authors could come, but here in Preston we’ve got Craig Simpson, who writes about things Norwegian; Sarah Wray, who sounds very Northern Irish – to me – for someone coming from England; this year’s winner, Sophie McKenzie; and Tabitha Suzuma, who’s brought her Mum.

They don’t skimp on the festivities up here, so Friday afternoon offered a Q&A session with a hundred and thirty readers from participating schools. The award is sponsored by the University of Central Lancashire, and that’s really good to see. Keep it up! I like a librarian with good taste in ties, and they have one here. (Btw, if anyone finds a dried cherry in the lecture hall; it’s mine, but I don’t need it back. I noticed food was banned, so nibbled on the quiet. Just happened to drop one.)

I have discovered an unexpected fondness for Johnny Depp among the authors gathered here. And I think that taking up writing books as an antidote to too much football at home, is a most sensible thing to do. As is considering a career as a reader. But I will have to disagree with Tabitha; I positively crave happy endings, and according to her Mum the book I have read is the happiest of the lot…

Friday evening it was time for a grand dinner. It’s a hard life, but someone has to go to events like these, and I’m glad it was me. How many authors can you fit into the back seat of a small pink car? Two, plus one mother, in this case. Plenty of hilarity over seat belts, with conversation along the lines of ‘I’ll do yours, if you do mine’ and much giggling. Almost a shame the drive was even shorter than my taxi ride.

I think I could just about get used to dining with a live string quartet in the background. Plenty of speeches, from adults (politicians, librarians, that kind of thing) and from children. The young speakers were all astoundingly accomplished, and a hanky wouldn’t have been entirely out of place. I was especially taken with Leesa from my table, who may have been very nervous, but who spoke un-scripted and exceedingly well. The mayor type chap with the fancy necklace seemed to be in agreement with the witch on this.

They are a little wrong about stuff like Lancashire being the centre of the Universe, however. Actually, no, maybe they are right. I’d love to come again, folks. (I know, I know. I was seriously under-dressed, but that can be remedied. I’ll get out the family heirlooms.)

A little disappointed that ‘facilitator’ Adèle Geras never got as far as singing, but that is a pleasure still to come, I hope.

Adèle on the radio

Adèle Geras is on the radio today! ‘Quote Unquote’ at 13.30 today on Radio 4. Should be good. Except that being out of the country, I will have to hope that someone records it. Or possibly that I end up catching the repeat on Saturday.

And speaking of the Geras family, I was pleased to come face to face with the Swedish translation of Sophie Hannah’s Little Face in the bookshop in Halmstad the other day. Prominently displayed near the entrance, with hardback book and audio book side by side. And a copy of the book in the shop window.

One of these days I will have the sense to carry a camera at all times. I’m so old and weird that I still use a mobile from the year 2000. It’s purple, and simple, but has no camera. You don’t think I ought to move on, do you? I have seen there are purple phones out there now. In fact, I was on the train recently, and three out of four people where I was sitting had purple mobiles. Very pleasing to the eye.

Books and buses

It’s not just buses that never come and then several turn up at once. Actually, I can’t say that there is a ever a shortage of books, but they, too, turn up all at once. Today, to be exact. Well, they supposedly show themselves in the bookshops today. Here at witch headquarters I’ve had the pleasure of rubbing shoulders with the 7th of May lot for some time. And quite frankly, the longer we have to get acquainted, the better.

The main reason I’m sitting here waffling about this now, is that I finally had an explanation to this bus phenomenon a few days ago, and I’m also trying to space myself. Or you. Saturday’s Guardian Review had looked into this mystery, and it seems to be based on bribes to the book trade. If you are to be a 3 for 2 deal, you want to use the whole month. If you always publish on a Thursday, then you publish on a Thursday. The first one of the month. Today, in other words. And if the 3 for 2 is to work even better, then you want reviews out as well.

I’ve done well for May, so far. Lots of books that I’ve liked, and I’m not desperately behind with my May reading. Have even written many of the things that pass for reviews in these parts. But unlike literary supplements and book review pages, I only post one thing a day. And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not have ‘reviews’ shoulder to shoulder for a whole week. I need some bread, some cheese, and some pickle, to make a palatable mix. So today is waffle day, which is all wrong, as I should celebrate all the new books by telling you about one of them. But which one? Let’s just say there will be one tomorrow. And the week has already seen Dido and Philippa Fisher.

But anyway, what I was getting at, is that to achieve a good layering, I need to be prepared. Some May 7th babies have spent months here. Some turned up last week. I don’t like a book more because it arrives early, but the latecomers will have to squeeze in with the June books, and their early July or even September mates.

So, how important is it to the rest of the world that reviews come early? (Comments from the publishing world would be most welcome. Use a pseudonym if you want.)

Dido

A long Shakespearean night is the new offering from Adèle Geras in Dido. All right, it may be 24 hours in Carthage, but it’s a short 24 hours. Aeneas has just left Queen Dido’s palace and there is upheaval everywhere, with people rushing around trying to make their Queen feel better.

The main character isn’t Dido, but her servant Elissa, a young girl who’s also in love with Aeneas, just like Dido herself. In the short space of a day and a night the reader finds out what has happened through the flashbacks as remembered by all the major characters, from Dido’s sister Anna to the kitchen helper Cubby.

The gods are all over the place, showing themselves to people as they see fit, and generally meddling in their affairs.

Even if you don’t know the story of Dido and Aeneas, you can sense that nothing good will come of this, and the main plot can be found in Wikipedia or anywhere else.

Adèle does better love stories than most and this was very romantic, even when you know they are all doomed. I suppose Aeneas was a dirty ‘old’ man, really, but quite dashing with it. The setting is lovely, and I’d love a Carthage holiday, some time. Unless Cato had his way, and it’s no longer worth seeing?

It’s good that Adèle has had a proper education, because that way she can educate me and entertain me at the same time. I would have read Dido straightaway when it arrived, had it not been stolen by the Resident IT Consultant. And I thought he didn’t like soppy things like love stories.