Bookwitch

Have you ever stopped and considered the books displayed in the Ikea bookcases in the shop? I sometimes find I start browsing the shelves, instead of admiring the rooms.

We went looking for some garden furniture the other evening, and as I just had to sample a sofa on the way, as an extra, the Resident IT Consultant started musing over where the books come from. I’ve always assumed they are remaindered books, that didn’t find a caring home even in the Swedish annual book sale. For one, there are always several copies of most books. This time I could have had a Julian Barnes in translation, without anyone noticing, as there were so many. Should perhaps invest in a garment with poacher’s pockets.

What do you think Ikea staff would say if I explained that I really, really wanted one of the books?

Some years ago the unkind corner of the witch’s heart smiled when she found books by someone she was at university with. If he had been slightly less sure of himself and been willing to talk to people other than the “in” people, except for that time when he was lost in Gothenburg and needed help, I might have felt sorry for him when seeing his books displayed in great numbers at Ikea. At least he made it internationally…

Needless to say two of the four chairs we bought were faulty.

The Derek Landy interview is now available, as some eagle-eyed readers have already discovered. I like sneaking things in to see if people notice at all. Lack of confidence, probably. This one is slightly different, with a straight Q &A part, which I don’t normally have, but which seems to work well. Many thanks to my wonderful helpers, Phoebe and Charlie. You can come and interview with me anytime. In fact, this ties in well with the mention of Hannah Pool the other day. It was Hannah who thought it was a very good idea to go round accompanied by children, when I was afraid it’d look more like a lack of babysitters. And then the dratted children grow up. But borrowing works just fine. Rather like the urge to borrow a young person to be able to use the Family Railcard discount.

I wanted to pick up The Truth About Forever again, as soon as I finished reading it. Not sure what I could do with it, but couldn’t let go. I’d spent a couple of days reading Sarah Dessen’s latest book from Puffin, resenting anything of real life that got in the way; family meals, washing machine and other stupid things. Maybe just read it again, or another book just like it. Something.

It was the same with last year’s Just Listen, so it must be a Sarah Dessen thing. Maybe I was a deprived teenager, and I’m getting what I always craved, at long last.

The Truth About Forever is about having a dead parent and needing to strive for perfection. Sarah seems to go for good girls and somewhat “bad” boys. The mothers are a bit wrong, but only so they can see the light, and always for a reason.

There are some very likeable minor characters in this book, and the way Sarah knits together meatballs and junk art and Armageddon is really quite fun.

Nice, too, to see summer holidays feature rather than the standard US High School scene yet again. Though I wouldn’t mind knowing roughly where, geographically, to visualise Sarah’s stories. This one, not too far from Atlanta, I’d guess. It might not matter, but I like to know these things.

Some of Sarah’s books were published in Britain before, by another publisher, but with not very attractive covers. I love what Puffin is doing, and the two covers so far are so sixties, flower power and up to date, that I can’t get over it. Last year I suspected that with a cover like that, the story wasn’t going to be up to much.

How wrong can a witch be?

Read Sarah Dessen!

Another month. Another visitor to my kitchen wall. During May it will be Hannah Pool, although I’m rather worried about having a beauty editor around. Hannah’s nice. Maybe it will be all right. At least the food she sees will be meat free. I’ve been thinking of Hannah recently, as she gave me all that advice on writing interviews. Now would be a good time to say that I didn’t need it in the first place, but you can see how I’ve used the advice really well. Or something to that effect.

Sometimes I suspect I fall so in love with an illustrator’s style, that I’ll like anything they do. But with Jeanne Willis you get a number of different illustrators, so I don’t know why I keep falling in love.

What I was saying about having picture books read to you, applies to this one as well, because Jeanne read this herself. What could be better?

The Bog Baby is her most recent book, and with adorable pictures by Gwen Millward. Bog Babies are round and blue and jelly-like, and they are SO lovable. This story is about loving and learning to let go.

I want a Bog Baby!

No, that’s not an author, it’s a book title. Meg Rosoff has a new picture book out, and this is not it. Trouble is, not even Meg has a copy of the new one yet, so I’ll go for the old one.

When I bought Meet Wild Boars a couple of years ago, I wasn’t sure what to make of it, until Daughter read it to me. Then it made sense. Well, you know, not sense, but it was as it should be. It’s easy to forget when the children get so old that they don’t have books read to them, that sometimes that is exactly the point of some books. And picture books more than others.

So thanks to Daughter I learnt that Wild Boars has to be read out. But not necessarily to a young child. Boris, Morris, Horace and Doris are pretty awful. They’re boars, and I’m guessing invented by or for Meg’s daughter. They have their uses, those girls.

The illustrations by Sophie Blackall are not pretty, but intentionally so. The information on the book jacket about Meg and Sophie, is at least as good as the book. And I found one review saying the book was so awful they threw it away. Don’t believe it.

Last night Daughter, feeling a bit depressed, started reading Wild Boars to me again. She had forgotten that Meg had signed the book to her, so coming across that very friendly greeting, cheered her up considerably. So to jump to the purpose of having books signed; that could be one. Making the signee happy.

in the Guardian today. So if you’re feeling you could be Shakespeare, go in and comment. For the modest, a comment as yourself will do nicely, too.

The tale of last Monday’s meeting with Cathy Forde can be found here. Cathy is lovely, and it’s good to meet someone new, to me, that I can like instantly. Don’t know why this matters, but it’s nice. I’ve combined this interview with a brief review of Cathy’s latest book, Sugarcoated. I started reading her Fat Boy Swim while waiting for Cathy to turn up, but she was so early that I got almost no way at all… Looks promising, is all I can say.

It seems we are to get age guidance on children’s books. The question is whether this is helpful or not.

Some quotes from yesterday’s Guardian Review; “which seven-year-old?” and “it’s not the age that’s important, but who the child is”. True. But if the book says age 7+ and you are buying for an exceedingly clever seven-year-old, you might decide to go for a 10+ instead. And some people are so out of touch with children’s reading, as well as with the child they are buying for, that any guide will be a help. Kind of the book equivalent of remembering that a two-month-old will neither resent the fact that her older brother gets chocolate for Christmas, nor that she won’t be able to make much use of the chocolate buttons offered as being more baby-ish.

Last week’s meeting with Derek Landy I was accompanied by a borrowed nine-year-old. Giggly, spontaneous and friendly, and so very mature. I wish they were all like that…

Some years ago I picked up a very tatty copy of Nina Bawden’s The Witch’s Daughter (how apt!) in the school fair. It was the original Puffin from the sixties, and the reading age was given as 8+. I thought it sounded a bit young, for me, but decided to push on with reading it anyway. Not only is it a good book, but it’s not that easy a read either. I came to the conclusion that an eight-year-old forty years ago was supposed to be more advanced in their reading.

Dumbing down. So, consider who gives the advice, and how many decades ago. Then adjust to what your needs are.

Jacqueline Wilson has done death before, so I don’t suppose I should say that she seems to have caught the latest death book bug. The cover is very nice, all purple and to my taste. The story even has a witch or two in it, seeing as it covers Halloween. Should have been an autumn book, really.

Daughter loved My Sister Jodie, and was most affronted when I said I didn’t, to be quite honest. Maybe it was something about that boarding school, which didn’t feel right. And I’ve never been a fan of Jacqueline’s mothers, but this one really annoyed me.

Loved Harley and the badgers. Even quite liked the bad gardener. Contrary, is what I am.