Walker Books and a witch with wet hands

As usual it was a case of waving your hands (or in this case, my hands) under the drier for absolutely forever, wipe them on your clothes, or go wet, hoping there’d be no hands to shake. You can guess which I chose, and what happened next, can’t you?

I was at the presentation of Walker Books’ and Constable & Robinson’s Autumn Highlights in Manchester on Wednesday evening, when I came face to face with Jo for the first time, and had to quickly get out of the handshaking she had in mind. This flustered me so much I forgot to mention my name. (But everyone knows me, right?) Besides, I’d already got the decrepit old woman treatment. Staff at the venue saw me negotiating the steps outside (which had NO handrail) and quickly bundled me into the lift before I caused more trouble.

Super-Jake was there, but I forgot to check his footwear. Representatives of our local LitFest and bookshops and that most Wondrous of blogs could also be seen. I was quite restrained prior to the talk, as I noticed there were partybags in one corner, which meant I did no stealing or anything beforehand.

Constable & Robinson went first, and I’d not realised that books on prescription, which I have heard of, is for non-fiction self-help type books, rather than patients being made to feel better after a dose of Pride and Prejudice…

They are big on halogen oven books. (Don’t ask.) They are the leaders in cosy crime. You can have books on WWII pets for Christmas. Obviously. C & R have begun offering children’s books, and they had an instructive video on how to fight zombies. (Head removal is recommended.) Gross. Shaun Ryder on UFOs. (It would have helped if I knew who Shaun Ryder is.) Joan Collins is nearly 80, in case you wanted to know. They have a book titled Going on a Bar Hunt. Droll.

This being very much a presentation for booksellers, I now know a lot more about which books are commercial, something I rarely consider in my narrow little world. There will be joke books for Christmas. And they have just begun a relationship with Brian McGilloway, who I am very interested in.

On to Walker Books, who are planning a picture book party. I think that means they have lots of picture books to offer. Vivian French has something new going; Stargirl Academy. Looks good. Pink. Anthony Browne is a Marmite author, which I can understand. That gorilla still scares me.

Cassandra Clare was there last year, before she grew so big that she doesn’t do this kind of talk. She has a film on the way. Nice for her.

Walker have travel guides, and there is new stuff for fans of GHMILY (Guess How Much I Love You books). Mumsnet have done a story collection. In fact, I reckon there is one thing parents want more than anything else. They want their children to fall asleep. Lots of books for that purpose.

Manatees and bears. A book about someone pecking (I’m thinking – hoping – woodpecker) all the way through.  Going on a Bear Hunt is out again. Michael Morpurgo will be 70, and four of his books are being re-issued, including one about funny old men who are famous artists.

Speaking of funny, Tommy Donbavand has a new series called Fangs. Walker are really really really really thrilled to be working with Anthony McGowan and his new book Hello Darkness. Patrick Ness wasn’t there except on video, where he did his best to sound interesting while not giving too much away about his new novel More Than This. His Chaos trilogy, meanwhile, is being revamped for old people.

My notes say ‘spider skeleton.’ I think there’s a book about things like spider skeletons. Kate DiCamillo and her dog spoke to us all the way from their Minneapolis dining room. While the dog made dog noises, Kate told us about her mother’s obsession with her 1952 vacuum cleaner and what would happen to it after she died. Kate’s new book Flora and Ulysses also features squirrels.

Anthony Horowitz has finally come to the end of his Power of Five books, so has had time to write Russian Roulette, the Alex Rider prequel he has had in mind for absolutely ages. He is quite satisfied with it.

Lizzy Bennet (I apologise for sounding so informal) wrote a diary in her pre-Darcy days, which will give us an opportunity to find out all kinds of stuff.

Finally, Walker are publishing the Little Island imprint, which is foreign fiction. I spied a Swedish title in among the covers they showed us, and think it’s high time there are more books from other countries.

As you can see, they had a lot to tell us. They hadn’t rehearsed, so were surprised to find it took them so long. But at the end there were canapés and more drinks and even a few authors; Steve Tasane, Sarah Webb and Katy Moran. Someone else, too. At least I think there was.

I grabbed my partybag and hobbled away home. There was NO handrail on the way out either…

The Thunder Omen

After some slow days with me picking up the ‘wrong kind of book’ I was relieved to settle down with Caroline Lawrence’s The Thunder Omen. It’s her third Threptus mystery, and as such is short and a quick read, and it would be easy to think that such books aren’t for the adult reader, or for review, even when it’s one of Caroline’s.

I really must forget all such thoughts, because it was not only precisely what I needed, but an exciting mystery and a history lesson, served up with humour. Who knew ‘a leaky shack full of damp chickens’ could lead to romance and culture and sheer fun?

It’s Christmas – or Saturnalia, as they called it – and Threptus is trying to enjoy it as much as he can, despite the cold and wet and the lack of money.

They need a new roof, and Floridius is selling stolen clay figurines holding clay croissants. (They are ‘really’ thunderbolts, but Threptus sees food everywhere.) And unfortunately Bato’s engagement to Lucilia is still not in order.

Floridius and Threptus set out to sort things out, but despite fake thunder and dyed chickens, they fail at first. WWLD (what would Lupus do?) helps Threptus work out solutions to their problems, and when that’s not enough he can think for himself.

We get to visit a Roman theatre, and once she has stopped being scared of thunder, Lucilia has some fun.

It’s all very educational and very romantic. I’ve said it before, but those chickens are marvellous. And so are these little books, with so much goodness in them.

(What I wouldn’t give for an almond croissant right now!)

If she sees one coming

Grandmothers! We were enjoying tea and Christmas cake (except for me. I had Stollen, on account of sensitivity to all that brandy I had been pouring over the cake since October), and as so often happens, the conversation strayed to Maths and other intellectual topics.

When that last happened a few days earlier, Son moved closer to his mother in order to escape the numbers and funny words discussion, in exchange for something suitably light for the two of us.

But at this point the Resident IT Consultant entertained his mother – the Grandmother – by showing her the new Brewer’s. She browsed for some minutes before pointing out they’d got Fermat’s Last Theorem wrong. She read it out, with the Resident IT Consultant and Dodo all nice and alert, and Son and me turning our eyes heavenwards.

As it happens, she was right. It is wrong.

We moved on to secondhand bibles, as you do. The Grandmother works in an Oxfam bookshop, and they get lots of Bibles in, and they sell like hotcakes. She displays all the various kinds of Bibles, and when she returns they have all sold and she has to start over again.

What a ‘shame.’

Something they also have lots of but which doesn’t sell the way of the Bible, is The Da Vinci Code. It might once have been an Oxfam bestseller, but if she sees one coming, she throws it out.

That’s the spirit!

After Fermat, they moved on to Faraday’s complete letters. Someone found a letter where it was mentioned that Mrs Giles would have been very happy to see him. Faraday, that is. The Grandmother was surprised to find the volume she was holding only covered a few years of Faraday’s life (there are six in total), and marvelled at quite how many letters got written back in the olden days.

I’m thinking the stamps didn’t cost 50 pence in the 19th century.

A Christmas apocalypse

Following in the footsteps of last week’s failed apocalypse, I can tell you how much I enjoyed Barry Hutchison’s little Christmas prequel to The 13th Horseman. He was asking fans to sign up for his newsletter, by offering a very special Christmas story – to arrive for Christmas – to those who did.

I did. But did I receive the story? No. Well, yes. I did. But I had to cry a little, and nudge, rather indiscreetly. I am very sorry for being so awkward. I do it well, but even so…

My tears have dried now, and I have read my apocalypse, which is humorous and fun. Perhaps not so much for the camel. But other than that it was amusing. It makes up for the wait for the sequel. Although that is not an encouragement to dawdle over The Book of Doom.

Bad Dad?

Christmas in jail. Is this an OK subject for a picture book? I think it is, even though we skirt fairly quickly past what Dad did to end up in jail. (He stole something.)

In Liz Weir’s book When Dad Was Away, with illustrations by Karin Littlewood, Milly finds out about her Dad’s fate in the worst way; from the other children at school. But her Mum explains what it means and the family have to get used to their new life. They eventually visit Dad in prison, showing the reader how visitors are searched.

Dad records stories on a CD for his children to listen to, so apart from the stealing he is clearly A Good Dad. And they get to go to a Christmas party in the prison. This should reassure children who have members of their family in jail. I only hope the description is an accurate one.

In Are the Dinosaurs Dead, Dad? Julie Middleton writes about a very different Dad. This one takes his son Dave to a dinosaur museum. He assures Dave that all dinosaurs are dead.

But are they? Well, what do you think? This is a picture book, and its dinosaurs are nowhere near as dead as we’d like them to be. Russell Ayto’s pictures could just about be interpreted as being all in Dave’s mind. That the dinosaurs really are extinct.

Except with the last one. Dad and Dave are dangerously close to becoming more dead themselves.

They RUN.

Happy holidays

OK, people. I am resting. Not in the snow (we don’t have any) and not on this bench (it belongs to the neighbours). But I might have.

What I’m trying to say is, I have nothing interesting to say. I have holidayed (not counting the kitchen duties, the recycling or the laundry) and I watched Borgen with Daughter, in order to facilitate the start of season two next week. (What do you mean you didn’t know?) (She didn’t watch back when, but is busy remedying this dreadful state of affairs.)

So that took time. I read. Not much, but I will get through my book before too long. We just need to give up on all this Christmas food. The Resident IT Consultant and the Grandmother are doing jigsaws, and I am letting them.

Basically, I have been uncharacteristically laidback. Yesterday I only remembered I needed to make dinner when it was almost time to eat it. I’d overlooked the fact that it doesn’t jump into the oven and from there on to the table by itself. (I was about to say I wish it did, but that would actually be quite scary. If you can imagine.)

Did a good deed in amongst all this lazing about. The neighbours’ daughter needs to bake a ski lift this week and their electric whisk broke, so I lent them mine. Pardon, the one belonging to the Resident IT Consultant. I married him, as well as his whisk. It’s an antique.

My Penguin

Yes, ours is a very small fireplace.

But I do admit this is a pretty large ‘book.’ Even Daughter – who got it for me for Christmas – said it was a lot bigger than she had expected. The hazards of online shopping…

Don’t know where I’ll put it, but it looks great and it’s a fine game. We played it on Christmas Eve, and enjoyed trying to show off how much we know about books. (It’s a Penguin-look book version of Trivial Pursuits.) Obviously I lost. Not as much as Son did, but I do wonder how come the Resident IT Consultant always gets the easiest questions. S’not fair!

After the game Daughter spent some happy time sticking fake little book covers on the fake little books. They now look adorable. The idea of winning books and putting them in your little bookcases didn’t work so well, however. Unless full, the books fall out. But you can work round that. And we hardly noticed the Petrograd/Leningrad confusion. Really.

Rounding it off

I feel it’s safe to say no one at Bookwitch Towers will be offended to hear I wouldn’t have objected to one of these ‘in my stocking/under the tree.’

If they could have given me one, I’m sure they would have. And one day when we are richer and roomier than now, maybe…

(Mind you, I would have less of the plants and the ornaments and more the real business. Obviously.)

A true story for Christmas

You must ‘click through’ and read this! Even on re-reading the true story by Eva Ibbotson (from the Guardian) I found that my eyes developed some inexplicable dampness.

It’s about libraries, war, refugees and more. Eva Ibbotson is no longer with us, and our libraries seem destined to go the same way. Wouldn’t it be lovely if stories like this one could stop library closures, while also opening our hearts more to those who have had to leave their homes, through no fault of their own?

Here is to knowledge and reading and friendship and languages, in and out of libraries!

Gingerbread baby

He looks good enough to eat, don’t you think? He’s not for sale, despite the fact that I found the picture in a mail order catalogue. It’s only the clothes you can buy. If they’d been around twenty years ago I would have bought them like a shot. Although I was quite impressed with the red pyjamas with white trim that was readily available at the time.

We’ve had a few gingerbread boys (never girls, I think) at church the last few years, and it’s a nice soft start to taking part in the traditional festivities for the youngest.

Or so I thought. You just can’t be politically correct enough these days. In the old mother country schools have been known to ban the gingerbread men. And they have banned the accompanying song.

For complete consistency they have banned the biscuits, too.

(Someone might be offended. Never mind the children who are upset because of this.)