Tsunami boy

Blast that Michael Morpurgo! First he has me reading Running Wild, sort of enjoying it, but grumbling to myself that the voice is all wrong. Then I decided that it was OK, because the message was important and that’s what mattered the most. And in typical Morpurgo style he had me crying for the last 27 pages, at the end of which the man comes up with an explanation as to why the voice was all wrong. Double blast.

OK, so I should have paid more attention when Michael was talking about this book in Edinburgh. I know he wanted to write a ‘tsunami novel’, but had to wait until it wasn’t so fresh and until he’d worked out how to do it. He kills off nine-year-old Will’s parents, first one, then the other. And Will gallops off away from the tsunami on the most marvellous elephant, Oona.

I want an elephant now.

It’s Robinson Crusoe meets I Am David. Will and Oona walks the jungle, meets the most fascinating and adorable orangutans. It being a Morpurgo novel, and one with a message, bad things happen. This is enough to make me throw all my belongings away and live a better life. Michael stuffs both the tsunami, the threat to our jungles, greedy horrible people, the uncertain future for orangutans, the war in Iraq, and green living into one relatively short book.

I’ll just go mop my eyes.

(The voice I was moaning about sounded too old. Will can only be fifteen now, and can’t tell a story as though he’s looking back from fifty years hence.)

Not bad, MM.

Nation and London

It was my second tsunami of the week. (Although you have to wait until tomorrow for the first one. Wrong order, I know, but it can’t be helped.) It’s funny how things just happen like that. With madness running in the witch family, Son dug himself out of his Uppsala bed pretty early (3.15 GMT, as he kept pointing out) and flew over to London for Random’s preview evening of Nation at the National Theatre last night. (For carbon footprint purposes this didn’t actually happen…)

Lovely evening. Free drinks and nice company, and the play was very good, too. But if you want to know more, you’ll have to head over to Culture for your theatre review. It’s a wonder how anyone can produce a stage drama featuring a believable tsunami from a novel never intended as anything other than a book.

Exhausted from wandering all over London in the afternoon, Son and I headed for north London and the house of Sally Gardner, for beds for the night. I’m still absolutely amazed that someone would offer accommodation on such very short acquaintance, but I always knew children’s authors are the loveliest bunch of people. Arriving at the unsociable hour of the middle of the night, Sally served us tea – which she turns three times in the pot like her grandmother – and digestive biscuits, both of which were real life savers.

Two dachshunds and friendly conversation in the kitchen of a house that needs to appear in a house magazine, was a nice way to finish our day. It’s that arty north London kind of thing, which impresses peasants from the north of England.

This morning I packed Son off to his plane, and hung around for a while, but when the mouse catcher arrived I took my leave. ☺Pure coincidence.

(Photo © Johan Persson – Jason Thorpe as Milton the parrot, Emily Taaffe as Daphne and Gary Carr as Mau)

Moving Pictures

It wasn’t all bad that I ended up buying a book the other week. Terry Pratchett’s Moving Pictures was fun, although halfway through the book the Resident IT Consultant discovered he’d already read it. Ah, well.

I hadn’t, and that’s what counts. It’s funny, but Discworld’s Holy Wood reminds me quite a bit of somewhere. Similar name, too. It’ll come back to me, no doubt.

Victor and Ginger act their way through countless romantic adventure clicks, and Holy Wood grows almost overnight. Clicks are big business.

I adore talking dogs, especially intelligent ones like Gaspode. Even the more brain challenged Laddie is quite charming, and very brave. Troll romance, truanting wizards and a swinging librarian all play their parts. But I didn’t quite understand the dormant ‘thing’ to end all those dreams. Is it a Pratchett invention, or does it, too, have a counterpart in those California hills?

Banged grains. Hah.

Under the bridge

Have I ever stopped and looked properly at the books for sale under Waterloo Bridge? Don’t answer that. You can’t know. Even I don’t, and I’m in a better position, having come along on most of the occasions that I’ve walked under the aforementioned bridge.

But I did this week, so now I have. Couldn’t tell if there was a system to what goes where. Signs saying poetry and sci-fi/fantasy in neon green poked up in places. What that meant for the remaining books I don’t know.

I saw a battered DaVinci Code, and simply had to check what they expected to be paid to have it taken off their hands. £3. That includes interesting remnants of tea or coffee, plus bath water, or some such thing. And it was dog eared, which always looks better on a dog than on a paperback for sale. Then I found another, almost pristine, DaVinci Code, which was £3.50, so it’s 50p for the difference between dry and dipped in liquids. Quite a few more copies waiting to be adopted, but who’d want to pay that much? I thought even Oxfam was trying to hand them out for free on the pavement…

Does anyone know who it is that sells the books under the bridge? Is it a big business, or a few plucky stall holders? It’s a good tourist trap, but not necessarily good value.

At least now we all know I have stopped and looked. Please remember in case I need to ask again.

New-ish Puffins

Thank goodness Helen Grant had hair! Nice hair, too, in a French plait. The other three didn’t. At all. I’m not being alopecia-ist, I hope. It’s fashionable to be bald.

Anyway, the witch made it to the Strand offices of Puffin on Monday, to meet New Talent. They had a line-up of four, comprising Jason Bradbury, Alex Scarrow, David Yelland and Helen Grant with the hair. The Resident IT Consultant wondered why I was going, but relaxed when he heard I would be meeting the author of The Vanishing of Katharina Linden. ‘That’s a very good book’ he said. (Just imagine – the man remembered it!)

Don’t know Jason Bradbury, though I gather he’s on television. I can believe that. He bounced through his presentation for the new book Atomic Swarm, out early next year. It’s a sequel in his Dot Robot series. He went on about hover boards and tele presence, in a fairly bubbly and crazy sort of way. (Does television make people like this, or do people like this make it to television?) But I don’t want him to operate on me, in any form. Nice cap and Converses, though, not to mention the white spectacle frames.

Alex Scarrow time travels. He also plays with computer games and things. He had played and made an impressive trailer for his first children’s book, TimeRiders. (It’s all beyond me, but what do I know?) He recruits people on the verge of dying, so it’s ‘come and work for us or die’ kind of thing. Alex believes in the ‘what if?’ idea, but I must say that a king called Henry the Ape is too much ‘if’ for me. He’s written for adults, apparently, but it seems that writing a children’s book was more fun. At least I think that’s what he said.

David Yelland seemed to be into revealing new things about himself, and was talking about the three A’s; adoption, alopecia and alcoholism. His first book, The Truth About Leo, is vaguely based on his own life in various ways. It’s supposed to be a very moving read, but I was last to the book table and didn’t quite make it. (One might turn up in the post?) But I do wish he hadn’t told us how the book ends! There’s information, and then there’s information.

Not last and not least, Helen Grant. Helen has a new book out next spring, too, called The Glass Demon. It’s set in Germany, like her first novel. (And, she told me afterwards, the third book too, which she is writing now.) Helen greeted us in German, and was kind enough not to translate what she’d just said. Maybe she thought we were intelligent. She told us more about the town of Bad Münstereifel, and it really does sound idyllic. Apart from the murders, maybe. The first book is just coming out in German translation, so she’s keen to hear what her German friends will say. Perhaps. Someone called Helen the “Stieg Larsson of teen fiction’. Let’s hope so, for her bank balance, at least.

After a few canapés, the witch Cinderella-ed off to her train home. But I did get to speak to Helen.

and then I’ll have a book festival

Not content with imagining a bookshop, I need to dream a little about my imaginary book festival. As Amanda Craig said on her blog recently, everyone seems to think they should run a festival of sorts these days. And they don’t always do it well.

That’s the part I don’t get. If you ask people round for dinner, most hosts don’t go out of their way to ignore the guests. So what’s different running a festival? It’s surely just one big dinner party or children’s party or whatever?

I’m too lazy to go ahead with anything like a book festival, but the idea really appeals. Shows how lacking in originality I am; having the same dream as countless other well-meaning idiots. I’d also find it too stressful, but I would want to offer any visiting authors all the comforts of home to keep them happy (and me popular).

Or maybe I just expand a little on my literary Tupperware party? Come and talk about yourself and your books in my living room over some nibbles and wine, with some book sales at the end. Some of the time I even have a spare bed to offer.

Foreigners – who wants them?

A little over ten years ago I was called for an interview at what I understand is often called Heroin House locally. To be honest, I forget what the government department is called these days, but it’s where you get your benefits, if you’ve been good. The only benefits I’ve ever been after is child benefit, which I always felt fairly entitled to, having produced the two Offspring. What I didn’t have at the time was a National Insurance number, which was hardly my fault. After all, it’s handed out by the authorities, not grabbed by the recipients.

So, an interview was required, to ascertain that I was really me and that Offspring really existed. I was treated to a very condescending ‘chat’ by someone half my age, whose educational background I don’t want to speculate on, but I doubt she outranked me, so to speak. Even though I’m a mere foreigner.

It was quite clear that any foreigner is considered to be roughly on a level with monkeys. What’s more, they were fairly certain I’d want to flood this country with other foreign family members. It was the thought that my lovely, but ancient, aunts, who spoke no English, and who had wonderful flats and their own holiday homes, would be desperate to enter Britain and be a burden on the UK benefits system, that really upset me.

In some ways, it’s to their credit that they love their country so much, these benefits people, that they feel the whole world will want to come and live here, too. But that’s what my aunts would have said about their country, and why they were so worried about my safety and happiness when I left for Britain.

Anyway, the reason I’m moaning about this right now, is that I was sent an email from one of my regular publishers, about an illustrator who isn’t allowed back into Britain because his educational status is too modest. Nikhil Singh has lived in Hampstead for three years, but after briefly returning to South Africa, has to reapply for a visa, for which he needs to be university educated.

So he missed his own book launch for the comic book Salem Brownstone: All Along the Watchtowers. Without a degree Nikhil can’t have a visa, and he has had to take an English test, which seems a little superfluous for someone who has worked as a journalist here. He has also lost his London home, and has not seen his long term girlfriend for months.

I don’t know Nikhil’s work, but I can sympathise with his situation. There is a petition you can sign, which isn’t about Nikhil in particular, but about this whole idea that this country can’t let in just anyone.

I fully expect to be kicked out after this. Or maybe they can’t do that? I have a degree. Doesn’t make me a better person, though. In fact, they wanted me to sign a piece of paper that ‘guesstimated’ my date of birth, because without a proper British birth certificate you can’t be too sure.

Michelle Magorian in Manchester

Well, that could make me cry. Almost, anyway. Happy tears, you understand.

As the witch started negotiations with the Manchester Literature Festival people about an interview slot with Michelle Magorian, it felt like a good idea to say that Michelle might remember me from last year’s launch of Just Henry. I was told she did, but people can be polite, you know.

So, when we met in the Imperial War Museum’s café for our chat on Sunday afternoon, the first thing Michelle does is rummage in her bag, saying she’s got something for me. Nice, but what? I’ll tell you what. Only a lovingly signed copy of Just Henry in Swedish, which is just out. We did talk of translations last year. We did. But it was in a room full of people at a busy launch, and I was a complete stranger. What a memory!

Anyway, once we had been supplied with cups of tea, we got going with the interview. Not that Michelle felt there was anything interesting that she could tell me. The Resident IT Consultant attended, armed with a camera, since Daughter had taken herself and her camera off for half term. As a matter of fact, he didn’t do too badly at his first interview.

Michelle’s son George wandered off to look at the museum, while our twenty minutes somehow ended up being 45 (sorry, Alistair!). So we obviously must have found something to talk about.

Afterwards it was time for Michelle’s event, as the crowning glory of this year’s Literature Festival. They closed the museum, and us fans settled down in the main exhibition hall. As an author talk it rates as one of the best. Well delivered, as you’d expect from an actress, and very well chosen selection of readings from several of her books, with anecdotes in-between.

Michelle provided an interesting thread between all her stories, and the readings benefitted from a variety of accents. Good questions from the audience, with interesting answers. And I love a woman who can admit to waiting with her career, because she wants to spend time with her sons, even when they are as old as Michelle’s two. But with some luck, we’ll have a new Magorian novel some time next year. Yay!

(Photos by A Giles and D Giles)

The Meg Rosoff interview

Some of you may have cottoned on to the fact that I’m quite fond of Meg Rosoff. I like her books, obviously, but I also like her as a person – a lot. Our acquaintance began with me writing Meg as level headed a fan letter as I could manage, just prior to her winning the Guardian prize five years ago. Then I believe I went on to tell her I’m a witch, and that I knew she’d win the Costa, too.

That’s why Meg knows not to trust my predictions one hundred percent, but as you will see in the interview, she does believe in witches. Thank goodness.

When we first met, I fully intended to buy her a coffee or something, but she insisted she was buying. Meg searched her jacket pockets to see how much money she had, as she’d come out without her handbag. ‘Let’s see what we can get for £6’, she said. Afterwards she drove Daughter and me to Euston, almost getting us involved in some road rage on the way. Let’s just say that it was a novel experience for us country bumpkins.

The reason I’ve delayed asking Meg for an interview has been that when you have an on-going, intermittent email discussion about anything you happen to think of, it’s actually quite hard to work out what to ask in a more structured meeting. So I kept putting it off, but when The Bride’s Farewell was published I felt now was a good moment. We turned out to be very incompatible for time, so in the end Meg seemed to decide she would be free when it suited me, which was very kind of her, as we were able to meet when I was in London anyway.

Very kind.

Meg’s books are dangerous. I looked through Bride while searching for questions, but found myself just sitting there reading it, again, with no thought of interview questions.

What we have in common, apart from age, is that we are both immigrants, so in the end I felt that was a good point to start our conversation. One thing I didn’t get round to, was seeing how our paths almost crossed as early as 1977-78, when we both ran around London having fun.

Oh, well.

And Another Thing

Seamless, said someone in the audience last week, when talking to Eoin Colfer about his new Hitchhiker novel. And she’s right. After a year of Eoin saying he wasn’t going to try and be Douglas Adams, he has got much closer than you’d imagine possible. And that’s good. Seamless means that we don’t really notice the change from one writer to another. I’ve read other sequels where the style is very different, and with good reason. You can’t be someone else.

I feel that Eoin could be some kind of honorary little brother of Douglas’s. Like most others, I found And Another Thing to be more Hitchhikery than I’d thought possible. It’s very enjoyable. Someone said he’d not laughed reading this one, unlike with the other five Hitchhiker books. I agree to some extent, but wonder if that’s because we are not only older now, but the concept is less new and we have come to expect certain things, so don’t laugh out loud. But I could be wrong.

It’s good that Eoin didn’t seek to write this book. I think you do a better job when a little reluctant. So I was surprised at the Guardian reviewer’s comment that Douglas’s family allowed Eoin to write this sequel. They asked him to! There is a big difference.

To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t totally remember how we left Arthur and Co in book five. It’s been a while. But it was easy to get back into the flow, and it’s good that Eoin came up with his own plot, rather than use the notes Douglas left. I daresay we wouldn’t have had an Irish character without an Irish author, so Hillman Hunter is a fun invention.

The use of Norse Gods is also good. Would quite like people to settle on the spelling of Leif, however. I like it correct, and I don’t want both spellings competing with each other. And is it just my background, or is there some deeper meaning in Thor’s appearance and the fact that Arthur has some dislike for Thursdays?

Random Dent is quite lovely, really, particularly given the weird adults she’s surrounded by. Zaphod is better with the one head, but still stupid. Nice to see Trillian finding love. And I suspected Fenchurch would turn up, somehow.

Eoin hasn’t written a definitive ending, just really carried the story on a little. He’s left it so that we can stop here, or his idea of other relay authors taking over would be a feasible project. I would like to see poor Arthur sorted. He’s really a most unfortunate man. At least he’s getting used to his bad luck.

And there is something almost loveable about Vogons.