Tag Archives: Library

I knew it had to be somewhere

Talk of antiquated! (I did. On Tuesday.)

As I was saying, I knew it would be somewhere. I searched at home, high and low. And then, without searching at all, I happened to glance sideways at Mother-of-witch’s bookshelf (re-arranged many times by me), and there it was! I can’t understand why I haven’t had it with me.

The Retired Children’s Librarian was a dutiful and hard-working librarian in her day. She wrote the odd guide-book on what to read. This is one of them, Böcker för barn och ungdomar som inte tycker om att läsa. As will be obvious to most of you, that’s Books for children and teens who don’t like reading.

There are many such people, although possibly not very often found in libraries. But compile this long list of suitable books she did. And this being before I knew any published writers, I was quite proud to know her. The book is signed. It says ‘greetings from the author.’ (Med hälsningar från författaren, is what I mean.)

At the time I tended to agree with what she suggested. I had read quite a few already, and was interested to see what else she reckoned would be good. Published in 1977, I was too old to be her target audience, and I will blame my ignorance of K M Peyton on that, because I see she included Flambards and something else.

I note – now – that she was fair, since she has included books I happen to know she wasn’t terribly keen on. That’s as it should be.

I’ll need to read through this more carefully, but I’d bet that most of the books will still be worthwhile, with only a few becoming obsolete with the passing of time. Swedish libraries use a cataloging system different from many others, and it’s interesting to see that they have included all the reference numbers, presumably to ease the search when the un-keen reader goes to the library to find it.

Because that’s where you were supposed to go, back in the days when libraries simply were there for you.

In the bag

‘I’d be lynched if I went shopping with that bag’ said the Resident IT Consultant about the ‘English Apples’ shopping bag.

I suppose he’s – almost – right. Lynching seems a wee bit OTT, but maybe a more discreetly logoed bag would be better for Scottish shopping, even when the shop is Lidl, and thereby German. In actual fact, the bag of apples he brought back recently said Tafel Äpfel, which isn’t so terribly Scottish either.

So the English apple bag is skulking in the wardrobe for the time being.

Stockport Libraries Book Bag

Perhaps that’s why the Resident IT Consultant brought me this gift after his trip back to the old neighbourhood – which involved carefully studying what the new owners had put in the skip outside the former Bookwitch Towers. (The bath, since you asked.) He’d taken his last (?) books back to the library, and been persuaded to buy a bag from them in return.

The Garden of Eden bag became storage for finished-with books, before I off-loaded them onto the unsuspecting current owner of the future Bookwitch Towers. People who have three children of the right ages need to proceed with great care. I may even swap some picture books for the soon-to-be new patio outside the Grandmother’s flat. (It’s all happening here.)

Nicola Morgan, Blame My Brain

Bags. Yes. I’m using a variety of them for organising the admin in my temporary headquarters, and they are doing a good job. I have a black witch bag. Obviously. I also had cause to compliment Nicola Morgan on the sheer usefulness of her writer’s bag and her teen brain bag. I may never need a proper desk again.

Actually, I’m sure I will. But for temporary perfection this is pretty good, and no one is going to be lynched.

Fobbed off

We once had a mortgage. When we first needed one, that is, and we got it thanks to the Resident IT Consultant’s childhood reading habits. Sensible even at a young age, he put some – pocket? – money into a financial institution, and he chose the Woolwich, because it was closest to the library.

(Me, I was just grateful to be marrying someone who had a little bit of money saved up, unlike myself.)

You might recall the Resident IT Consultant getting a new library card last year, since when he has faithfully walked to the library most Saturdays to browse and bring back piles of books. Because we didn’t have enough already.

On one of his first walks post-move, he went back to his childhood library, which is still there, although the Woolwich obviously isn’t, and looked up our new neighbourhood in their records. He found that our house-to-be was originally (1930s) owned by someone living in the street I might have mentioned would be my top choice of place to reside, were it possible. It’s weird the things you can look up. Possibly even weirder that he’d think to do it.

Anyway, he came back with the necessary paperwork to rejoin his old library. They gave him a personal guided tour, which included viewing the coffee machine, not previously available. He says the library is smaller now, but when I questioned him about this, it turned out it only feels smaller. (I bet the library is thinking he looks much bigger than it remembers, too.)

They have clever library cards here, offering you a small appendix one – rather like Tesco – that can live with your keys and thus always (hah!) be with you, never preventing you from borrowing more books.

Library card

The Resident IT Consultant asked me if I intended to join too. I should. But can I afford the time to go and stare at rows of books I don’t need to borrow and won’t have time to read? But I suppose they’d be pleased to have a Bookwitch in their midst, although I can hear the library muttering to itself that they never imagined the witch would be quite so fat…

The Book Week in Fife

I have nothing against child labour. I have made Offspring do all sorts of things for me, but mostly they have to be the long arm of Bookwitch when I find myself geographically challenged. Like with this Book Week Scotland thing I mentioned earlier.

On Thursday night I made that arm reach Fife – while I was ensconced in Oldham – by telling, I mean asking, Daughter to pop along to her local library on her way home from the cinema. Small town, so they are almost next to each other.

St Andrews library had a Scottish Crime Evening with local sheep farmer James Oswald and the rather scarier Allan Guthrie, and Daughter only missed half of it. Not liking turning up late, she was more than relieved to find that James, who is very much a gentleman, had left a ticket at the door for her to make (her) life easier.

Apparently James had read the same piece he read in Stirling in September, so I didn’t miss much. (I mean, I know what he read, rather than it is no good.)

In the Q&A there was a writer of ebooks who wanted to share with James, who himself was a writer of ebooks before being discovered. (Doing what, I don’t know.)

The idea was that with my photographer in place, I’d get photos. Allan seems to have escaped by running for it. A train, supposedly, but you never know. But here is James next to a Swedish coloured poster for books. (And she only brought her mobile, so none of the paparazza shots. She went, which is what matters.)

James Oswald

Daughter’s opinion is that next time they organise a book event in town, they should tell every department in the university, because she is sure she knows people who would have been interested.

So there you are! Posters for uni noticeboards.

Book Week Scotland

With my usual impeccable timing I am leaving Scotland on the day Book Week Scotland starts. Well done, Witch.

‘Nationwide celebration of reading’ and ‘seven exciting days’ are phrases I find hard to ignore. I feel I’m missing out. And I obviously am. This seems to be for every nook and cranny of Scotland; no excuse if you live in some remote spot, like Orkney. You will get books. Authors, even.

Those crazy people who run Bloody Scotland are going to tour the nation (by which I – and they – mean Scotland) in a bus they don’t have and can’t afford petrol for. (Probably means they’ll drive. A car. Or go by train. Boat, to Orkney.)

There is little point in me listing authors. I think they’re all in it together.

Same with places. Stirling will have events. St Andrews will be getting the professional killers for St Andrews Day. Which probably means I will blackmail my photographer to pop along, even if she’s kicking and screaming.

In short, I’d like to be here next week. Or do I mean there?

Now could be a good time to move.

Bookwitch bites #116

I am really grateful to the kind people of Wexford, Ireland, for arranging somewhere I could park my broom the other night. (Not that I have actually been to Wexford, but its proximity to Eoin Colfer makes it seem like a very nice place. That, and the broom parking.)

Broom parking

So, I’m resting a little. No flying while it’s windy. Besides, you can’t trust people not to be setting off fireworks at the moment. And that is very dangerous for witches on brooms. For others, too, but I am mostly looking after me.

We can’t all be like that lovely man, Terry Pratchett, who is a wee bit more modest than he needs to be.

Terry Pratchett

And so was the poor woman in Ystad who was locked into the library. 91-year-old Dagmar sat comfortably reading something, as you do, when it was time to close and staff claim to have ‘looked’ but seem to have missed Dagmar, so set the alarm, locked up and went home for the weekend. (It was Friday the 13th.) When eventually Dagmar moved, she set off the alarm, and someone came to find her, and even let her out. And being 91 and polite, she apologised for having caused trouble…

But you already knew that Ystad is a dangerous town. Just ask Wallander. Bet he’s never been locked in a library, though.

Locked in, is something we connect with Al Capone, among other things. Gennifer Choldenko’s third Alcatraz book Al Capone Does My Homework, is already out in the US, but the rest of us have to wait a while. Sob.

Gennifer Choldenko, Al Capone Does My Homework

And I can just sense that you like being told about books you can’t buy yet, so I’ll show you the cover of Ruth Eastham’s to-be-published third novel, Arrowhead. Like Al Capone, it will come. One day.

Ruth Eastham, Arrowhead

As I go to pick up my broom, I will leave you in the capable hands of Meg Rosoff. Although, considering what she can do to a piece of paper with a pair of scissors, I’m not so sure about those hands. If I think about it.

Wheee!!!

And then it was time for lunch

First I need to get the pink pyjamas out of the way by mentioning them in passing, like this.

Right, that’s that done then.

For a very long time I didn’t meet Teri Terry. And then I see her twice in eight days. Which was very nice. On Tuesday she had some librarians to talk to at Waterstones Deansgate, and being a friendly sort of person she inquired as to how many willing and able lunch companions Manchester had to offer for a meal beforehand.

George Kirk, Jon Mayhew and Teri Terry

Seven, in the end, as some people were working, and some people remembered in the nick of time that they are parents and would actually need to pick up their children from school.

Marnie Riches, Jo Dearden, Nina Wadcock and Lorrie Porter

But the rest of us met up for lunch, with Jon Mayhew the lone male, surrounded by lovely women writers. And me. It was great food, and great fun. I’m so discreet, however, that apart from the pyjamas I will say no more.

Well, not much more, anyway. We talked ebooks at my end, and praised Harry Potter (yes, really), and there was some publishing gossip. And people brandished their copies of Teri’s and Jon’s books for signing. (We never forget we are fans first.) Marnie Riches who came despite being a parent-picker-upper left early. Which was a shame, but better than nothing.

Teri Terry

The day started with me boarding Teri’s Pendolino* in Stockport, so that I could gently guide her from Piccadilly towards Deansgate, and by happy circumstance interview her as well. I felt Waterstones café was a suitably bookish venue for this kind of thing. Teri bribed me with apple juice, so I will only say nice things about her. (I would have, even without juice.)

Marnie Riches

Marnie, eager to get in early to make up for parenthood, joined us there, and I saw the attraction in this and appointed her my photographer. The rumour must have spread, as Jon also turned up early, but by then the camera had been packed away. And in order to feed Marnie before she had to leave, we crossed the road to the Mexican restaurant someone had suggested.

Their cheesecake could have done with being half the size.

*That makes me feel like a cowboy who jumps from his horse to the stagecoach for a daring rescue.

Launching Shine

The custard creams made all the difference. They and the Coke. Halfway through the launch party for Candy Gourlay’s new book Shine, I was overcome by an urge to liberate ‘a few’ custard creams. They were looking lonely, sitting on a table at Archway Library. That sugar rush kept me going all night, more or less.

Archway Library

I arrived just in time for The Three Hundred Word Challenge. Candy read out as many entries as there was time for, and her collected authors pitched in with their thoughts. The advice was good. The fledgling stories were even better. It’s reassuring to find that young people still want to write, and that they know how.

Teri Terry, Candy Gourlay and Jane McLoughlin

While this was going on in front of an audience so numerous they ran out of chairs, people went about their business in the library, and there was a nice mix of festival special and ordinary library behaviour. (It was the first day of the first Archway With Words Festival.) The authors couldn’t always agree on their advice, which should go a long way to proving that there is no one correct way to write. (I thought they were going to come to blows. Which would have been exciting.)

Random's Clare, Simon Mason, Philippa Dickinson and Keren David

Once it was time for the launch proper, I had a job recognising people without the customary name badges. I managed some. I was discovered in my corner by Random’s Clare, who was almost on her own doorstep for this event.

There were speeches. MDs Philippa Dickinson and Simon Mason came. David Fickling, on the other hand, did not. Replacing him, Philippa and Bella Pearson spoke, but they couldn’t quite manage David’s voice, so Candy had to help out.

Candy Gourlay with Philippa Dickinson and Bella Pearson

In her own speech, Candy told us of the long hard slog to get there. What’s three years between friends? Bella went on maternity leave, and came back. Candy said nice things about her editor Simon, even after he told her that her first attempt was no repair job.

Candy’s daughter Mia and friends sang a cappella. Absolutely lovely.

Candy Gourlay at Archway Library

Dave Cousins

We mingled. There were more authors than you could shake a stick at. (Not that I’d want to, I hasten to add.) Fiona Dunbar and I met where we always seem to meet. I met several facebook friends for real. (They exist!) Teri Terry was surrounded by young fans. Dave Cousins came.I recognised Jane McLoughlin but took ages to work out who she was. Missed Joe Friedman. Ruth Eastham was over from Italy, which was very nice. She introduced me to Sarah Mussi, whose book I just ‘happened’ to be reading, so I hauled it out for an autograph. (Very scary. The book. Not so much Sarah.)

Sarah McIntyre

The other Sarah (McIntyre) also ended up signing stuff, although not for me. Keren David said hello, and then goodbye. I chatted to Inbali Iserles and Savita Kalhan. I spoke to people I have emailed with, and to people I haven’t. Sam Hepburn.

Steve Hartley

And then Mr Gourlay went round saying it was time to go home. So we did. To the Gourley home, where the eldest junior Gourlay was looking after food and drink. There was a lot of it.

The Gourlays

They have the loveliest of gardens! Admittedly it was dark, but it was all lit up and the evening was balmy, and there was somewhere to sit. Not the trampoline for me. Spoke to DFB basement man Simon, and the kind Tilda who once bought me a sandwich. At some point I had to admit to a fondness for the Circle Line. (Yeah, well.)

The wine flowed (the recycling men were most impressed with the bottle collection the next morning) and there was cheese beginning with the letter c, and for the carnivores pork sausages on the barbecue, very ably operated by Mr G.

It was dark. As I said. So I gave up on the camera and simply enjoyed, which is why there are no scandalous shots of anyone. I think the man who hugged me before he left long past midnight might have been Cliff McNish, despite him being underwhelmed by my drinking.

Recommended crime to beautiful blonde, who was impressed with my recent meeting with Colin Bateman… When it got too cold we repaired to the inner regions. In the end most people went home, and Candy was left with a mere five houseguests. Eldest son politely gave up his bed for an old witch, and was banished to his godmother’s ‘vomiting room.’

In the morning I got up long after the six o’clock taxi guest had departed, and people had dispersed to school and jobs and things. I met my brand newest facebook friend (less than 24 hours) in her pyjamas. And then Candy made us breakfast and we gossiped about the great and the famous.

But I had a noon train to catch, so shouldered my nightie and toothbrush and walked up the hill to the tube station hidden in mist. Once I got to Euston I encountered the Poet Laureate on the escalators, going the opposite way. Bought some treats for the Resident IT Consultant to celebrate our first 31 years, and hopped on my train.

Tired library visitor

(I know how that doll feels.)

The medalists

There is something special about the CILIP Carnegie and CILIP Kate Greenaway Medals isn’t there? Being awarded a medal sounds so very right and proper. I often imagine past winners as walking around wearing them.

From now on Levi Pinfold can impress with some metal on his chest, and I’m really pleased for him. I have not read his wonderful looking picture book Black Dog (and why not??), but I will rectify it as speedily as is physically possible. So, no meaningless waffle from me on what I don’t know, but Black Dog certainly looks like a Kate Greenaway Medalist sort of creature.

Levi Pinfold, Black Dog

And – DRUMROLL – Sally Gardner has won the Carnegie Medal for Maggot Moon! I’m particularly happy that she receives it for what I feel is her most outstanding novel, even for someone who specialises in outstanding books. Worth the wait, and all that.

Sally Gardner, Maggot Moon

These Medals are also such decent prizes, since they actually benefit others. I hope Levi and Sally both still have a local library to which they can give their £500 worth of books.
Sally Gardner
And, in a way I don’t want to harp on about Sally’s dyslexia again, but I hope her win today will persuade those in power that they need to change how they think and act in regard to ‘hopeless’ children. I know it’s what Sally will want to talk about in her speech.

‘Sadly’ both winners will have to enjoy today’s ceremony without my ‘help’ but I should have some photos for you later…

Programmes, programmes everywhere

They just keep coming. I am almost beyond even a quick browse. But I will persevere and do my utmost.

First came the Gothenburg Book Fair programme. The full one, in Swedish, which was rather a treat after years of having to get by on the abridged English language programme.

And I find I have changed. I used to look only for English language events, and then preferably children’s authors. There’s been less of them in recent years, and I’ve had so many festivals closer to home, to feed my obsession.

This time I noticed lots of talks on other, related, things. Children’s reading, libraries, stuff in general. Maybe I’m growing up? Anyway, I could see myself going again this year. There is the small matter of cost, not to mention my stamina (hopefully not my lack thereof) and the annoying fact that you have to decide all this well in advance.

But a programme with an event like ‘Dewey – could libraries in 138 countries be wrong?’ It’s tempting, isn’t it? I suspect the answer is ‘yes,’ they can be wrong. After all, 9 million Swedes can’t possibly not be right.

The next programme to pop up was Bloody Scotland. And luckily for this exhausted reader, it’s a short one. I was about to say it’s because it’s only on for three days, but Gothenburg is only four. It’s because it’s a fledgling festival, and anyway, size doesn’t matter.

I found lots of good events in it, and the funny thing is that Daughter, who was most definitely not going to mess up her fresher’s week by attending this year, called to tell me about what she can’t possibly miss. So I might not be as lonely as I had been counting on.

Although,  you can’t go wrong with the lovely Eoin Colfer. (What is so Scottish about him??) Or the very Scottish and lovely Linda Strachan. And then we have all the Swedes and other murderous ‘Nords’ who are also not terribly Scottish. Bloody, though. Lee Child. I don’t know what he counts as, but the ladies will swoon.

My mouth is watering, and I will have to be strict with myself to make sure I don’t attempt too much, again. They’re only two weeks apart, and I can tell already I will be ‘less keen’ when the time comes.

Restraint, witch. Restraint!