I don’t often say this, but it is Valentine’s Day after all.
Wasn’t altogether sure about reviewing [one of] Eva Ibbotson’s adult romantic novels, because what can you say? Do we know at the outset that the couple will end up happily ever after? Well, I’m not telling you.
This is another of Eva’s stories set in Austria, and Britain, before and during WWII, but written in the 1990s. She does it so well, knowing her Austria, and her London among the better educated. Except here we have Ellen who prefers to cook and grow a garden. Her mother and her aunts are horrified. When she could have a proper education!
The reader will be happy when Ellen sets off to work in a school in Austria, where she will work her magic on pupils and adults alike, and she does much cleaning and cooking. There is a man, of course. There are several, but one special one, even if they sometimes have to fight over who gets Ellen.
It’s a lovely period piece, if somewhat rosy. Except, the war does make itself known and it has effects, and I especially resented the death of Xxxx. And Ellen is terribly dutiful and will do what seems best, and isn’t necessarily what she herself wants, or the reader.
I love Moist von Lipwig, almost as much as I love Terry Pratchett. I also love Going Postal, which I have now read for the second time. I can just about see the third time coming up.
Not sure why I chose to read it the first time, but suspect I was wanting to read about something that would remind me of my own early professional times. I can still miss the days of the Post Office, and Moist’s exploits in Ankh-Morpork are quite close to my own experience. At least the way I remember it.
Moist is a crook, of course, but a kind one and someone who thinks on his feet. Lord Vetinari clearly knew what he was doing when making Moist Postmaster General. Post people are such fun. And there is stamp collecting.
The loveliness of postal matters apart, I was [again, maybe] struck by Terry’s way with words, making some new ones up whenever required. It’s the thinking of things. Stuff like using the doorway when you run out of wall. I could say that too, if I had only been able to think such thoughts.
There is a ‘romance’ of an unusual kind, which is so much better than too much soppiness. And one wishes all tyrants were more like Lord Vetinari.
The question now is whether I read another book featuring Moist, or reread this one.
I simply couldn’t resist the opportunity of saying ‘Fletcher Moss, I presume?’ so had to start off this year’s Bloody Scotland with Alex Gray’s New Crimes, where she talks to new crime writers. She receives so many proofs every year that her house is in danger of collapsing. This year Alex – who apparently is the daughter of a seventh daughter – talked to Fulton Ross, who might be some sort of elf, to Jo Callaghan who knows about AI, and to Alex Hay (I like the rhyming!) who’s into historical heists. And then there’s the ‘thuggish looking deputy headteacher’ who was previously Fletcher Moss, but now writes as Martin Griffin, his real name. I think, anyway. He recognised me and we shook hands and we laughed about his long ago lack of book signing capabilities. It went better this time.
Next I trotted over to the Albert Halls where I denied all interest in Alex Gray several times, on the grounds I’d just seen her. But once I looked at the programme, and also discovered I didn’t seem to have the tickets I needed for my next event, I realised their eagerness in wanting to offer up Alex was that she was the one chatting to James Oswald, with a bit of help from Jonathan Whitelaw.
Unfortunately someone was sitting on my chair when I entered, but I sent witchy thoughts and eventually he moved. Before Alex and James were let loose, it was time for the two minutes in the spotlight from a new writer, reading from their first crime novel. In this case Axl Malton with Cries of Joy. (Took me a while to get his name right…)
You don’t want to watch television with James. He sits there with his notebook, ‘writing is a compulsion, it’s a terrible thing.’ According to James, if you plot, then that’s already been written and no good for when he wants to write. He has a whiteboard in his study, and he forgets his characters’ names. He’s less keen on swearing, but doesn’t mind violent murders. He gets depressed by the news and doesn’t read true crime. If it weren’t for copy editors he’d keep repeating the same clichés over and over.
Alex believes the police – especially in Scotland, who are different – are fine people. All large organisations, including the police, have rogues. And having chatted to lifers in prison, they do not look for inspiration for crime in fiction; reading is purely entertainment.
At the signing after, I was pleased to see that Axl got to sit with James and Alex. And I was glad I caught James before the queues took over, so I could say hello before I was driven home for dinner and a rest, before returning to the Albert Halls for more.
Val McDermid and Abir Mukherjee chatted and joked for an hour, and we all had fun. In fact, it was such fun and the hour was perhaps a little longer than they ordinarily are. Luckily the very determined Ann Landmann was on door duty and let Abir know it was time to stop. Eventually he heeded her, giving everyone enough time to prepare for the next event. I occasionally struggle with hearing things, and had they not handed out the first two chapters of Val’s new book, I’d have come away under the impression the title is Past Lines. It’s not. It is Past Lying. (I have an appointment at the Hearing Clinic this week…) But, as always, great fun to listen to these two talk.
The evening ended with the only slightly delayed event of CrimeMaster, very ably run by C L Taylor and ‘Little’ Luca Veste. (Because Vaseem [Khan] wasn’t there.) The five contestants were Abir Mukherjee, Gytha Lodge, Mark Billingham, Mark Edwards and Susi Holliday. They all brought bribes; some better than others. Then we were treated to the sight of them competing on a sunny Stirling square (last year), proving it’s not really possible to write a – very – short story while running. As for the running in general and crawling through tunnels and jumping over obstacles; well that didn’t go well either.
But the worst came at the end. They had to spell the title of a book with the help of alphabet pasta in tomato sauce, without using their hands. It was disgusting but they all lowered their little faces into the troughs, I mean plates, of pasta. A couple cheated by using each others’ hands. Yeah, I know. It was fun. Even without Vaseem. At least for the audience. I think there was a winner. Possibly Mark Billingham.
This kind of thing is not terribly literary. But it has entertainment value.
Let’s hope Vaseem will be back next year.
The next day was ladies’ day. As chair Jenny Brown pointed out, there were more of us in the audience. On stage we had three ladies; her and Karin Smirnoff and Denise Mina. Both Karin and Denise have recently written books featuring detectives originally invented by men, Stieg Larsson and Raymond Chandler. Similar idea, but they came at it quite differently. Denise of the weird clothes (they are glorious!) likes research and has looked very carefully into LA and all that she needs to know. She also mentioned a Nordic coach trip ( sounds unlikely, I know) where people were told to get off to admire the views and engage in small talk. In Glasgow everyone talks to everyone.
Karin, on the other hand, did no research. She paid someone to do it for her. Although that might have backfired. Being a Swede and from the north of the country as well, she doesn’t like chatting. In her own quiet, non-assuming ways, Karin was actually quite funny. I’d been intending to introduce myself to her at the signing, but felt disinclined to disturb Karin’s Swedish silence, and left her to her queue of fans. After all, why would two Swedes chitchat such a long way from home?
The last day, Sunday, we went to the last panel of the weekend. The ballroom at the Golden Lion was packed to the rafters; a complete sellout. Barry Hutchison, aka J D Kirk, appeared with Marion Todd and Colin MacIntyre, chaired by Caro Ramsay. I’ve never seen quite so many seats in there, and was grateful for my chair in the far corner next to the marble column. I may have rested my head on it when things got a little too ‘Jo Nesbø-ish’ at times.
Marion was a fun new acquaintance for us, who seems to like murdering people in St Andrews. And Barry – aka J D – was pretty relaxed about his writing. He does no research, which is why he murders on home ground where he knows what’s what. He writes 4000 words doing 12,000 steps (he writes on a treadmill thingy). Or some such numbers.
It was clear quite a few people were there for him, issuing stern instructions on not killing any [more] dogs. After some parting words from Gordon Brown, we went to queue outside. The first man in line for Barry hauled six paperbacks out of his rucksack. That’s proper dedication, that is. The queue was long, so I had to wait for my hug, but I got it in the end.
So that was a pretty good Bloody weekend in Scotland, and with some luck Vaseem will be back next year…
At first I didn’t. Like him, that is. He turned up as a side character in J D Kirk’s DCI Logan books (of which I have only read four, so far…) and he confused me. I never like that. It was as if I should have known who he was, but it has struck me that I couldn’t very well have, as the Jack Logan books I was reading were the first ones. He went round being unpleasant and the other characters didn’t much care for him.
When I heard he was getting his own series of books I felt it was one way to get rid of the man.
Always – well, almost always – willing to learn something new though, I downloaded Northwind, the first Hoon thriller. I discovered I liked him. His take on shoplifting was a novel one. Always get a birthday card too. There is too much effing, but it’s what makes Hoon Hoon. He drinks too much. Also Hoon. But he can control his needs if he must. Mostly.
Former Detective Superintendent Robert Hoon is both a former police officer and a former soldier. He’s not much liked by his old colleagues. No longer officially with the police, he clearly can’t go round solving crime the traditional way, which leaves him with a favour for a friend, and he goes about it in his own inimitable style.
I don’t usually go straight on to the next book when coming to the end, but both J D Kirk and Bob Hoon are quite persuasive, and luckily I had already bought the second book*, Southpaw, meaning there was nothing stopping me from continuing reading. (*It was on offer.)
DCI Logan will have to be careful. I just might like Hoon better.
Do you need some magic in your life? I know I did. Frank Cottrell Boyce has written just the book for us. (After all, it must require some sleight of hand to persuade the Queen to request to jump out of a helicopter.)
I have to admit, I’m not big on magic. And by magic I mean the top hats and rabbit kind of magic, not Potter magic. But now I am sold. It’s not just anyone who can steal the Blackpool Tower and then write a whole book about it while not saying a word about how it was done. Magicians never tell.
In fact, there are an awful lot of things I can’t tell you about either, or the book will be ruined for you.
The thing about Frank’s books is that he puts very nice, and almost normal, children into them. It’s like it could be you, or me. Here we have cousins Middy and Nathan, and Nathan’s brother Brodie and his giant rabbit Queenie. Middy and Nathan are The Wonder Brothers and they are practising hard to learn perfect magic. When Perplexion – the greatest magician in the world – retires by magicking away the Blackpool Tower, Nathan rather rashly promises the world The Wonder Brothers will get it back.
Because that will be easy.
What follows is a soothingly hair-raising adventure, and you are left feeling that as long as you have a huge rabbit with you, all will be well.
And it is. I don’t suppose that’s giving away too much. Besides, I’m no magician.
It didn’t hurt that the book is purple. I sort of needed a purple book in my life just then.
It would have been helpful for me to consider the title of Frank Cottrell Boyce’s new[ish] book. Not that I need to know what a book is going to be about, but there is a clue.
Anyhow, Frank can put his characters on a deserted island any time he likes, as far as I’m concerned. I was merely wondering to myself what the six children he marooned were going to do on this island, while also avoiding eating each other. I also wondered how he could make it so ‘fantastical’ while also perfectly normal, insofar that marooning on islands go with a day trip with your school.
Noah is in year 7, and just happens to end up in the van taking his year 9 sister Eve and four others to the Orinoco Wonder Warehouse. The gps isn’t working too well, which is why they end up on an island, and then Noah accidentally breaks the internet, by which we mean the whole internet everywhere.
It’s funny in the expected Frank Cottrell Boyce way. He writes nice characters and always a worthy main character, like Noah, and the reader can sit back and enjoy the ride. Not perhaps the ride to the island, but the general idea. Today’s children are not used to not being able to google facts, or to post their island adventures on social media. (Instead Noah writes letters home, posts them in the old style postbox, and even receives letters back…)
But you can still survive, especially with someone like Noah who is hardworking and earnest and sweet. He will repair the internet, and feed the others, and find a way home.
The humour is lovely. Perhaps because it’s based in goodness and innocence. The children are funny because they don’t know any better. But they try. And they don’t eat each other.
You should probably pay attention to the title of Derek Landy’s latest, or even last, Skulduggery Pleasant offering. Although, I have reviewed the ‘last’ book more than once. Or so it feels. First it was nine. Then 12. This is the 15th. And of course it’s not the last! There is a prequel coming. Soon.
Things are dire, and Valkyrie Cain has sided with the bad guys. But then the good people do that, from time to time, and then they see sense again. Unless they die. Even when they die. And some people do die. What am I saying? Loads of people die.
I enjoyed this one even more than some in the past. I was clearly ready for some dismemberment of skeletons. And they are so polite! Must be an Irish thing.
Have mentioned this in the past, but I do like Omen Darkly. That boy really rises to the occasion and grows, in more ways than one.
Until the End is last year’s Skulduggery Pleasant. I had not been keeping up. But it seems this prequel that is coming – soon – needs you to have read all of the series. So that could keep you busy.
He was there. All the way. And that makes a difference.
So thank you Rob Wilkins, for writing the biography of Terry Pratchett, and for writing it so well, making it almost as humorous as if Terry himself had had a go at it. But most of all, thank you for being there with Terry, especially towards the end, when it can’t have been much fun.*
It’s been a while since I enjoyed a book quite as much as this one. Even when tears threatened to overwhelm me towards the end of the book, it was still [sort of] funny.
The doubts were there from the beginning. Can Rob really write a book, and can he write this particular book? Well, yes, he can and he did. He had help, from Terry himself, who had begun to gather facts about his life, especially the early years. Convenient, since Rob wasn’t around then. Other people helped, like his UK editor Philippa Dickinson.** (When Philippa once talked to me about editing Terry’s books, it wasn’t at all obvious how much she did. Now I know.)
Setting aside the fame and the money and the ability to write all those lovely books, I discovered I had a lot in common with Terry. He was clearly more right than I was when he suggested this.***
And, I know this is not about me at all. But I could only read A Life With Footnotes by keeping in mind where and when our paths crossed. I was at some of the events mentioned. In other cases I was there before or right after. And it seems I was less wrong than I thought in ‘holding on to’ Terry on that September day in 2010. Also, much of the off the record information I’ve been keeping quiet about has now been revealed.
I’ve said this before; I am so glad I have as many books left to read as I do. Now that Rob has shared what went on backstage, I feel the urge to go and check stuff again.****
If you love Terry Pratchett, this is the book for you.
They were tricked. Lured to the Project Room under false pretenses.
And everyone else knew. The emails had suggested the weather or football if you ran into them, and actually had to have a conversation. No slips of tongues permitted. I get very nervous when words like confidential and secret are used. I mean, it’s just asking for accidents to happen, isn’t it?
So, the Spice Boys. Arne and Bjarne. It’s like a double act. They were, ever since that day back in 1889 when they first met. (I always thought they looked old. But that’s the effect of teachers. They need to be.)
So, since 1989 (which seems like a much more realistic date) Norwegian Arne Kruse and Dane Bjarne Thomsen have prodded and polished countless students in the Scandinavian languages at the University of Edinburgh, including the current head of the Scandinavian department. And now they were retiring, and there was to be a celebratory gathering and a handing over of a festschrift put together by their old friends and colleagues.
They knew this. It’s just they thought it was for the other one. They’d contributed, and they had a speech. About the other one.
But they were so touched by the surprise that the speeches suffered a little.
I thought the gathering was surprisingly full of older people until it dawned on me that the ones needing to honour these two men would of necessity be a little older than the young people who had lied to Arne and Bjarne, and tried to keep this a secret for a couple of years. Then it dawned on me that I was also an old people, permitted to be present because the editor of Bjarne’s book actually invited their mother.
Tack!
There was much chat and tea and coffee before. After there was much more chat and cake and something in fancy glasses.
The Spice Boys name is from the 1990s when Arne and Bjarne started their annual mulled wine. Glögg.
It’s lovely when people get on. But it’s also quite good – or fun – when they don’t. That’s what you have here, in Simon Mason’s new crime series about DI Ryan Wilkins and his close colleague DI Ray Wilkins. Ryan could possibly be described as white trailer trash (from Oxford), while wealthy Nigerian Ray graduated from Balliol (also Oxford).
A Killing in November trails in the footsteps of Simon’s Garvie Smith YA crime novels, and at first I laughed out loud at the humour of these two very different and also difficult detectives. But it’s a murder tale, so it gets darker, albeit with some very light and unusual touches throughout. I loved it.
Our two DIs have a dead woman on their hands, found at Barnabas Hall, in the Provost’s study. No one seems to know who she was. Rubbing each other up the wrong way, not to mention the people at the college, Ryan and Ray do their best, while trying [not really…] not to annoy the other one.
Highly recommended.
You can find out more about it at Bloody Scotland on Saturday 17th September when Simon Mason is here, chatting to two other crime writers – David Lagercrantz and Ajay Chowdhury – about their own respective detective pairs in Detective Duos. See you at the Golden Lion? I can almost promise you that David’s British translator, Ian Giles, will be present as well… I’ve been hearing a lot about his Dark Music. And there is Ajay’s The Cook.
The Occasional Bookwitch 