Being early

Thank goodness we were out! Son’s fourth birthday – a very long time ago – fell during the week, so I decided to have his party on the Sunday before. One of the mothers when she turned up with her son, mentioned she’d got it wrong and had brought the boy along on the Saturday. He was not best impressed. What should I have done had we been in?

My friend Esperanto Girl knows a little of this. For one of my many ‘Tupperware’ parties back then, she arrived on the dot of one hour too early. Luckily for both of us, I was frantically well prepared, so I was completely ready (this never happens now) and simply asked her to come in and we sat and chatted for an hour. It was nice. She was embarrassed and felt she should go and come back, but that would have been a waste of a good hour.

Which brings me to a book I liked a lot during the last year. I wanted the review to be on publication day, and as I’d received my copy really early, that was easy to do. I know the pattern of what days of the week books come out, and the given date fitted this.

The publicist’s email just before the day gave the ‘wrong’ date. I could tell, as it was for a Saturday. So I stuck to my original plan and reviewed on the ‘correct’ date. Was a little surprised to find that the ever so keen publicist seemed to have gone on holiday, and the [debut] author didn’t react to the review. At all.

And then, about a month later, it was actually publication day. Not the day I’d been told at first, nor the one in that late email, but another date; one fitting the pattern of day of week and everything.

The author Tweeted and Facebooked and chirped. I was bemused, and ignored.

There was presumably a reason for the delay. I feel that for a book that I was emailed about quite so many times, the date should have been right, and I could have been notified of a change.

I sometimes do review early, but then there is a reason. Maybe I want to stir up some early interest. Maybe I want to go on about the book more than once. I just want to know I’m doing it, because not even with my fondness for being early, a month is a little over the top.

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Losing it

I’ve been thinking about this for a while, ever since the Resident IT Consultant sent me the link to an article about losing your first language.

It’s nothing new. I’ve slowly lost it for decades. But the other day I began writing a letter to a Swedish newspaper, and it stands to reason that I wanted it to be really good. The subject has to be good, and I believe it is. But you need to say what you want to say in a competent way.

So I kept thinking about how I’d write it in English. It would have been faster and wittier, and generally much better. As it is, the document is still resting on my desktop for me to return to and stare at and edit a little, every now and then.

The article is mostly about professional needs for an original language; less about being able to talk to cousins or old neighbours. I suppose they have to ‘love’ me anyway. But my need is primarily for private chats, rather than job related stuff, simply because I’m not looking at being professional in Sweden.

Maybe I should be.

I recall my question to a friend all those years ago, where I explained that we had a new sort of material for clothes here, called fleece. What might that be in Swedish? Fleece, apparently.

Only, was it? I suppose there could have been a change since, or maybe I encountered someone who for whatever reason misspelled it. Flis, is what I found some weeks ago.

It makes sense. A lot of borrowed English words are pronounced the same way, but acquire Swedish spelling and sometimes suffixes or other -fixes. I object to this. Except, I don’t object to those I knew and used before coming to live in Britain. So tajt is fine, if your jeans are a little tight. But sajt is so wrong, if you’re talking about a website.

Oh, never mind! Hand me that flis blanket, Your Magnificence! I need to hide the fact my jeans are too tajt.

This year’s Bloody [Scotland] plans

If you thought that rubbing shoulders with crime writers at the Coo in Stirling, during the Bloody Scotland weekend in late September, sounds like fun, you can forget it. The event sold out in no time at all.

But there’s other daft stuff you could do, unless you delay so that these other events also sell out. Personally I fear this might happen more than I’d find convenient. You know, I don’t want to commit just yet. But I don’t want to be left without, either.

Bloody Scotland

There’s more than one event where crime writers do something else, like sing. Or pretend to be a television quiz show. There is even a musical, written by Sophie Hannah and Annette Armitage, which to begin with I believed to last seven and a half hours, but it’s just two ‘sittings’ so to speak. Or there’s the cast and crew of Agatha Raisin. You can go to the football. I haven’t yet, but there is no saying how long I can hold out.

If you fancy more ‘ordinary’ events where authors talk about their books, look no further. Bloody Scotland has a lot of them. I see James Oswald has a new detective. (I don’t like change!) There’s an event on breaking barriers with three Asian authors and one Icelandic one. Or there are more Icelanders in a separate event, if you prefer.

They have Swedes. Well, they have one real Swede, Christoffer Carlsson, from my neck of woods. He’s nice. Although not so sure about his murders. Then there is a French fake Swede, but who writes about Falkenberg, which I highly approve of. And someone else foreign who at least lives in Sweden.

It’s 2018, so violence against women has to be addressed. Our favourite pathologist is coming back. So is Pitch Perfect, where they let the hopefuls in. The Kiwis are coming, and Chris Brookmyre has got a new name as he writes with his wife.

They also offer some of the biggest names in the business, but you’ll need to read the rest of the programme yourselves. And come and see the torchlit procession on the Friday night!

Bloody Scotland Torchlight Procession

Home Home

Lisa Allen-Agostini’s book Home Home is a short novel about many different big topics; depression, going to live somewhere new, getting on with your parents, race, sexuality, plus the ‘normal’ teen kind of angst most of us have known. It’s a lot to put into one book.

Lisa Allen-Agostini

It’s not until the last page that the reader learns the name of the narrator. She’s Kayla, and she’s 14 and has recently moved from Trinidad to Canada to live with her lesbian aunt to get over having tried to kill herself because of depression.

As you can see, a lot to deal with.

Much as I’m glad to see depression making it into a teen novel, it’s so short, that I feel it’s mostly there to explain why Kayla has come to Canada, without her mother, to live with an aunt she barely knows, and the aunt’s partner/wife.

But it is very interesting reading about the various difficulties of ending up somewhere so different from your home home, as she calls it. Everything is new, like the weather, where Kayla feels cold when the locals undress because it’s warm. Being one of the few black faces in a white area. Coming to terms with same sex relationships.

There could – should – be more books here, or one much longer.

And I occasionally wish that part of the solution wasn’t in meeting a gorgeous boy who really likes you. It’s a fairy tale [temporary] ending to a bad situation, and one that few of us would experience. I’d like to know more about how Kayla and her depression will work out.

We’ve lost that community feeling

I had honestly forgotten about it. Totally, I mean, and not just the finer details. A while ago a freak pingback on a nine-year-old post on here made me have a look to see what it was. To begin with I didn’t even recall it as I read, but slowly it came back to me.

It, and the 27 comments, from nine authors, including the then children’s laureate Michael Rosen. Usually I remember my more successful posts, even in the past. But not this one.

The funny thing is, it started as nothing more than a disappointed review of a television programme on school libraries. A programme about Michael Rosen visiting a school. I wanted a good moan, and then I was fine.

But people commented like there was no tomorrow, and then, as I said, Michael himself pitched in with a couple of very long comments. I don’t even know how he found the post. (Until that day a few weeks ago, I’d been proud that he’d joined in a discussion on a blog I’d written for the Guardian…)

By now, it’s not just the comments on blogs that we’ve lost; it’s the school libraries too. So from that point of view, the programme is obsolete, even if our opinions are still valid.

Much as I enjoy the bantering on Facebook, it is what killed blog communities. I miss those comments and the way people returned to see what had been said and then offered up more thoughts. I get the hits, and if I hadn’t disabled the like button, people would like my posts.

But most of any chatting about anything I write on here now happens on Facebook. That’s not bad, but it happens away from the actual article we’re discussing, and it’s limited to my friends, or friends of friends, if someone shares. But you can’t do what I did that day recently, which is revisit the post, and then read all the comments from the past.

I called it a freak pingback. It really was, because it wasn’t new, it was a repeat from nine years ago, and presumably happened for some technical reason in cyberspace. But revisiting the whole thing was interesting.

Al Capone Throws Me a Curve

I love Gennifer Choldenko’s Al Capone books so much that when she told me the latest one wasn’t being published in the UK, I bought my own copy of Al Capone Throws Me a Curve. It was worth it.

Gennifer Choldenko, Al Capone Throws Me a Curve

Moose Flanagan is now 13 [and a half] and tall and kind and capable, and everyone expects a lot from him. But he’s still only 13, and it’s late May 1936 on Alcatraz, and school is about to finish and Moose wants to spend the summer playing baseball, hoping to join the team, just like other boys.

His older sister Natalie is about to turn 17, and needs to be watched over by Moose, because being autistic and living side-by-side with convicts on a rock isn’t ideal. Moose also needs to keep an eye on the Warden’s daughter, Piper, which turns his summer more into ‘girl-sitting’ than baseball playing.

So far it’s been quite easy to overlook Moose’s mother, but she has to be taken into account as well, and there is more woman trouble from Mrs Trixle, meaning Moose really has his work cut out. There’s only so much one boy can do.

This is a very much a baseball story and I happily admit to understanding almost none of it, except that Moose is dead keen. How to convince the team to take him and his friend on is another matter, though.

The story will ring true to anyone with an autistic sibling; how everything turns into being about them, and how you have to be the good one, putting your own needs aside. But even Natalie has some surprises up her sleeve. And when all is said and done, Moose discovers that while baseball is important, the safety of his family comes first.

Playing baseball with Al Capone? I’m not sure I recommend it.

This book, on the other hand, I do. And if you’ve not read the others, get them all. This is US history and a story about a boy and an autism book, all rolled into one. A great period piece!

The cave of secrets

Or Den hemlighetsfulla grottan, as the title for this book – set in my holiday world – is in the original Swedish. The book, which I’d love to see translated, is a quiet fantasy adventure, set in today’s Haverdal with time-travelling to the past. I reckon that’s the best way to learn while also having fun. I’ve certainly discovered a lot about Haverdal’s past, which I’d previously been far too lazy to investigate.

Ingrid Magnusson Rading, Den hemlighetsfulla grottan

We have young Saga who’s staying with her grandparents for a week, and she ends up experiencing rather more than one sunny week near the beach usually offers. Her lovely grandmother gives her a magic stone, and with its help Saga travels to the past, where she somehow becomes Ellika, a young girl at the time, living with her large family in impoverished circumstances. And you know what they say about walking in someone else’s footwear. Although, shoes or boots are not plentiful in Ellika’s life.

Saga travels back and forth, and once she’s finished with the 17th century, it’s time for a visit to the quarries of a hundred years ago. Life was hard then, too, even if it wasn’t quite as bad as in the 1600s.

That magic stone has much to answer for. Life today might not have been what it is without it.

And what I said about a translation, was so tourists can also read the book and learn about the place they are visiting. It’s far more fun than your average tourism leaflet. If I was a child today, I’d love to be able to read a novel set all around me.