That Laminated Card Thing

My confusion on reading David Mitchell’s Backstory, his autobiography

That is, David Mitchell the comedian, one half of Peep Show, one of my favourite home grown comedies.  Not the novelist of the same name who wrote Cloud Atlas.  (Mitchell gives an amusing and cringey example of the apparently many times he has been mistaken for that other person, in the book, one of many laughs the book gave me.) 

I should elaborate why there would be any confusion at all in my reading of this book.  Its not because it was badly written or structured – quite the opposite, exquisitely handled. Nope.  It’s because of the Laminated Card Thing.

Let me explain.

Do you remember an episode of Friends, ages ago, during that nebulous period (I think it was in season 2 or 3?) where Ross and Rachel are actually properly together for the first time?  (I've linked it, there, so you can see.)  And she and he are in the coffee house with the other friends, and Isabella Rossellini comes in.  Gorgeous and exotic Isabella Rossellini.  (Who most men remember from THAT scene in Blue Velvet.)  He starts melting, as he fancies her, and Rachel laughs and tells him to go for it.  The other friends are surprised at her reaction.  She tells them why she says this.  It’s because they each have a little list of celebrities, people you are extremely unlikely to ever meet in real life or interact with, that they are allowed to have fantasies about.  Because it won’t matter, these person/persons are completely unobtainable and unrealistic.  Ross has of course, being the nerd he is, agonized over his list many times, and eventually settled on it and been daft enough to laminate it, as now set in stone.  (And carries it about with him – how unlikely is that?  Bless comedy writers and their contrivances.  As if (a) you would ever forget who was on your list, really, and (b) like its important enough to NEED to remember constantly, and (c) lamination – that’s just silly…you can change your mind.)

Anyway, he has an amusing attempt at going for Isabella Rossellini, at which point it becomes clear she has ‘been bumped’ off his card for someone else, which adds insult to Ross’s already hapless attempt to converse with her.  It’s very funny, and silly.

But it gave rise to one of Stanley and my funniest occasional ongoing conversations.  That is – who is on our lists?  And can we laminate it?  Because, as stated, these people are completely out of reach (and in my case, most of them are dead anyway) it’s a harmless and funny conversation to have.  He can laugh at my choices, and I can say ‘who???’ to most of his, as he keeps picking obscure 80’s pop star females from his encyclopaedic knowledge of music.

My list changes with the weather.  Christopher Lee was the first one ever on it, and he’s never left.  Sighhhhhhhhhhh.  He was such a sexy Dracula.  (I wrote to Jim’ll Fix It many years ago when I was 10, to ask if I could please be bitten by Dracula in person as Christopher Lee.  Amusingly, I did not get a reply; and I did not realize how sexual that request was, at all.  Luckily enough, really, subsequent events show…).  For a long time Pierce Brosnan, as Remington Steele, was on it.  More of him later.  Lately, I had Timothy Olyphant on it – what a sexy smile, what a look of mischief!  Where the hell has he gone??  Oliver Reed has never come off it either, forever calling ‘Bullseye!’and saying to Nancy‘I lives wiv yer, doe’ne I?????’ in a very menacing and grumpy voice, in Oliver – shivvvvvvvverrrrrrr.  There are others, they come and go.  Elements of the ideal man in my head; of course, the ideal you never really want in real life, as ideals are not rounded, or …er…real, in any way.  Pierce Brosnan as Remington Steele made me laugh, with his light comedic touch (that everyone forgot after the increasing hardness of his Bond portrayals).  Oliver Reed’s eyes called to the love of the bad boy in me.  Christopher Lee called to that in me that wants to let go and be carried away.  All stuff in real life that has very little place and wouldn’t make me happy at all.  (I discovered from actual experience!)

(I had a sexual fantasy once.  Don’t panic, read on, this is way cleaner than it sounds like its going to be.  About Pierce Brosnan.  We are in a garden, or a field or something, somewhere, some nebulous somewhere.  And we are sitting on the grass talking, and then he stops talking.  And leans over me.  And looks at me.  For ages.  With those eyes of his, so blue and clear…mmmmmmm…Yup.  And that’s it.  That’s the fantasy.  He looks at me.  I think I have a problem with proper sexual fantasies with actual people.  Actual people I cannot manipulate in my head at all.  I just take them as they are, what I have seen.  I spent a lot of time when watching Remington Steele in the 80’s just staring at his face as it’s so pleasingly put together.  I loved the way he moved, the way he was so light and funny, and the mobility of his features.  I remember Fry and I having a conversation about sexual fantasies when he was about 14 or so – we were open and liberal in talking of stuffs.  He found it hilarious that the depth of my fantasy is a LOOK.  Considering of course he was a teenage boy surging with hormones and imagination; and that I have phases of reading raunchy American bodice rippers, so I have a lot more to work with in terms of torrid situations than I ever use.  And experience, of course, as a grown up woman.  But no – a look contented me.  Fry was both highly amused and found me incomprehensible.  I think he called me ‘special’ with a sarky wink.  Anyway.)

So.  David Mitchell.  (We will get to the point of all this eventually, never fear.)  He has been on my list for a long time.  He might be getting to the laminated point; he’s been there so long.  If I ever tell people this, they find it surprising, as he’s not classically pretty, and always seems to act in parts that are a bit OCD, a bit of a loser – to the point where a lot of people thought he was like this in real life, he did the persona so well.  (He addresses this misconception in the book, also, and his own part in playing up to it.) The reason he is on The List is that he is so clever, and funny.  I listened to him on panel shows, I read some of his newspaper columns, I watched him hither and thither, and I loved his eloquence.  I sometimes, mostly, agreed with his political opinions.  There’s no point, for me, in liking a man who is simply pretty (or indeed, pretty at all  not necessary).  Fantasies involve mind, brain, intellect, wit.  If he can make me laugh, keep me entertained with explanations of string theory when we’re naked (hello Stanley!), then we’re doing really well.  From what I saw of David Mitchell, I thought, WoW!  I’d never get bored here!  He’s clever!  Funny!  Thoughtful!  And normal looking – real!

The added funniness to this is that of course Stanley has his list too.  We regularly watch Only Connect (one of the bestest quiz shows on TV; it celebrates brain without being snobby – it mocks itself as it seriously gets on with being clever and funny, we love it).  On Stanley’s list, right next to obscure 80’s popstresses and Swedish film stars (yawn, of course) is Victoria Coren, host of Only Connect.  I have to admit, the woman is also on my list, on and off.  What is NOT to love?  She is small and pixieish, her face shines with intelligence and she is awful at telling jokes – and clever clever clever.  To the point where I feel if I met her I might not like her because I’d feel all intimidated and therefore fail to see her as she perhaps actually is (er – normal), and just see this goddess of elfin braininess.  Stanley of course, has not failed to notice her perfectly pert figure and cleavage dresses.  He was therefore, devastated when she married David Mitchell last year.  (Ross – did you ever have a chance with Isabella Rossellini???  Of course not!  Stanley…?  Ehem…?).  I thought it was amazing!  Our Practically Laminated Card Lovers met in real life and liked each other and got married!  It speaks volumes for how similar Stanley’s brain and mine must be!  It’s a good omen!  Our avatars, our more successful surrogates shacked up!  Grand!  Excellent!  Etc!  (Also, in the book, David Mitchell writes the most affecting chapter about Victoria Coren.  How he met her and it didn’t quite work timing wise, and then he basically pined for 3 years till she turned up again, then it did work…he speaks of her with a calm reverence, a sort of down to earth honesty about his love for her and how it has affected his priorities in life that…you don’t often hear on a dude.  It’s lovely.  And brave.)

So when I heard this man I am most interested in had written an autobiography I was very interested to read it.  Because you never really get an idea what he is like in person.  Its not like he is someone all baring, someone like, um,  Russell Brand, where you really get an idea for his character in real life when you see him anywhere – he’s very verbal, lives life large and in public and very open.  David Mitchell definitely doesn’t do that. 

This is what I thought of the book, when I made notes on it, for this post that was fluttering about in my head:

I do not know how to review this.  I wanted to read it because I think I like him as a person, and he’s my laminated card man – one of them, for his intellect.  However, while reading this, I found that I respected his intellect more in some ways, especially in the way he structured the book; and much less in others – e.g. that lazy lazy lazy argument/old chestnut about atheists and Stalin and slaughter – have you not thought past that??  I found his insistence on his ‘normal’ upbringing together with so much focus on his private schooling and its associated jargon words, and then the whole Cambridge and Footlights experience and that jargon too - and general utter difference to my own experience alienating and hypocritical in some ways.  I found his chapter on Stanley's laminated card woman, Victoria Coren, one of the loveliest things I have ever read a man write about his love: brave and honest.  I felt as if I had gone to the pub with a man I admired and wanted to get to know and was confused by the result: at the end of the drink I had no idea whether I liked him more in person than my impression of him from TV [and how unbalanced would that obviously be??] or not.  I was bamboozled.  I enjoyed about 60% of the book; and got bored during about 30%.  The remaining 10% was very interesting [his thoughts on TV comedy, its crafting  and TV execs, the ways of the BBC and Channel 4 etc].  So…?  Maybe I’d need to have another drink with him?  Get to know him better?  But this is it.  This is all I get.  A different impression and I’m not sure if the new one is preferable to the old one.  A large part of this feeling may be simple jealousy that I thought he was a bit messed up like me, and he ended up being way sounder and more relaxed of persona than I thought.  Yes.  Definitely some jealousy there!  So.  I did very much look forward to this enjoyable and confusing book.  And I’ve really taken it personally; so it really affected me.  Don’t know what to say other than that.  If he wrote another book, I’d read that too.  I’m still very curious about him. 

See?  I was confused by the book.  And this is the thing.  You can’t have any kind of relationship with people you don’t know.  I know that sounds both (a) overwhelmingly dumb its so obvious, and (b) stalkers, pay attention!, and (c) why on earth did I imagine I had a ‘relationship’ of any kind with him anyway – even simply as an admirer of his work?!  That’s not a ‘relationship’, it’s just a thought.  It makes me laugh that I’ve taken the book so personally.  He says himself at one point, that some acquaintances of his are disappointed in him when they hear that after a few drinks he will cadge cigarettes from people outside the pub and smoke them.  A social smoker.  These people are disappointed that he smokes and disappointed that he drinks.  He says, quite rightly, that people like this ‘should invest their hopes with more care’.  As should I.  About what exactly I’m not sure, maybe about thinking he seemed more like me than he turned out…But then: since its all in the edit, and what he chose to add, leave in, take out, tone up or down I will never know.  And really, the book was structured so skilfully, zipping back and forth as well as any novelist, that I am convinced he could paint any picture he wished of himself.  He just chose this one.  Hmmm.

There should be some neat conclusion to this post – something about fantasy life versus real life; something about real people and pretend TV images, something about celebrity culture and people imagining they really know the people on Strictly Come Dancing etc (‘cos she’s so normal like me, that could’ve been ME!’ I have heard people say - uhuh).  But I’m not going to be tidy and tie it all together.  I’m sure you have your own thoughts on it all.  I’ll just leave it at this - I blame Friends for all this…On to the next book!

The other Dr Who books I read last year, Part 2!

Here’s the rest of those Doctor Who book thoughts I promised last post.  Geeky fans, enjoy disagreeing with me!  

Oh and remember – major spoilers of most of these books!!!

1. Dr Who: Four to Doomsday, by Terrance Dicks (Target original)
   (Not bad at all.  All the 5^th Doctors seem to read a lot better than they watch.  It’s a slow not much happening story, about whether it’s better to be in your body or not, to be an android.  Whether feelings are good, or whether it’s better to have an android body and be adaptable and free from aggression, greed, ruthlessness, arrogance etc.  The lead proponent of the latter, the froggy Monarch, ends up being a Flesh Time person, in the body still.  Adric is not half so annoying to read as he is to watch.  I enjoyed this one J.)
2.  Dr Who: Psi-ence Fiction, by Chris Boucher (BBC Past Doctors Series)
   (Very interesting.  Chris Boucher invented Leela, so reading her thought processes – so different, were a joy.  Reading the Tom Baker Doctor was odd – it was as if Douglas Adams was there, but not quite.  Chris Boucher liked all his characters to banter intensely and comedically, all the time; with only Leela as foil.  The 2 police men, Bartok and Simpson were an act, winding up the Supervisor too.  The students Josh, Tommy, Ralph, Meg, Chloe and Joan were also constantly joking and needling and witticising each other.  Sometimes it felt natural, sometimes it didn’t.  The Doctor wasn’t at his best here; he was always several steps behind and confused.  And very much without and uncaring about Leela, which was a bit odd.  He was utterly distracted.  I can’t decide if this was expressed well, by use of the time anomalies etc, or badly.  The psi/paranormal elements of the whole book were very cleverly done, though I got lost with the cod science talk when it embellished further.  There were several ‘reverse the polarity’ type moments that confused me.  The reading minds and echoing, with the folding back and forth of perceptions was quite brilliantly and spookily done for Chloe in particular; and the scene with the isolation tank, the blood and everyone slipping over was quite memorable.  Again, I don’t think I will re-read this, but it’s a memorable story.  It was only harmed really, by the lack of a strong sense of the Doctor.  He sleepwalked through the whole story.  This wasn’t necessary.  It meant Leela was really the only wide awake character – in that sense this book showcased her.)
3. Dr Who: The Bodysnatchers, by Mark Morris (BBC 8^th Doctor Series)
   (Disappointing.  After the magnificence that was Deep Blue by the same author, I got all overexcited as to how good this book would be.  I could tell quite early I wasn’t going to really like it.  I don’t know if this is because I didn’t like the setting, or the Zygons, or the story line, or the very fleshy details just didn’t do it for me the way his last book did – or whether I simply had too high expectations…either way, I was rather bored and skimmed portions of it.  Happy to move on to the next, as the 8^th Doctor only lives in fiction, and deserves a better chance to develop – but so far, I can see that this may be a slightly disappointing series all round; not a patch on the Missing Adventures or the Past Doctor Adventures…bit like my experience so far with the New Adventures: everyone so keen to be innovative and break the mold, they end up making it not feel like its part of the Who universe properly…which is an integral thing.  This isn’t to say that the depiction of the 8^th Doctor or Sam was flawed at all, they seemed fine.  Except Sam is irritating me…)
4.  Dr Who: Grave Matter, by Justin Richards (BBC Past Doctors Series)
   (This was extremely good fun.  Excellent portrayals of Peri and Colin Baker – spot on.  And got Peri to do more than just moan.  She was extraordinarily active, actually.  The idea of an alien life form that parasites into its host and heals the body but doesn’t control the brain till 3^rd generation infection made for some interesting implications.  There were some good character portrayals also, and some sad moments – Liz Trefoil and Dave Madsen.  And the end, with the pale eyed seagulls going off to infect – or not? – the mainland – that was nicely done: gave me a ripple down my spine.  Overall, very good.  Not a keeper though, like the now fabled Deep Blue – but really only because I seemed to flag during the last third of the book, and couldn’t tell if it was me losing interest for some reason or being tired, or whether the book did suddenly start to drag.)
5. Dr Who: Genocide, by Paul Leonard (BBC 8^th Dr Series)
   (This was the most thought provoking Doctor novel I’ve read so far; and was thought provoking for ANY novel.  Would you want to save the human race if you found there was a timeline where we ended up not in charge, and the creatures that were here instead of us…were better, kinder, nicer – more deserving, less destructive??  It just gets more complicated from there.  Neanderthals, an insane UNIT person called Jacob, who is a bit of a sociopath and a misanthropist.  Jo Grant, but older and wiser, subsidiary characters (Rowenna, Julia, Axeman, Mauvril) killed off like there’s no tomorrow; and tomorrow was exactly what they were ALL fighting for.  And Kitig, the Tractite: one of the most memorable figures I think I have ever read in a book: left at the end to carve messages in rock for the rest of his life, because it was the only right thing he could still think to do.  A character who found his life, his entire peaceful civilisation was built on a terrible lie, but found a way to live the rest of days with lonely integrity.  This was a very serious book indeed.  And a very sad one.  I won’t be keeping it, as though I loved Kitig especially, gentle Kitig – I would never read this emotional and moral mind wrencher again.  It ended as it began, characters having committed acts in moments of terror and war, asking an unconscious Doctor: ‘I need to know.  I need to know if it was possible to have acted in a different way.’  So sad.  This is also the book that ends on the strange note of hope that a wish from a horse causes a tree to create the multiverse…)
6.  Doctor Who: Kinda, by Terrance Dicks (Target original)
   (Again, read better than it watched.  Though still rather disjointed.  As if the idea hadn’t quite been fleshed out enough.  Or pieces of it had, but others not.  The Mara boy was a scary thing.  Hindle and Sanders are quite memorable. ‘You can’t mend PEOPLE!’)
7.  Doctor Who: The Well-Mannered War, by Gareth Roberts (Virgin Missing Adventures)
   (This started off extremely well, with strong imagery and a very strong sense of the Douglas Adams era, in terms of witty banter.  It sustained until about 2/3 of the way through, then started to flag – or I did.  Not sure.  I ended up pleased to finish.  I didn’t realise it was the last in the series of the Missing Adventures, and sends them off to be fictional characters – its clever, neat and a good end.  Though sad.  This was very good indeed.  Just a bit tiring here and there.)
8.  Dr Who: War of the Daleks, by John Peel (BBC Eighth Doctor Series)
   (Very convoluted.  Chayn was a good character, and it was far better than the other John Peel book I read.  I wasn’t convinced by Davros though.)
9.  Dr Who, The Scripts: The Power of the Daleks, by David Whitaker, ed. by John McElroy
   (This will seem like an extremely stupid comment bearing in mind I just read a *script*: but it was very talky.  I had trouble differentiating between the characters, because I haven’t seen this serial – this was the actual reason I started collecting ALL the Who books: because I hadn’t seen Troughton as a Doctor and felt I was missing out.  It has lead to this whole, huge addiction.  The daleks were as annoying as usual, but more intelligent, which I appreciated.)
10. Dr Who: Heart of Tardis, by Dave Stone (BBC Past Doctors Series)
    (Ambitious.  Very oddly written.  A very exuberant style it took a while to get into.  Some sentences were a clause by a comma too long; difficult to explain.  And I’m a great fan of long sentences.  Aleister Crowley was in it, K9 had a cameo at the beginning; but there is nothing to really stick in the mind, other than the love and enthusiasm of the writer, and one image: the soldiers, with various Tarot cards, baseball cards and magickal symbols on their uniforms to protect them.  That was oddly vivid.  Well; most of it was very vivid, but like the snobbery of the first Romana, it got a little tiresome after a while.  The focalisation of Victoria was an interesting choice.)
11. Dr Who: The Highlanders, by Gerry Davis (Target Original)
    (Sort of fun.  Like a lot of the Dr Who’s, I was enjoying it a lot to begin with, but then it seemed to sag a little near the end, so I got a bit bored and was happy to finish.  I wonder why so many of the Who’s are like that – the new ones and the old ones?  Stanley would say it’s because of the lengthy episodic format – that the stories had too much pointless running around built in to them.  He may be quite right; I’m not sure.)
12. Doctor Who and the Visitation, by Eric Saward (Target original)
    (Richard Mace ran away with this story, both in the TV version and the book.  It’s an interesting story, if bitty – but a lot of Dr Who’s fall foul of that, because of the episodic structure, and that way they had of separating the companions from the Doctor in order to have more than one storyline going at a time.)
13.  Doctor Who: The Mind of Evil, by Terrance Dicks (Target original)
    (Enjoyable and strange.  The Master is his grumpy unfathomable usual self; the Doctor is thoughtful and petulant, and Barnham dies tragically.  You forget how many deaths there are in Doctor Who, you know.  Many.)
14. Doctor Who: Timewyrm Apocalypse, by Nigel Robinson (Virgin New Adventures)
    (Hmm.  It started off having strong echoes of The Krotons; then was interesting for a while, then just longwinded and confused.  Overall, I would describe this as patchy and muddled.  A lot of the Dr Who new books have this problem: they seethe with ideas, but there is too much in one place, and either plot coherence suffers, or characterisation; or both.)

You’d think, from that fizzly out bit there at the end, that I would stop reading now, and go and do something else, since I am either really enthusiastic about these books (Genocide), or just irritated (that last one), and that the variability of the quality would be putting me off.  But it isn’t.  I’m quite happy to keep on exploring this character and his companions through the minds of a hundred others.  Rarely does a character reach so far, and touch so many.  And prompt so many strong feelings and desires for him to carry on and on forever.  Stanley finds this one of the most annoying things about fandom of Dr Who – that they just won’t let him go, they always want more.  But then, Stanley’s mind functions in stand alone mode, a lot.  I am a person who loves a good series of anything – that’s why I get through far more TV series of things than I do films, though I love film too.  I just cannot resist knowing characters I love will be back again and again, being tested and developing in different ways.  I love feeling they are friends.  And I see more of recurring characters than I ever get to of my actual friends!  By the way – I Do Not Care if that sounds sad!!  So I will carry on reading.  I’m reading a Peter Davison Target at the moment, Black Orchid, that I liked as a strange and quirky historical when I first saw it last year; the fact it was only 2 episodes means the book is more fleshed out than most Target space allows; though most of that extra space so far has been devoted to cricket!!  (Stanley made a face when I said I was reading that one – I think he thinks I should read Pertwee, Tom Baker and Troughton and that’s that!) 

More reviews later in the year then.  See you soon!

All Those Dr Who Books I Read Last Year, Part 1

Well, here’s the first half of that post I promised you – my rambly thoughts on all those Dr Who books I was consuming at a rate last year.  I was a bit astonished, on going through my books read doc to see I had read 24 of them (all over the original Target TV tie-ins, the Virgin New and Missing Adventures, and then the BBC Past Doctors and Eighth doctor series).  To the point where I thought I’d split the post in 2 for you, as otherwise it would be wicked long.  And you might get even bored-er than you’re bound to anyway, unless you’re a Dr Who fan and care about other people’s thoughts on the books…at which point I say to you: this post and the next will be most boring for you if you aren’t a fan, so come back after these ones, when I’ll talk of something else.  I have a Things That Annoy Me Part whatever brewing (not a massive rant, just a bit of a bemused befuddle), so that’s what’ll likely come after these.  In the meantime, here’s my thoughts on what I read.

I seemed to be doing Jon Pertwee’s era in order, and Sylvester McCoy’s not in order, and Peter Davidson again, in order.  In terms of the Target original books.  The Missing Adventures and BBC Past Doctor series I am just reading whatever grabs me as they are all standalones.  The New Adventures and BBC Eighth Doctor Adventures I am reading in order as they are the further adventures of Sylvester and Paul McGann respectively.  Those last 2 I am finding most interesting, as they are Doctors existing mostly in fiction; so I am intrigued to see where the writers/fans take them.  Oh, and there’s a stray Big Finish Audio book in there too…

WARNING!  MASSIVE BOOK SPOILERS, ok??

1. Dr Who: The Curse of Fenric, by Ian Briggs (Target)
   (Original tie-in. This had so much more in it, here and there, than the actual story, and made clear several things that weren’t, because Fluffhead kept burbling through the plot when I first watched it.  I liked the addition of the Bram Stoker letter, the El Dok’Tar story (explaining the chess thing that makes no sense otherwise), and the epilogue set in the past.  For something written rather ordinarily, for the most part, this had shining little gems of lovely phrases here and there.  Not flowery at all, just very lucid and emotional.  ‘She wanted to taste his taste’, a thought of Ace’s while looking momentarily at Sorin.  There was a little more to it, but I forget.  But some lovely bald images of an emotive kind.  And men think they are all about sci-fi and guns and military things.  Ha.  They are as warm as we are; just as we are as hard as they can be.  The differences are of degree in each person, that’s all; and not by gender – by temperament.  This was an interesting read.  I’m a bit in love with Sylvester McCoy’s doctor; and I love Ace, she bounds with so much different energy, she’s all possibility.)
2. Dr Who and the Auton Invasion, by Terrance Dicks (Target)
   (Loved this.  Crisp clean style, and Jon Pertwee’s confidence and easy manner replicated perfectly.  I had a real sense of Lethbridge-Stewart too.  The auton attack at the end is fleshed out; I felt rather tense and worried by its effectiveness.  The character’s thoughts were nuanced.  Very good indeed.)
3.  Dr Who and the Cave Monsters (Silurians), by Malcolm Hulke (Target)
   (For some reason this was a real slog.  I felt like I didn’t enjoy it as much as I could have, though it was a fascinating idea.)
4. Dr Who: The Sirens of Time (Big Finish Audio Book), by Nicholas Briggs
   (This started badly – stupid accents, hints of Nazi’s, an old hag, and Sylvester sounding confused and vague and not like himself.  But it picked up with Peter Davison’s segment set in WW2, and then Colin Baker really did sound like himself.  This was the first time I have listened to an audio book for ages: I didn’t picture everything as I thought I would; and I didn’t concentrate alone as I thought I would.  I listed books for sale on Amazon whilst listening.  I feel this is a rather poor start to the series, but I can see how the medium will lend itself to Doctor stories – things with place atmosphere should work a lot better – as should single Doctor stories work a lot better; and we need assistants, to make it ensemble based.  I am happy to keep going and try the next.)
5.  Dr Who: Castrovalva, by Christopher H. Bidmead (Target)
   (Lovely book.  Where I sort of learnt about recursion.  Enjoyed Nyssa and Tegan in the reading far more than I ever did in person.  Enjoyed the Doctor, and indeed, all the characters much better [the Master being as silly as usual].  10/10 – for such a peaceful read, a lovely way of expressing himself, this writer.)
6.  Dr Who: Ambassadors of Death, by Terrance Dicks (Target)
   (Reads better than it watched.  Jon Pertwee’s doctor reads very nicely.  I felt like I learned a tiny smidge about isotopes.  Its strange – I definitely had something more to say about this one, but its gone right out of my head.)
7. Dr Who: Pale Blue, by Mark Morris (BBC Past Doctors Series)
   (‘We are Xaranti.’  Enormously enjoyable.  It was basically just like reading a horror, when I was adolescent again.  The touches of despair, depression and vividly described gore and terror, as well as the quick character sketches that are nonetheless spot on.  It was so odd – as I wasn’t expecting a horror.  But it was a horror with a ‘how dunnit and how to solve it’ element.  Provided by the Doctor.  Who was very well written, all his quirks and tics were there, recognisable.  Tegan was as brave and bolshie as usual, and Turlough characterised interestingly, as a total coward – yet I would have done everything he did, and I don’t think *I* am a TOTAL coward!  The horrible bull spiders and their huge black eyes and quills were very vivid indeed, as was the 70s seaside background.  It was interesting that the whole infection turned out to be a thought virus, so was easily disposed of by psychological trickery by the Doctor – tap water as a cure – when the apocalyptic proportions of the problem were starting to worry even me.  This was a very odd, and very well done book.  It felt like Dr Who, but at the same time it didn’t – so long, and involved, and adult in themes and imagery.  Confusing in that sense.  But I loved it.  Great also, to see Benton, Yates and the Brigadier.)
8.  Doctor Who: The Eight Doctors, by Terrance Dicks (BBC 8^th Doctor Series)
   (Very good.  Enjoyed the clever idea of giving the eighth doctor padding and a timeline to enrich his character, by having him meet each of his predecessors.  The Tom Baker interlude was particularly good, with Romana II – I enjoyed it more than watching the actual adventure it was associated with!  Each doctor was visited while in the middle or at the end of a famous adventure associated with him, and helped a bit by the new doctor who was regaining lost memories – courtesy the Master – as he went.  It was a good device.  My only problem was that by the end the 8^th Doctor seemed like a super-being of beauty, wisdom, fighting skill and one liners.  I wasn’t quite sure of his personality – I wasn’t visualizing him.  I think I need to watch that execrable film again, to get a sense of him, for visualizing – as that is the joy of reading these books, the fact that you can SEE the doctors, each of their vibrant and different yet similar personalities interacting so stylishly and cleverly and rightly, with situations…if I can’t see and feel him, there will be a problem with this series.  But we’ll see.  Happy to go on.)
9. Dr Who: Timewyrm: Genesys, by John Peel
   (Out of all the Dr Who’s I have read so far that are modern and non canon, this has been the weakest.  A very dodgy idea indeed, starting a series with a 4 book set, and making the first one set in a historical time period that’s…not the most readily fascinating in terms of characters.  And a very bad baddie [which means I was bored with her very quickly indeed].  Ace was characterised ok, but said things I don’t think she would have said [or known].  Sylvester was accurately done I felt.  It dragged all over the place and I ended up skimming toward the rear of the book.  I am only reading on because Terrance Dicks is next.)
10.   Dr Who: Inferno, by Terrance Dicks (Target original)
    (Read much better than it watched.  It had a strange sad, claustrophobic feel, but all by implication, since it was written in a very to the point, upbeat Terrance Dicks-y way…a clever feat.  Specially when one whole world vanished at the end, yet I wasn’t left feeling sad at the waste and the sacrifice, etc etc.  Sutton, Petra and the Brigadier in his scarred and eye-patched incarnation came across particularly strongly.)
11. Dr Who: Vampire Science, by Kate Orman and Jonathan Blum (BBC 8^th Doctor Series)
    (2^nd in the series.  Harked back a lot, to the TV movie.  Caroline felt like a reconstituted Grace, in many ways.  Whilst there was a lot here I liked: the characterisation of the Doctor was nicely done, Sam being a bit less cocky and getting stuffing knocked out of her a bit, also nicely done, some scenes, especially the Doctor and the kittens in his pockets and his enthusiasm, his thinking…there was also quite a bit here I didn’t like: the incredible Americanisation of the whole thing, as if the series, this very English series, was moving wholesale over to the States, that’s how it felt.  The characterisation of the vampires – Abner and Slake in particular, very tired, very done and been there in Buffy, Angel and loads of other American shows and books.  I appreciate this was in an effort to update them and place them within our culture of the early 2000’s and mock it…but still, been there, done that: ‘bored now’, as Vampire Willow would say.  It’s odd, I enjoyed this book and looked forward to reading it – but equally:  I sold it in a heartbeat when I was finished.)
12. Dr Who: Timewyrm Exodus, by Terrance Dicks (New Adventures)
    (This was way stronger than the first volume in the series.  Terrance Dicks got hold of a stupid villainess and effectively shut her up and stuffed her in the head of a real villain [lets have a ponder on the word villain], and then added War Lords to the plot, while zipping in and around and before and after WW2.  The Festival of Britain, alternate ‘what if’ timelines, and allsorts of characters were confidently covered: Goering, Himmler, the Gestapo, the SS, Martin Bormann, Hitler himself etc etc.  The idea of a black magic coven around Hitler.  The best thing about this novel was the pitch perfect rendition of Sylvester McCoy and Ace.  Not a foot wrong…(except her fainting, twice; and Sylvester carrying her off over his shoulder at one point, which felt impossible given his size, though oddly I believed the bit where he hauled her into the Tardis just from holding her hand when she was hanging in air).  Again, I’m selling it.  Through the first half of the novel, I thought I wouldn’t, as it was so perfectly done, but by the end I was a bit fed up of Nazi Germany, and I don’t think I will re-read it, so I’ll send it out into the Dr Who universe, and see who else catches hold of it. [Timeferret, probably, hopefully –he’s my best customer on ebay for Dr Who books…])

And that’s it for Part 1.  I think Fluffhead will wake soon, so hopefully Part 2 tomorrow, or later this week.  See you soon, bookish Who fans, who are still reading when everyone else sloped off to the pub or something!

The last of last year

Its funny, now its gone, I want it to be completely as if it never was.

I found 2012 was a year that started full of promise, went quickly downhill, and then became very very strenuous.  It ended very badly - with upsets for both Stanley (at work) and my mother (a very bad car crash).  Little Fluffhead spent fully a quarter of the year being solidly unwell - first a patch in February-April, then October through to late December.  I don't think of him as sickly, AT ALL - he bounds with energy, curiosity and general sturdiness (he bounces back quickly from all his many bumps and falls from ricocheting around the place at speed).  Yet he took ill with one virus after another for those periods last year.  In some cases he took us with him; in some cases it was our giving them to him.  But either way, the small Fluffhead was a poorly bean for more of the year than was comfortable for anyone.

For those of you who want to know, mum was coming down to see me for Xmas.  This was partially to get me out of going to the in-laws for Xmas.  I find Xmas - increasingly - a horrendously stressful time.  Add to that travelling, being in a place not your own for a few vaguely defined days without end, and being forced to be with people for 24 hours a day and SMILE ALOT, and I was determined to stay put.  Fluffhead was still unwell, this I stressed.  I also stressed that I had discovered Saint Mum was going to be alone for Xmas.  This was quite true - due to a scheduling mistake I had thought she was off to my exhub's for the duration.  Not so.  I asked her to come here.  So I feel like what happened next was my fault, however incorrect that may be.

She was driving in the deep wet and deep dark (2 conditions under which she hates to drive), and got as far as Sevenoaks before she had a sudden brake problem.  This car, I emphasize, she had had for less than 2 weeks.  She had just part exhanged her last one as now too big for requirements; too expensive to insure etc.  She had taken out a bank loan she could ill afford without payment protection (because they won't give it the over 70's - she's 71) to cover the rest of the cash needed.  But the brakes failed, or water got in the pads (this is likely, I am informed by drivers - I'm not one).  She ended up sailing into oncoming traffic going in the opposite direction, trying to steer out of a skid, and hit another car headlong.

Back at home, I was experiencing a cautious feeling of relaxing into Christmas.  I was in the kitchen - just like you left me, after my last post - trying to sort out the dry stores in the kitchen cabinets.  I actually put on Christmas carols on the CD player.  I had been having a feeling of doom and wrongness about Christmas.  But I had been trying to ignore this as my own delectable brand of paranoia and anxiety; the inability to let myself think anything good will happen.  Especially as so many bad things had happened that year.  I was cleaning, washing up, listening to 'Good King Wenceslas...' when Stanley popped his head around the door to tell me a private number kept ringing my phone.

I have never been able to get my phone off the factory settings of only ringing twice before going to voicemail.  So I never would have got to the phone, it being in another room.  Anyway, it rang again as he gave it to me.  And I had that call people dread.  'This is the police.  The Kent Police.  I'm calling as your mother has asked me to.  Now, don't worry, theres nothing to worry about...' - before telling me the car was a right off, my mother couldn't breathe properly and had chest pains, hence him calling, not her.

I descended into panicky tears before the call had even ended, just thinking of the car (I knew that she would be thinking the same thing once her mind came back to her).  People have said to me that I am odd:  I am spending alot of time worrying about her car, when she was lucky to be alive.  (She told me a few days later, that the car smoked and she had to be pulled out from the airbag squash by passers by; it was almost filmic.)  These people think I am strange to worry for her car, her finances.  I should just be happy she is alive.

Put it this way.  Of course I am happy she is alive.  If she were dead, I would have lost one of my bestest friends - one of my most annoying, dearly loved, kind friends.  But she is NOT dead.  I immediately moved on from that, and realized, that like Fry earlier this year, the loss of the car will severely affect her life, her resources, her employment (she needs the money, so she still works).  I'm not going into it all - the conversations have already been had.  But the impact on her life would be enough that I worried and felt for her.  And that was where my mind straightaway went.

But speaking of feeling...she was in very bad pain, sitting wanly on my sofa for the next few days, unable to lie down.  (Christmas was a damb squib, and I am not going to say it was marvellous to anyone that asks: it wasn't, it was dreadful, the worst I ever remember, worse than when dad died, because I was watching someone I love SUFFER and couldn't help them, really.  My Aunt Pat asked me after Christmas if my Xmas went well - she had been the one who brought mum back from the hospital she eventually got taken to, Farnborough, so I was amazed at the question.  She herself survived a brain tumour this year, so obviously SHE will have a wonderful Christmas - and she seems more healthy than ever; and is a naturally wondrous and cheerful person.  But the LOOK she gave me when I said Christmas had been utter shite.  I found it quite funny.)

So it turns out the reason for this excess pain was that Farnborough Hospital did not notice mum had a badly broken collarbone.  I will be having words with them.  She now has a sling, is in less pain (though bloody hell; it MUST be awful, nonetheless?), and sleeps a bit.  Apparently in 6 weeks she should be healed.  She will always have an uneven lumpy collarbone on that side now, but she doesn't care (she has always hated her collarbone for some reason and always dresses to cover it - so no change there, then).

I tell this story so I won't tell it again.  I love mum SO much, and it was all beyond stressful.  Obviously, for her, more than anyone else!  But I hope she will mend, she will heal, and be her vigorous and amazingly fit self again soon.

One good thing: she has resigned her HORRIBLE job working for a mental health part of the NHS as a result of this.  A more toxic working environment is only suffered by Stanley - and we hope to be able to rescue him this year.  By less drastic means than bone breakage and wreckage, obviously.

So that is that.  Bye bye 2012 - I hated you increasingly, and you will never come again, to hurt people I love and upset me.

Long live 2013 - which doesn't sound best lucky, does it?!  But an improvement would be a good thing :-)
                                                             ***
I'll post up all those Dr Who book reviews soon.  Get 2013 properly going - my posts will be small for some while - I have no good Saint Mum to babysit anymore; and Fluffhead does not begin nursery till the last quarter of this year.  Who knows how much you may or may not see of me.  But lets hope its a good seeing of me, however often or not it turns out to be.

Yule, the Flight of Dove and Christmas Eve...

As usual, there I was, all poised to do a nice Yule post.  I should know by now that nothing I ever plan for December ever actually happens.  The entire month always gets away from me for one reason or another.  This month it has been the (still) sickness of Fluffhead, which leads to my own lack of sleep and very low mood; the horrible troubles Stanley has been having at work, and the way that despite me not being very outwardly social, the month tends to get filled up with 'stuff and people to do'.  I'm really not quite sure where they all crop up from.

First: an apology to Fry.  He mentioned that my last post was all 'donkey' - i.e. it was exactly what I complain of with poetry: un-understandable clever clever gobbledygook.  Quite right in one sense, I shan't deny it.  (I shall deny clever clever - it wasn't clever at all.)  It was a rather private rant about the situation at Stanley's work and what I was doing about it, but I felt I couldn't write it openly, so it was sort of coded.  Anyone who is a 'magick practitioner' (as someone once, rather modern-ly described me, what an odd phrase, I thought) will have got what I was waffling about; other than that - it was probably undecipherable.  Sorry people.  Will try to make more sense in future...

Second: the flight of Dove.  You remember Dove?  She was being mistreated over here and was not happy.  She has flown, and escaped back home to Italy, to where it is warmer both in climate and people's temperaments.  She will start a new thing in Switzerland in the New Year.  She has no idea, none at all, of how brave she is, trotting from country to country - where she learns the languages as she goes, as well.  We had a last meeting, where we discussed many many things and nobody cried.  There was a lot of hugging and thanking. I think we both found each other this year as a result of a deep need.  It was one of those weird things where you feel much closer to someone than you realistically should considering the timescale.  I feel like my sister has gone abroad.  But unlike most other times when I meet people and they go (which happens alot), I feel like she isn't really gone.  So I don't get to undergo 'ambiguous loss' as the psychologists would say.  (That's when, for example, you get divorced, or have a fight with someone and never see them again in the way you used to - so you mourn them but they are still alive and present, in some cases living close by).  We've been texting, and we shall email too.

I had a friend once who was in a very similar situation to me, it made us very close; and then her circumstances changed.  With a death.  I was SO JEALOUS that she had (in a very cruel way, yes, I didn't say I was a nice person) escaped her situation, that I couldn't be there for her to mourn.  All I could feel was that *I* was still trapped, and she was free.  It took me many years to get over that - and to change my own circumstances.  The friendship with this lovely person was irreparably damaged, and all my fault.  The situation with Dove is similar in some ways: we bonded over how hard we find childraising, the crippling sense of responsibility, the feeling of splitting your consciousness between 2 people, being forever therefore running on half power yourself.  The lack of rest, sleep, personal time.  The worry if the children get sick, or will they turn out ok.  We both got a bit sick from our worries here and there.  And she has escaped - she was a 'nanny' remember, and now she isn't going to do that anymore.  But...I don't feel that poisonous envy and jealousy I felt before at all.  Isn't it GOOD to be able to report some growth as a person?!  This time, she goes, and I will miss her painfully...but I feel nothing but happy for her that she escaped.  She is free!  She can go on to more brave globetrotting, doing new jobs and meeting new people and having experiences and making choices.  I smile when I think of it.  One of us is free!!  So Dove has flown, but is is good.  She needed to go, and I will always be her friend.

My other great find this year, Time Traveller, came by earlier this week - or was it late last week? - and helped me to get up my decorations.  I would have none were it not for her help.  She and Fluffhead singlehandedly did the tree, while I sifted the decorations box outside (Stanley had stored it in the outhouse to become infested with spiders - ask me not why he thought this a suitable place; he doesn't know why he did it himself!).  I bravely rummaged through everything and disposed of spider corpses.  I always feel more awake when Time Traveller is in the room - her brain hums and thrums with thoughts and ideas, and I start to feel bouncy and smiley and interested in the world; my sense of humour even comes back from wherever it hides when I spend most of my time sulking because I am horribly overtired.  (I don't think she has any idea she has this effect on people either.  People are often remarkably unaware of their bestest qualities, isn't it so?!)  So that was lovely.  And it cheered up Stanley no end when he came home and found Christmas had happened to the living room.

And so, there came Yule.  Which is at an annoying time of year!  In the sense that of course, Christmas has hijacked it's timing utterly, and there I am, preparing for the tree and present fest that is Christmas, while also trying to have a slightly solemn, or slightly joyful (depending on mood) Yule ritual.  And it always gets lost.  Yule always ends up being celebrated about 4-8 days later.  I think, for example, that I am going to have a very small Yule ritual in the middle of ...next week, when everything has calmed down.  When all that stuff about family and the trying sense of enforced togetherness that makes alot of us really cranky were we to be quite honest, is over.  So I shall look forward to that later, then.

In the meantime: today: Christmas Eve.  Classic English Christmas weather - its pissing with rain and its overcast, cold and windy.  We are lucky we aren't in Cornwall or Wales, they are low slung and awash with flooding.  We are up here on a hill, listening to buffeting rain and wondering if the outhouse will hold (it has done for 3 years, but its not best made...so its worth the wonder).  I am wondering if its Christmassey to have a chocolate cupcake, or just...excessive (it'll be my fourth).  I am wearing the new boots I fetched from East Croydon yesterday (the sole *fell off* my only other pair the day before yesterday - so I became the only female in the Western world to be left with one pair of footwear).  I used my one and only storecard to pay for the new boots, which means I'll be paying them off all year, but hell - its better than being barefoot.  Also, whilst out, Fluffhead got to ride in a miniature car thingy that moved; and Stanley and I got to eat icecream and cookies - a Christmas and birthday tradition we have.  We listened to carols, and acapella singers and then took the train home.  Stanley is upstairs wrapping gifts.  I'm about to re-organize the kitchen cupboards to accommodate the excess dry stores (see Troubadour - I do not forget what I am taught!!).  Later, Saint Mum will come by and spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with us. 

Fluffhead sleeps.  All is calm.  Shhhhhhhh.  I'm going to go into the kitchen now, and shut the door so I don't wake him with my noise moving stuff about.

Happy Christmas!  Merry Yule!  Well met, Alban Arthur!  See you soon!

A nasty little Winters Tale...

I don’t know how this story ends.

Its one thing that I sit here, spinning my words, spinning a spell, letting the little Arachne’s live when I see them, so that they will help me with the web.

Its one thing that I call upon Tyr, with his hard eyes and the cut of the sword of absolute justice that goes both ways.  That Odin, on back of Sleipnir rides in just for the joy of a scrap, because I asked.  That Thor will always defend the small man against the large and powerful oppressor.  Its one thing that I call them, most vehemently, and explain the situation in this season of ice and frost.  I explain that the Ice Giants are filling this small part of our world with lies that cloud and bank over everything so that we cannot see the land anymore, and before us it cracks.

Its another thing that I create a mood with several songs, several melodies and run it through my head until a story plays there: a powerful archetypal story where someone glows with the force of integrity and shines with the truth, getting bigger every moment as those who shout their falsities cower and shrink, their biting insults and twisted acid blowing back in their own faces as the warriors I have called throw thunder and wield swords, ravens, dogs, wolves.

I can feel the battle as it rages back and forth and up and down that room far away.  I can feel the liars telling their merry stories, barking and snapping like the dogs they are, and the supposedly neutral listener taking his notes that bias toward the powerful and refuse to listen to any other than the official story.

I close my eyes and I can see, in a strange almost cartoon form, this battle surging.  I can see the Gods fighting for us, I can see the evil men with their tarnish of grey and spitted red over them, smiling and fighting back.  They are not afraid. I feel their confidence, their arrogance is a stink I can see, like heavy dark furs covered in fat.

But I don’t know how this story ends.

I watched it for almost 2 hours.  Then quite abruptly I felt it stop.  I felt the energy I was putting through it, holding the line, I felt it falter and …stop.  I felt, I hope it was not so, I felt our side conceding something. I hope this was tactical only.  A move.

Battles remotely fought are of course difficult to view.  But it turns out I was accurate of the time it ended.  The warrior Gods pulled back and breathed heavily and the opponents vanished from the room.  The skirmish was over.

They gird him now, my loved one, and we wait for the result of today’s war fought with words in a boardroom; and with Gods and love and music on another level.  By sage and lavender, by story told through in tarot form, by the binding of purple ribbons and grey silk cloth…I know how the fate should be spelled.  But casting for another, however close…

I don’t know how this story ends.  I know it is not over.  I know we did not use all our weapons, or take this battle to a wider plane, a bigger room.  But this means we still can.  I think they think we don’t have the nerve.

In the meantime, I think on the two liars who propagated this whole story’s start. I think on their smallness, their viciousness, their attacks even within this battle that was not supposed to be a battle today (though I knew it would be).  I hope that the supposedly neutral witness was taken aback by the venom of his colleagues; the violence of the words used against the man with no union representative, the man invited to a meeting to make his side of events, and then not really allowed to.

I think on those men.  I think they need mirrors set round them, reflecting in.  I think their acid juices should eat them from within.  I think I hate, and I do not forgive.  Not yet.  I hope the one who witnessed on their side has eyes to see.

Tyr will see Justice done yet.  Thor will protect, as that is what Thor does.  Odin will ride back for us.

But I don’t know how this story ends.  A winter’s tale where the wolves howl, but as yet, who they will eat is unclear.  Are they Odin’s wolves?  Will Fenris be bound at the expense of Tyr’s hand?  Or are they just a pack from the dark side of the forest, hungry for anything warm as they are cold through and through and have no warm blood of their own so steal another’s?

I don’t know.  I sing the songs, I weave the words, I see the battle.  I see another will come.  This was just the first engagement.