These Are a Few Of My Favourite Things (Part XII)

I Love My Kindle

And now I know why I love my Kindle so much! I've been reading, or rather re-reading, Ian Rankin's Rebus novels and in the worst possible way for a wee yin like me – a while ago I bought three omnibuses (omnibi?) each with three stories, ie the first nine novels, as I have always liked to read a series in chronological order, that way you get a better feel for the development of the principal characters: the detective and the chronicler. Trouble is, you guessed it, the books are damn heavy for a wee thing like me, especially if a lot of my reading is during my morning rub-a-dub-dub, or out in the garden with a ciggie and a coffee. I don't keep any count of the amount of caffeine I am ingesting, but it must be lots! Maybe that's why I can't always sleep at night, or wake up about 2,30 or 3.00am and either have a mug of cocoa or a hot toddy – which I am trying to cut down on after my nearest and dearest noticed that another empty was lined up with the coffee jars for the bottle bank.

You will probably have realised that Rebus is an anagram of Bruse, and you would be right, Ian rankin used my cousin DCI Bruce Bruse as the model for his detective inspector (Bruce awas a DI at the time) and although Bruce doesn't appear as frequently in my chronicle, is simply because now that he is a DCI he spends a lot of time at Fettes which is the Edinburgh HQ for Police Scotland and like most DCIs, delegates work to teams headed by a DI. Which is why it is usually one or other of my other cousins, DI Gordon Brevity, Sergeant Goldy Brevity, WPC Isa Urquhart or Trainee WPC Gertie Mountcastle who tend to be central.

Anyhoo, that's enuff name-dropping for one day. I normally don't go in for lots and lots of name-dropping, it's not my style. Sometimes, of course, it's necessary to refer to other people in order to make a particular point, or just because I'm particularly fond of them. Like Josie.

I do like Josie.

And obviously, if you do like someone as much as I like Josie, it's nice to be able to say so.

Mind you, if I was writing a dissertation on Wittgenstein's theory, or belief, I'm not actually sure which it is, that if used and therefore blunt razor blades are left long enough they will eventually resharpen – which, when you see it in print (okay, it isn't print, it's in type, if you really have to be pedantic) seems rather bizarre, well, to be honest, it is rather bizarre – according to some Law of the Universe about infinity or simply the effects of gravity and atmosphere which wear away anything, everything, then it would not be appropriate, unless in reference to some contribution to the discussion, to simply say, “and so does Josie,” or, “Josie is right about that!”

But Josie likes Rebus and so do I, which is just one of the many things we have in common.

And for anyone who is not already familiar with him, Rebus is a Fifer and an Edinburgh cop, to boot. His origins in Fife are always present in his thinking and in Strip Jack, the story I am reading at the moment, one of the people involved is an MP, Gregor Jack, who at the beginning of the story is discovered in flagrante, in a classy New town brothel, and also a Fifer. And although – for reasons not strictly relevant, but certainly very sexist – patrons of brothels, just like customers of prostitutes, are not committing an offence, while the prostitutes and brothel owners are, Rebus, who participates in the raid, under the authority of Chief Superintendent Watson, begins to suspect that the MP had been 'set up', as reporters and photographers seemed to have been 'tipped off' and were waiting and ready to photograph Jack as he leaves the premises and is driven off with the other customers to give a statement at the Police Station. So Rebus begins to wonder about the questions: 'why would someone want to set up Gregor jack?' and 'who would want to set him up?'

I was discussing this with Josie last night – she is quite a fan of Rebus too, and has read all of Ian Rankin's books – and although she knows the outcome of the story already, she tried to put that knowledge aside and we spoke about the different reasons why anyone would want to bring down a political man.

As usual, her answers were concise: Revenge, Jealousy, Greed – all the usual suspects, “a lot of people like to see people humbled,” she said, “it's a bit like the way tabloids like to build someone up, promote them, establish them in the minds of their readers and then, suddenly and for no obvious reason, bring them crashing back down to earth. It's a kind of schadenfreude, isn't it? We like to see the rich, famous and powerful, brought down to earth, to see them on their knees, forced to apologise for whatever it is that has humbled them – and usually something to do with sex or money. And if it is someone we have admired, been encouraged by the papers to admire, then after the initial shock, we join in with the hounds baying for blood, it's a dark part of our character, this mob rule; while we might say we don't approve of the atavistic persecution of our former heroes. But we buy the papers, we watch the scenes of the abject and penitent standing by their front gates, addressing he waiting reporters and us, the viewers glued to our screens, apologising for letting everyone down, and although we have condemned the show-trials which used to take place in Stalin's Soviet Union and still do in China, and North Korea, with 'confessions' signed if not written by the accused, we still lap it all up, like the crowds in the Colliseum thousands of years ago! I sometimes wonder,” she mused, “if we have really progressed at all?” and then she fell silent, no doubt with all the images she had invoked tumbling around in her pretty head.

“Enough,” said I, “it's time for bed,” and up the wooden hill we went.

  But Oh! What a shock in the penultimate episode of Line of Duty (BBC2 9pm Thursday)! This and Scott and Bailey (ITV 9pm Wednesday) are the two Must Sees at the moment: which means, lock the doors, take the phone off the hook, douse the lights, after making sure that you have a cuppa at your side because you won't want to miss a word. Actually, I record them so I won't have to sit cross-legged. after drinking my tea. Lod is written by Jed Mercurio and this is the Third Season, which is difficult to believe, it feels like more, because every episode is so crammed with details that it feels like there have been more. SaB too – there is no wasted time, no long-shots of a city skyline, or of it's mean streets, In these two serials, just as in Happy Valley written by Sally Wainwright, who wrote SaB and Last Tango in Halifax, every scene, every shot, moves the story along and this means information is crammed into the dialogue, the visuals and all helps to build the tension. That and the unexpected deaths of principal characters. Crikey! Watch it on the BBC iplayer if you haven;t seen it , and the ITV player for Scott and Bailey. Whatever you do.

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A Bolt From The Blue

How unexpected was that? I was happily reading the fourth of Anne Cleves Shetland Series featuring DI Jimmy Perez, played in the TV series by Douglas Henshall, when Bang! Like a punch in the face, the kind of shock ending you used to get in an episode of 24! it came right out of nowhere and literally shocked me – I switched of my Kindle and strode into the house, shouting and swearing, quite unlike my normally composed and reticent self and several of my friends came running, only to stomp off when I assured them that I was ok and told them what had provoked my distress - “it's only a story!” was the unified response, and I was abandoned to deal with my grief. I won't say any more in case I accidentally drop a spoiler, but I really don't know why authors build up certain characters in a story only to chop their heads off in almost the last chapter; I had already grieved over another interesting charactyer earlier on and thought that I had worked out who was the murderer, kind of, a bit, but “oh no!” Good read though. It's called Blue Lightning and is set almost entirely on Fair Isle – ir actually opens with Jimmy and Fran, his fiancée, arriving by plane, which Fran believes is going to crash into the cliffs. That's a piece of neurosis that I share – I've never been a good passenger and clenche everything at the seriously scary bits: take off, obviously; cruising, oh yes, obviously; and landing, mucho obviously. Apart from that, I'm okay. Absolutely no problem boarding and disembarking, I actually enjoy those bits a lot, and even the taxiing, I could do that for hours. In fact. If there was a long runway from my airport to the destination and we could taxi all the way, now why hasn't anyone else thought of that – it's my solution to the problems people like me experience with air travel and I bet millions would go for it. Sorted.

The story is told through the eyes not only of Perez and Fran, but residents and visitors to the Field Centre, based in the Fictional North Light, a lighthouse, now automatic, with the rest of the buildings converted to the offices and sleeping quarters needed to accommodate the staff and visitors, twitchy crowd that they were. And you become drawn to some of them and assume that they are there for the duration, but not so. It's not quite Ten little Indians but certainly feels like that as, after the first murder you begin wondering who will be next, and then next.

Well crafted, as all Anne Cleves stories are and worth the ride. Apart from that shock! And then the other! And then it all comes out in the wash, as any good detective yarn does. I will be reading more of them, and am already looking forward to the next season on BBC 1.

My Holiday Reading

 

I'm reading the first of Anne Cleves' Shetland stories, featuring Detective Inspector Jimmy Perez (who local legend says is descended from a Spanish sailor, the only survivor of a ship from the Spanish Armada which had been blown off course and sank just off fair Isle) and I have discovered that I made a mistake!

Of course, I brought my Kindle with me to London – and I have found the time to read two other of these detective novels set in the Shetland Isles. My mistake was that I thought the first one I read, White Nights, was the first, and the next, Red Bones, was the second, but in fact Raven Black, which I am now well into was the first. This might not be of any significance in the 'Grand Scheme of Things', but it has thrown my normal approach to a series of books into confusion. I like to begin with the first and read them in sequence – the Alex Delaware books of Jonathan Kellerman, and Donna Leon's Venice-set novels featuring Commisario Guido Brunetti; the John Shakespeare series by Rory Clements, and C J Sansom's Giordano Bruno novels – and this has slightly thrown me off kilter. No, I do not have OCD and I am not a person with Aspergers Syndrome. I'm not! I just like to begin on page one and read page by page to the end. I'm the same with TV dramas, and movies. I watch from the beginning to the end. Years ago, if I missed the first 5 or 10 minutes I wouldn't watch the rest, I couldn't. Impossible. Now, and ever since my first clunky VCR, I record every episode of a serial or any other programme I want to watch and then, if for any reason I miss the beginning or I get a phone call from my mum or aunt or a friend who doesn't know what's on TV, I will answer it and be perfectly cool, because I know I can go back to the paused show and press play. I do admit that when I first saw Play it again, Sam! I tried to hide behind the cushions while the friends present in the room burst out laughing and pointing at me and shouting “Play it again, Teri!” which I thought was rather childishly OTT, but hey, they were right. I was uptight and neurotic and have one fixed an unerasable rule: I watch from the beginning to the end, the same way I read a book. Surely that's just normal, no?

And having the Kindle with me is handy. Although I'm not the only smoker in the house, I am the one with the most consistent habit. Coffee, Kindle, Ciggie. They go together like Horse and Carriage. So while everybody else is watching TV or gossiping over their coffee, I pop out into the back garden with mu accessories, alone, because I respect Celeste's rule that it is a “No Smoking House” simply because it is her house and anyway, having never smoked indoors at all since the ban came into force on pubs and clubs, and before that I always respected the wishes of my family and friends, and now I would never dream of lighting up indoors. Even at home. Even alone. I just don't smoke indoors, period. Except, maybe, if I'm honest and there really isn't any point in not, if I've got PMT and it's a monsoon outside and there's no-one else in, or if I'm at Jonesey's, cause she smokes in her house and it would be daft me going into the garden for a puff, while she's in the kitchen, having a puff. So I compromise.

And I love my Kindle. It's basic, not a Fire or Paperwhite, which means that if it’s dark outside I stick a Headlight on before going out – or I night take my tablet if it's handy. And an umbrella if it's pelting down. I used to keep a golf umbrella by the back door at work, until it blew inside -out in a gale and most of the spokes got bent or broken. But there's now a little kinda porchy/gazeboey thingy or actually, it's like a bush shelter, at the bottom of the garden, all it needs is a destination board and one of those poles with an enamel plate saying which buses come through the garden.

But maybe it's a sign of my maturity that I haven't abandoned the Perez novels just because I've been reading them out of sequence. I'll just double-check before I start on the next one, that it really is number four, and not seven. Because otherwise, I don't like to contemplate!

I really Got my Goat!

 

And I'm going to tell you all about it. Biddy's Mum, Celeste, said that she was going to take us all out for dinner, but it was going to be a special surprise. So she had the taxi drop us of somewhere I didn't recognise and we walked through streets which were quiet, full of what I believe were called artisans Houses – a bit like the Mill Workers cottages you see in a lot of scottish towns, especially in the Borders, or Fishermen's Houses up both the east and West Coast towns. They were really sweet, someone said “two up/two down” which could have lots of naughty meanings but actually referred to the rooms – living room and kitchen on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs, and probably an outside toilet in the back garden, along with maybe a wash-house. Of course lots of them have been converted and modernised and they are very chic. We turned so many corners we all got quite lost and, as the sun had gone down and it was getting dark it was impossible to know what direction we were taking. Me and the other girls were glad we hadn't dressed up and worn heels, we'd have been hirpling by now! But by this time, Stacy was getting a bit noisy, which I put down to hunger pangs – it was a few hourse since we'd eaten at Weatherspoons and we were all coming up to that line which we can't cross/won't cross until we've eaten. And we were hopelessly lost. Until Celeste led us out of the residential streets and on to a main road – and told us it was just over the nridge, which as far as I could see was just a hump over something dark, until we came to a sign for a railway station, and then we were over the hump and just on the opther side was this brihgt oasis – a Caribbean restaurant

which was our destination. And this really got my Goat: Curry Goat with Rice and Peas! “It's got to be a joke?” No, it was there in black and white in the menu, but for starters we had Banana! Well, no, not strictly Banana – straight up, it was Plantin which when I saw it dressed was Banana. Undressed, sliced and cooked and served with lovely salad it was De-Lish! Mmmm. Follow that! And Goat

followed that and I was bowled over, knocked out, on the ropes, absolutely smash hit converted to one of the best dishes I've ever loved. And if you haven't tried Curry Goat – go out now and track it down. You won't be disappointed and if you are I will give you my money back to me not once, not twice, but Three Times Over and you can't say fairer than that: Oh My God, I'm beginning to sound like Arthur Daley, or maybe Her Indoors! I don't know which would be worse!

 

These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things (Part X!)
 
 
 

  
 
  
 

When a Woman is Tired of London, she is Tired!

When I was a kid, I remember being taken to the London Plnetarium which was utterly enthralling, seeing all the Galaxies and the Milky Way and the way the solar System has evolved and how everything has been moving outward at a tremendous rate ever since the Big Bang! Of course, now I'm told that this will only last for another umpteen million years and then it will slow down and reach a brief moment of stasis before everything begins rushing back towards the centre of the universe when, who knows, maybe everything will implode and for a brief moment there will be another Big Bang and history will repeat itself – or it might just be a big car crash of stars and planets bumping against each other like those tangles you get into on the Dodgems when nobody can get out of it till the roustabout comes and with a flick of his wrist steers one car out and the rest can all get going again – Jeepers, is god just a big tattooed Roustabout, setting the cars spinning and racing around again and then retiring to his booth for a smoke and a can of whatever Gods drink? Anyway, the Planetarium is is no more but now houses Madame Tussauds which we went to again after a lifetime, and then to 221B Baker Street – The Sherlock Holmes Museum!

When I first visited the famous Wax Works, it was with my Aunts Daphne and Maude, who didn't seem to find the same things funny as I did, and my sister Stacy, who didn't seem to find the same things funny as I did. This was before my involvement with The Ring of Gold and Jimmy Savile and I was very naive and innocent and probably a bit like a sweet little St Trinian's girl. Actually, now, if I remember rightly, weren't the St Trinian's girls into smoking, gambling, drinking, sex, drugs and Rock & Roll? My role models

Anyway, they have new wax figures since I was last there, I suppose it is a bit of a barometer of who's in and who's gone. I remember Muhammed Ali and President Kennedy and The Beatles. Now they've got Star Wars, the Kardashians and Benedict Cumberbatch; David cameron and David Attenborough as Boris Johnson – actually that has always been the fun of going round a Wax Works: guessing who the face actually looks like, because a lot of them don't quite catch the look of the official subject and do often look more like someone else. Which can be a bit creepy! Oh, Nelson Mandela does look kinda like him, but their Barack Obama isn't quite right. But it's a good laugh. I was disappointed that few of the Sports Stars looked like the real Deal – Mo Farah was the best, except for his hands which look like a big spider about to land on his head!

Astonished that they have branches in 21 Cities; well, 20 Cities and Blackpool – it just goes to show that the original Golden Mile with the Pleasure Beach, Tower and Three Piers is still on the world stage, alongside Amsterdam, Berlin, Las Vegas, Washington DC and Wuhan! WTF is Wuhan? I've just looked it up on their website and it's all in Chinese, which isn't much good if you can't read Chinese but are thinking about Wuhan for your next Hen Night – Sod that, we're off the Blackpool, you can get a good Fish and Chips there and there used to be a wee tram and a fantastic Carousel on the North Pier, I hope they are still there!

 

And from Madam Tussauds, we (that is me and Stacy and our cousins Biddy and Suzi who live in London and were acting as very amateur tour guides, walked round the corner to visit the Sherlock Holmes Museum at 221B Baker Street – which everyone knows is a fictitious address, but nevertheless and totally disregarding that, you can have your photo taken outside with a Victorian Police Constable (or at least someone masquerading as a Victorian Police Constable, which I’m sure would have been a crime in Victorian England) and a very nice fellow he is!

 

 

And the plot is complicated enough – indeed, you might say it thickens, even more than the London Fog – without the location for the TV series with Benedict Cumberbatch (of Madam Tussauds Fame) and Martin Freeman, who's only little which makes me such a fan of his, being on the petite side myself and forever being towered over by men (and not a few women) of the Cumberbatch ilk, by the location being transferred to what is actually 187 Baker Street next door to Speedy's café, a block to

the South of the real address (if there really was a B) which of course has the Museum which would be inappropriate in the series, I know, I know – who cares about all this extraneous detail? ME!

On the ground floor of the museum is a gift shop packed to the ceiling with all sorts of goodies and although some are quite expensive (for me and my chums) such as walking sticks for £40, there are lots at almost pocket money prices, so, yes, we succumbed. Hangs head in shame at being such a tourist.

The Tour of the house is £15 which, if you're a fan is fine, though I wouldn't fancy paying for a crowd who weren't all that bothered – and I did see some couples in which one was clearly being dragged along by the other. And the different ages of the visitors probably meant that there were some drawn by the new series set in present day London while others were probably aficionados of the Victorian originals. I've got a pair of books, one having all the Short Stories and the other the Long Stories. They were my first ever leaving gift from my first ever job and have moved with me everywhere. They aren't particularly expensive, but I treasure them and have read the stories many times. So I suppose that, while I enjoy the modern TV series, I do still see the real Holmes and Watson in great woollen ulsters and bowler or top hats striding through the fog or hailing a hansom cab. I loved seeing the rooms and felt myself to be Irene Adler – yes, I was always drawn to 'That Woman' and would loved to have played her – first setting foot in Holmes Drawing Room and meeting the famous consulting detective and his vague and blustering friend. It was packed with memorabilia and you almost expected one of the pair co walk in and make himself a pot of tea, or call down to Mrs Hudson, perhaps even see Sherlock himself, playing his violin or injecting heroin.

It was strange afterwards to step out into modern London, see red omnibuses and Japanese tourists, people speaking into their hands or taking selfies with the Bobby.

We were ravenous so, despite Biddy wanting to go into Speedy's and ask the young man behind the counter for “a roll with a big fat meaty sausage to fill her up,” we ran round to Weatherspoons and had big plates of steak and kidney pie and pints of Directors! Nothing girlie for us lot!

 

I've been away for a week and got another to go – that doesn't sound right, cause I've already gone, or as my old Gran used to say: “You've been and gone and dunnit!” And she was usually right, too. I'm in London, which is why my posts to Quadrivial Quandary and Blogger have been rather erratic this past week and likely to be so for the next, I've been on the London Eye, or High Eye! As the locals don't say, but I think they should. I've said somewhere that I get vertigo on my highest (8”) heels so I was hanging on for dear life or death as the thing rose slowly up into the stratosphere. Then, someone pointed out that I'd been up Ben Nevis (by cable car, you don't imagine I'd actually CLIMB a mountain – I'm not so daft, what goes up must come down and all that) and this wasn't quite as high, though at the top if you look down, which I. DO. NOT. ADVISE! You will convince yourself that the whole thing is going to slide very slowly into the river taking all ow the certifiable paying

customers with it. They should pay US not the other way round! Why do we do these things? You know what I mean – we pay to go in planes, which crash; on trains, which crash; in boats, which sink; in lifts which either get stuck or drop suddenly and crash; in cars, which definitely crash; on buses and underground trains which get blown up; even people going to have a fun day out at an amusment park go on rides, which crash; there is no sense to this obsession we have for paying to go on things which crash, sink or get blown up! Is it because we are stupid and just do as we are told, or do we have a weird death wish?

Ps: The answer to the above question is yes,