A Sunday Stroll

A book, a clock, a friend and a cup of tea ..... What more could you want?

“Dodger”

“Dodger” is Terry Pratchett’s latest novel which came out on Thursday and which I was fortunate to be given a pre-publication copy of last weekend (thanks J!)  Needless to say I sat down and consumed it in two goes despite it running to 356 pages.  It is designed for those aged 11 to 111.

In early Victorian London an enterprising lad can find adventure and opportunity — if he is very smart, and very, very lucky. Dodger has the brains, the luck — and the cheek — to scrape by on his own. Everyone on the streets knows Dodger, and everyone likes Dodger. Which is a good thing, because life for a boy on the streets is anything but easy.  Dodger is a tosher – a sewer scavenger living in the squalor of Dickensian London.

When he rescues a young girl from a beating, suddenly everybody who normally wouldn’t go near the rookeries and squalor of the East End wants to know him as well.  And this tale of skulduggery, dark plans and even darker deeds begins . . .

From Dodger’s encounters with fictional villains to his meetings with famous people of the Nineteenth Century, history and fantasy intertwine in a breath-taking tale of adventure and mystery, unexpected coming-of-age, and one remarkable boy’s rise in a complex and fascinating world.  Pratchett himself admits that it is a historical fantasy not a historical novel and he bends dates and people to his will.  He did, however, try to avoid words inappropriate to the time like snob, settling instead for ‘nobby’.  But in this regard he was not totally successful and the occasional late Victorian or Twentieth Century word or phrase, like ‘entrepreneur, really jarred when I came across it.

Look out for Henry Mayhew, the Victorian author of ‘London Labour and the London Poor’ (which has been sitting on my shelves unread for twelve months – yes, I’m ashamed of myself.)  Meet Dickens and Disraeli and Joseph Bazalgettte, chief engineer of the London sewers.  If you work ad hard as Dodger did you may even meet members of the Royal family!  And the odd goat...

Dodger felt better when he cogitated on the word 'Turkish'. Somebody, probably Ginny-Come-Lately - a nice girl with a laugh that made you very nearly blush; they had been quite close once upon a time - had told him about Turkey. She had filled his mind with exciting images of dancing girls and light-brown ladies in very thin vests. Apparently, they would give you a massage and then oil you with what she called 'ungulates', which sounded very exotic, although to tell you the truth, Ginny-Come-Lately could make anything sound exotic. When he had mentioned this to Solomon - Dodger had been much younger then, and still a bit naive - the old man had said, 'Surely not. I have not travelled widely in the countries of the Levant, but whatever else they do to their goats, I am quite sure they don't rub them all over their own bodies. The goat has never been distinguished by the fragrance of its aroma. I suspect you mean "unguents", which are perfumes distilled from fragrant oils. Why'd you want to know?'
The younger Dodger had said, 'Oh, no reason really, I just heard somebody say the word.' Right now, though, whatever way you put it, the word Turkish conjured up visions of eastern promise, and so he became quite optimistic as he strolled through the streets all the way to the Turkish baths in Commercial Road.

If you are a Pratchett fan you’ll love it. If not, you might nevertheless like to give it a try to experience Dickensian London from a new perspective.

A Cuckoo Clock – with a difference

GB was given an RSPB clock at some stage in the last year and when I first went to stay with him this year I was rather taken by surprise when every hour (between 6 a.m. and 10 p.m.) was announced by the singing of a bird of some sort – a different one for each hour. At first I thought it was a bit twee and slightly annoying. And then I found it quite good fun and finally I not only enjoyed hearing  a song thrush tell me it was seven a.m. but also found it useful for gauging the time during the day.  ‘Hello, that sounds like coffee and crossword time!’

So when I got home I ordered one (a cheap equivalent not marketed by the RSPB but of a similar nature).  I love it.  It sits on the landing outside the bedroom and study and not only tells me things like ‘You’ve been sat at the computer for too long, go take a walk’ but also makes me smile in the process. I can thoroughly recommend them.

When is a Friend a Friend?

I am getting lots of postcards – some from random Postcrossers across the globe, a few from people who ask for a direct swap, a few from relatives, some from friends and some from blogging friends.  I especially like maps and have had quite a few lately.  My other likes can be seen on my Postcrossing profile.  (Yes, this is an unceremonious and unsubtle planting of a suggestion in people’s minds!)

But what this piece of my post is really about is "What is the difference between a friend and a blogging friend?"  (Ignoring any distinction between friends and acquaintances and lumping the two together.)  I started my handwritten record of postcards received with a number of columns – person, country, date, and so on.  One of the columns indicated whether the person was a postcrosser, relative, friend, blogging friend, etc.  I then found that people were going back and forth between the last two categories.  With one postcard I’d list them as a ‘friend’ and with another it would be ‘blogging friend’. It didn’t take me long to realise there is no difference.   

One of the people now considered my Friend-über-special is someone who I met through blogging. And many of those people who e-mail me, write to me, postcard me and generally keep in touch on a weekly or more frequent basis are also folk I met through blogging (or postcrossing, so perhaps there should have been another heading ‘Postcrossing friend’).  

I feel closer now to some people who simply comment on my blog (and vice versa) than I do to the vast majority of people I worked with for years.  If the blogging friends were to walk into the room and sit down for tea or coffee there would be no lack of subjects to chat about.  Many of my former colleagues would be able to share the occasional old reminiscence and little more – we have so little else in common. So from now on I am aiming to drop the expression ‘blogging friend’ and simply refer to folk as friends. 

Cup of tea anyone?

(Photo from PhraseFinder.    

You would be hard put to find a cup 

in our house nowadays - it's all mugs!)