So, One Small Footprint down, Spinning like a Peerie to go, and then I’ll be done with Molly Weir. I’m still finding it strangely compelling – that is, I’m still finding it compelling and still finding it strange that I find it compelling.
If anyone should happen to come across Molly Weir’s cookery book, I’d be very happy to take it off your hands.
So, it turned out Linda had Kane and Abel, so I didn’t need the library after all. I haven’t actually read Kane and Abel before, as such, I’ve heard it as audiobook instead. Anyway, it’s a gripping story, quite as gripping the second time around. I followed it by a reread of The Prodigal Daughter, logically enough, as it’s a sequel of sorts (though it can be read separately, I would highly recommend reading Kane and Abel first, as reading them in the «wrong» order will spoil the first for you to some extent – as the main gist of the story is repeated summarily, though from a slightly different point of view).
Mild spoilers follow…
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A very different sort of travelogue compared with the ones I normally read, Tim Mackintosh-Smith’s Travels with a Tangerine had me variously fascinated, spellbound and laughing out loud. The focus on a world quite foreign to me and also the temporal confusion resulting from the change, or mostly lack thereof, between Ibn Battutah’s time and ours made this a very refreshing read. As a bonus, the author has a wonderfully dry sense of humour and a gift for understatement. Quite definitely one to recommend.
I suddenly got the urge to read some books-about-books, and so I reread Used and Rare and Slightly Chipped by Lawrence and Nancy Goldstone. One reviewer called the first book «A Year in Provence for book-collectors», which is not far off. The Goldstone’s become book collectors (as in people who buy specific editions of books rather than people who own lots of paperbacks) by accident, so to say, and the two books chronicle their initiation into this strange new world. Now, to me, of course, pretty much everything to do with books holds a fascination that will make me suffer through even the driest language. However, with the Goldstones we are spared that predicament, as the prose carries you along in the most admirable manner. If you are a beginner at the book-collecting game yourself you can learn alongside the authors, but even if you’ve been at it for a while you’re likely to learn something new – and at the very least you can have a good chuckle at mishaps and anecdotes.
I thought I might as well get on with this Archer reread, and since I’ve only read First Among Equals once before I figured it was due its turn. It’s all good. I want to read Kane and Abel next, but have discovered that I don’t own a copy. I might just check if the library can help me on this one…
So, I finished Molly Weir’s Stepping into the Spotlight and Walking into the Lyons Den and wanted to start the sixth book, but suddenly realised I’ve somehow messed up and I haven’t got the sixth book after all – it’s called One Small Footprint – and that Spinning like a Peerie – which is the next one I have – is actually the seventh book. It’s not as if I couldn’t skip a book – there’s no plot-lines to give away, after all, but I think I prefer to wait until One Small Footprint (duly ordered from ABE) arrives. When reading about someone’s life and career it’s nice to get things in the proper order, after all.
Well, back to Stepping into the Spotlight and Walking into the Lyons Den… All I really wanted to say was they’re every bit as delightful as the initial trilogy, and I’m still impressed at how interesting Weir makes reading about radio shows I’ve never heard of before and other acting accomplishments of an actor I hadn’t even heard of before I happened upon Shoes were for Sunday.
There is a bit of an Archer reread going on. At least I’ve just finished As the Crow Flies for, I think, the fourth time, and I think I will probably start on First Among Equals pretty soon. As the Crow Flies is possibly my favourite Archer book. It’s the poor boy done good motif, of course, as Charlie Trumper makes his way from working at his grandfather’s barrow in the Whitechapel market to retiring as chairman of «the biggest barrow in the world», a Harrods-like department store in Chelsea as the reader shouts «Good for you!». However, it’s also Archer’s customary ability to make the wheelings and dealings of business’ and politics’ tactics seem fascinating.
I might have mentioned before the complete suspension of disbelief that goes with loving to reread books. It is this quality which makes it possible to find Pride & Prejudice exciting at the 20th rereading («Will they really get it together this time, too?»), and it’s an ability I’d be loath to lose. However, in some cases it’s more of a curse, as with As the Crow Flies where, no matter how well I remember the details, there is one death in the novel which is equally devastating at every reading. In fact, it gets worse once you know it’s coming, as you feel there ought to be some way for you to prevent it – a timely phone call to one of the main characters, for example.
Consider yourself warned. Don’t let it stop you reading the book, however, as it really is very good.
How disappointing. I love travel books, and I love travel books about the UK above all, which is why I was looking forward to reading A Fête Worse than Death by Iain Aitch, however, the book was a bit of a disappointment. I’m hard pressed to put my finger on exactly why Aitch’s writing is not engaging. He includes liberal amounts of anecdotes, enough dialogue to please me and visits precisely the sort of events whose description I’d be likely to find interesting. He even travels the way I would, by public transport or by convincing people to give him lifts. And still I continually found my attention drifting. A pity, really.
There ought to be an internet site where you can list the authors you are interested in and be notified whenever they publish a new book. Too often I find there is a new book out by one of my favourite authors and that it has actually been out for quite a while and no one has bothered to tell me. I know I could pay greater attention to the press or visit bookshops more often, but I would really prefer not to as I spend enough money on books as it is (and as we all know, it is physically impossible to walk out of a bookshop without having purchased any books – and were I to read more reviews I would be tempted to visit bookshops more).
So we need an internet service. I offer this as an idea to anyone who is looking for a concept for a new site. I’d do it myself, but can’t be bothered. I’d rather just get on with reading the books.
In the meantime, I am grateful to Donna for listing Jeffrey Archer’s Sons of Fortune on her currently reading list, as it alerted me to the existence of the novel. Naturally, I rushed to the bookshop to secure a copy immediately.
It is good. It’s not Archer’s best, but it gripped me pretty much immediately and held my attention until the last page (I would have preferred not to have to put it down, unfortunately that could not be avoided). It ends with a trick, as is habitual with Archer – I’d tell you what it was, but that would be a major spoiler.
In which the tenements of Glasgow come to life.
Molly Weir’s Trilogy of Scottish Childhood has been my main read since Christmas – there seems to be very little time for reading these days (blame Martin). I picked up my paperback copy in Dufftown in September, it contains three volumes – however, they only seem to be available separately now – Shoes were for Sunday, Best Foot Forward and One Toe on the Ladder.
Weir writes engagingly about her childhood in the Glasgow tenements, and paints a vivid picture of a way of life based on making every penny go as far as possible. I had a most difficult time getting through the chapters on food, not because they were in any way boring but because I kept getting hungy (I mean, there’s a limit to how much you can read about fish and chips before going in search of a pub that serves them). It was also fascinating reading about Weir’s progress towards fame on the stage, despite never (knowingly) having seen her.
On searching for the amazon links for this entry, I discovered that there are actually three more installments of Weir’s autobiography. They are now duly ordered (though through abebooks).