Last night I was invited to attend a fellow Bath Spa MACW 's book launch. I'd really been looking forward to this as I think Lucy is a great writer, and it was a chance to see old friends and tutors again.
The room upstairs at Waterstone's in Bath was stiflingly hot. Groups of people were talking loudly, sipping glasses of wine. I scanned the crowd for a friendly face. Then I remembered my year was always late for everything. To kill time I inspected the shelves of self-help books (there were so many!), cookery books (one in a shape of large chocolate bar, one looking like a carton of juice) and gardening books (yes you guessed it, in shape of a mini plot with seeds included). I was getting bored and tried to start a conversation with a few people, but no-one wanted to talk to an old alumni. Don't really blame them. At last I spotted a member of Bath Spa staff. I think I must have smelled as he too left me after just one word.
Suddenly I came to the realisation that it had indeed been over five years since my MA in Creative Writing and that most people had either moved away from the area or moved on with their lives. Away from writing? Could that be done?
Lucy's talk and reading was lovely. I can see why her publishers, Chicken House, went for 'Stolen'. The book is aimed at late teens and deals with the very sensitive and scary subject of kidnap. At an airport...huh, just the thought of it makes me want to wrap my now eighteen-year-old in cotton wool. And never leave her out of my sight, nor let her go anywhere on her own. (Her gap year is off and I'm going to confiscate her car keys.) 'Stolen' is a good, scary book for late teens - but it's not suitable for their sensitive mothers.
The launch was a great success, the audience asked several relevant and interesting questions, and there was a long queue of people wanting their books signed. I'm going to recommend 'Stolen' to everyone I know, even the mothers of teens. I just wish I'd not got my hopes up about a MA reunion. That I might have to arrange myself.
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Madame de Sade at Wyndham's
As I sat down in the theatre on Friday and leafed through the programme, I realised that by the end of the 'Donmar at the West End' season we've seen all the productions. (We have tickets to see Hamlet in August). This is not intended as a boast. It's to note that so far I've only liked one of the productions, Twelfth Night. This is unusual because I rarely come out of the original Donmar Warehouse without having loved the play.
Is it because the Wyndham's is a traditional theatre whereas Donmar Warehouse has the audience seated around the stage and the actors don't have to worry about projecting their voices to the back of a large auditorium? Of course in order to attract the big name actors and to be able to stage large productions, the numbers matter. But even so.
In Madame de Sade, acting, as one would presume with stars such as Dame Judy Dench, Rosamund Pike and Frances Barber, was outstanding. The subject matter was interesting, as was the construction of the play, with the different viewpoints of the Marquis represented by the various roles. But something else in the play didn't work.
Firstly there was no interval. The play was divided into three acts, all set several years apart. There are problems with this format: a) how to let the audience know time has passed b) how to make the audience believe time has passed. The first was dealt with by projecting the date on a screen lowered between the acts, as well as several clumsy lines announcing how many years had gone by. Second problem was sorted out with make-up and the addition of a stick to the the older character of Miss Dench. None of these worked. My daughter noted that it's always difficult in a play to show the passing of time - on screen it works so much better. A play which may have worked in the 1960's does not work in 2009.
Secondly there's the subject matter. Obviously it's still shocking, particularly when the Marquis' victims were young, but what relevance do the actions and reactions of the women in this play have in today's world? A powerful man, a titled man with good connections, is found to have had violent, sexual orgies with some prostitutes and servants in a seedy seaside town. A few women, including his wife, mother-in-law, wife's sister, a devout Christian friend and a titled woman of ill repute contemplate these actions through a period of 20 or so years. In pre-revolutionary France, the women have little else to talk about. In modern Britain they would have got on with their lives while they let the sad man wither in a high-security prison somewhere. So why would we now be interested in what the women in eighteenth century France made of the Marquis de Sade?
When the play was about to start, only a few moments before the curtain was up, a couple in front of us found out their tickets had been for the previous week. They were removed from their seats while the owners of the correct tickets for the correct night installed themselves in front of us. Half way though the play I envied the couple who'd missed their night at the theatre. I imagined them sitting in a bar somewhere, laughing at their mistake, enjoying a glass of wine.
But no, I didn't really wish I'd missed this first production of Madame de Sade in the West End. I just wish it could have been done at the Warehouse. Perhaps then the passing of time would have felt smoother and the reactions to the sexual violence more relevant.
Is it because the Wyndham's is a traditional theatre whereas Donmar Warehouse has the audience seated around the stage and the actors don't have to worry about projecting their voices to the back of a large auditorium? Of course in order to attract the big name actors and to be able to stage large productions, the numbers matter. But even so.
In Madame de Sade, acting, as one would presume with stars such as Dame Judy Dench, Rosamund Pike and Frances Barber, was outstanding. The subject matter was interesting, as was the construction of the play, with the different viewpoints of the Marquis represented by the various roles. But something else in the play didn't work.
Firstly there was no interval. The play was divided into three acts, all set several years apart. There are problems with this format: a) how to let the audience know time has passed b) how to make the audience believe time has passed. The first was dealt with by projecting the date on a screen lowered between the acts, as well as several clumsy lines announcing how many years had gone by. Second problem was sorted out with make-up and the addition of a stick to the the older character of Miss Dench. None of these worked. My daughter noted that it's always difficult in a play to show the passing of time - on screen it works so much better. A play which may have worked in the 1960's does not work in 2009.
Secondly there's the subject matter. Obviously it's still shocking, particularly when the Marquis' victims were young, but what relevance do the actions and reactions of the women in this play have in today's world? A powerful man, a titled man with good connections, is found to have had violent, sexual orgies with some prostitutes and servants in a seedy seaside town. A few women, including his wife, mother-in-law, wife's sister, a devout Christian friend and a titled woman of ill repute contemplate these actions through a period of 20 or so years. In pre-revolutionary France, the women have little else to talk about. In modern Britain they would have got on with their lives while they let the sad man wither in a high-security prison somewhere. So why would we now be interested in what the women in eighteenth century France made of the Marquis de Sade?
When the play was about to start, only a few moments before the curtain was up, a couple in front of us found out their tickets had been for the previous week. They were removed from their seats while the owners of the correct tickets for the correct night installed themselves in front of us. Half way though the play I envied the couple who'd missed their night at the theatre. I imagined them sitting in a bar somewhere, laughing at their mistake, enjoying a glass of wine.
But no, I didn't really wish I'd missed this first production of Madame de Sade in the West End. I just wish it could have been done at the Warehouse. Perhaps then the passing of time would have felt smoother and the reactions to the sexual violence more relevant.
Thursday, 21 May 2009
About following me...
Some people have mentioned that they're having problems being followers. You need to enter your full e-mail address and password, but you can remain anonymous. Of course if you wish to follow me publicly, that's very nice indeed. It's great to know who's reading my blog. The more the merrier.
I also love getting comments, as well as opinions on the content. So keep them coming! The word verification is only there to stop spam, I'm told this is a reasonable precaution to take.
Chelsea Flower Show without lunch!
My friend and I have a tradition: we go to the Chelsea Flower Show, but not just for the greatest garden event of the year. My friend has a balcony and I'm really not into gardening as much as just into maintaining one. But we do like our lunch afterwards. And we are quite partial to the Pimms they serve.
Of course we enjoy the show gardens too, even if you need strong and sharp elbows to get a closer look. Here's the winning garden by the Swedish landscape architect, Ulf Nordfjell. He won last year too, and to me this 2009 version wasn't that different. Also I couldn't help but wonder where all the Finnish garden designers were?
Of course we enjoy the show gardens too, even if you need strong and sharp elbows to get a closer look. Here's the winning garden by the Swedish landscape architect, Ulf Nordfjell. He won last year too, and to me this 2009 version wasn't that different. Also I couldn't help but wonder where all the Finnish garden designers were?
I preferred the Laurent-Perrier Garden (I would, wouldn't I?) because it had more dramatic colour combinations. The designer looks pretty hot too. And he's Italian. What more can I say?
OK, I could say that he's used deep red Paeonia 'Buckeye Belle', Aquilegia 'Ruby Port' and Iris 'Black Swan' and the deep purple 'Superstition' amongst evergreen grasses. And that the effect was stunning.
He'd also used classic lines of yew trees with box hedging. There was flowing water on white gravel. This is the kind of garden I'd like to wander through. My friend pointed out you'd not be able to walk under the trees because of the wide water features. Ah well, practicalities are so boring.
Which brings me onto the Quilted Velvet Garden. Though striking, we were left wondering how one could make one's way into the restful snug at the centre of the display. Answers in comments please!
When I saw the Cancer Research Garden I didn't think much of it, a bit too showy, but the pictures came out very well.
Back to the lack of lunch. In the past we've been to the wonderful Italian restaurant on Lower Sloane Street, Caraffini. We were early adopters at Tom Aiken's in Elystan Street, as well as at Oriel's near Sloane Street tube station. It all started with the innocent question, 'Do you have to be back for the children today?' And the first unbooked lunch (I forget where it was now) was probably the best. I ended up staying the night in London and the tradition was born.
But the best of traditions need to be broken sometime. And yesterday was just such a time. As I sat on the train home to Wiltshire, eating my take-away sushi, I did miss the first glass of wine and the anticipation of an excellent meal and laughter with my dear friend.
A clear head and light pocket next day is no consolation: in 2010 the Chelsea Flower Show with lunch -tradition will have to be restored. We are Finnish after all!
Monday, 18 May 2009
The Finns and alcohol
A leading Finnish evening paper, Iltalehti, today reports that we Finns have broken another record. Not such a good one this time, since we've become the highest consumers of alcohol in the Nordic Countries. Only the Danes used to be more thirsty than us Finns, but now it's just the Irish, Czechs and Hungarians in Europe who gulp down more than 10 litres of alcohol per person in a year.
Even the units are bigger in Finland than they are in the UK. We ex-pats joke that a Finnish unit is a bottle of wine, whereas the British one is a small glass. But it's actually not the unit size that's different but the amount that according to the Finnish government constitutes excessive alcohol use. A weekly amount should in Finland not exceed 24 units for men and 16 units for women. This in the UK is 21 and 14. It appears we Finns truly can take more alcohol than our British counterparts.
Kippis!
Sunday, 17 May 2009
Doll's House at the Donmar
'I didn't nod off once!' This was my partner's reaction to the play. Which I have to say is praise indeed. He does have a tendency to fall asleep in most unusual places, but enough of him.
We go to the Donmar thanks to my London friend. We favour the Scandinavian and Russian 19th century playwrights: Ibsen, Strindberg, Chekhov. The male members of our little theatre going group groan when we announce the latest line-up.
'Couldn't we go and see something where people are happy and not committing suicide for a change?'
We tried, a few seasons ago we even saw some Shakespeare (not that Othello's particularly cheerful), but like the Donmar, we do enjoy a good tragedy with lashings of hand-wringing misery.
As the men sat down to watch Doll's House last night they made themselves comfortable on the wide seats, expecting to be napping in a few moments. I ignore this crime against the performing arts because I love theatre so much. Even a bad production is a joy. It's a live performance. Much effort has gone into it. The acting, staging, direction, lighting, all has to come together in order to suspend the viewer's disbelief.
The cast and production team of Doll's House had us all at the edge of our seats. Gillian Anderson as Nora was sensual, determined, strong and vulnerable at the same time. Even the single wrongly delivered line added to her charm on stage. Toby Stephens was frighteningly convincing as an Edwardian patriarch: self-righteous and aggressive. These actors' joint performance left the audience breathless. Even though I'd seen the play in its various incarnations several times and knew the ending, I was still left guessing what the characters would do next. The final scene was as dramatic as if it was my first viewing.
The rest of the cast was equally outstanding. Christopher Eccleston delivered his lines with accustomed passion, although to me he seemed slightly out of sync with the time and place of the play. As if he was a character from 1960's dropped into an Edwardian era. (Once a time traveler...)
This adaptation was particularly poignant to the current political scandal. I doubt whether it was intended as the rehearsals must have begun well before the revelations of MP's financial wrongdoings. Still, it's the genius of a writer such as Zinnie Harris to transform an Edwardian play to so accurately reflect the 21st century. Not that a financial political scandal in any country in any century is an unexpected event.
When we made our way to Corrigans through the crowded Soho Streets, I felt almost drugged by the artistic excellence I'd just experienced. Too punch-drunk to notice how intoxicated the other late night revellers were, as they spilled out of bars and filled the pavements. Too happy to care that the traffic was ridiculously busy for the time of night. For once a play had been enjoyed by all of us. Whats more, no-one had slept, nor died during it.
We go to the Donmar thanks to my London friend. We favour the Scandinavian and Russian 19th century playwrights: Ibsen, Strindberg, Chekhov. The male members of our little theatre going group groan when we announce the latest line-up.
'Couldn't we go and see something where people are happy and not committing suicide for a change?'
We tried, a few seasons ago we even saw some Shakespeare (not that Othello's particularly cheerful), but like the Donmar, we do enjoy a good tragedy with lashings of hand-wringing misery.
As the men sat down to watch Doll's House last night they made themselves comfortable on the wide seats, expecting to be napping in a few moments. I ignore this crime against the performing arts because I love theatre so much. Even a bad production is a joy. It's a live performance. Much effort has gone into it. The acting, staging, direction, lighting, all has to come together in order to suspend the viewer's disbelief.
The cast and production team of Doll's House had us all at the edge of our seats. Gillian Anderson as Nora was sensual, determined, strong and vulnerable at the same time. Even the single wrongly delivered line added to her charm on stage. Toby Stephens was frighteningly convincing as an Edwardian patriarch: self-righteous and aggressive. These actors' joint performance left the audience breathless. Even though I'd seen the play in its various incarnations several times and knew the ending, I was still left guessing what the characters would do next. The final scene was as dramatic as if it was my first viewing.
The rest of the cast was equally outstanding. Christopher Eccleston delivered his lines with accustomed passion, although to me he seemed slightly out of sync with the time and place of the play. As if he was a character from 1960's dropped into an Edwardian era. (Once a time traveler...)
This adaptation was particularly poignant to the current political scandal. I doubt whether it was intended as the rehearsals must have begun well before the revelations of MP's financial wrongdoings. Still, it's the genius of a writer such as Zinnie Harris to transform an Edwardian play to so accurately reflect the 21st century. Not that a financial political scandal in any country in any century is an unexpected event.
When we made our way to Corrigans through the crowded Soho Streets, I felt almost drugged by the artistic excellence I'd just experienced. Too punch-drunk to notice how intoxicated the other late night revellers were, as they spilled out of bars and filled the pavements. Too happy to care that the traffic was ridiculously busy for the time of night. For once a play had been enjoyed by all of us. Whats more, no-one had slept, nor died during it.
Friday, 15 May 2009
I'm writing again, in the sauna.
Some of you may have noticed that I've been rather busy on the blogging front recently. As well as writing here I've also commented on other people's blogs. I love receiving comments so I try to return the compliment as often as possible. And there are so many interesting blogs out there - list of the ones I love most are below.
All this online activity does not increase the word count on my current manuscript, The Lost Daughter. Apart from my last short-lived crisis of confidence, the other reason I've found it hard to return to the story of my Russian heroine, Alyona, and her friend from Finland, Hanna, is that I hadn't quite worked out the plot in my head yet.
Yesterday afternoon I decided I should take a look at the four chapters I'd written so far. It'd been more than two months since I'd done this. Fearfully I started reading. What if I hated the story? What if the writing made me want to start afresh? I read slowly and carefully through the 50 or so pages. It was OK, in fact I quite liked it, no I loved it! I made a few edits, sorted out the time-line (that was one thing I had decided upon) and put the pages down. Surely now I could finish charting the plot?
I looked at the many notes I made at the University library in Helsinki, and the box of cuttings and print-outs I'd gathered together. But my mind was blank. My problem was the motives. What compelled all these people to act in a way I'd decided they would? I wanted the action to happen in the UK initially, then move to Helsinki. And I wanted one death at least, and I wanted it to be summer. My previous manuscript is set in Helsinki during a seriously cold week. There are only so many ways you can describe snow and ice and I had used them all. This time I wanted bright sunshine and blueberries. I wanted to describe how the pine forest smells after a summer rainfall.
My thoughts were interrupted by a partner arriving home after two days away. 'Sauna tonight?' It wasn't a question as much as an announcement.
Sauna is an essential part of being a Finn. In the olden days everything important happened in a sauna: births, deaths and love. I had my first sauna at the age of three days. Apparently I giggled as the heat hit my skin and then never looked back. So when I was deciding whether or not to marry a foreigner I tested him on a sauna first. Luckily (or not) for him, he loved the experience. Still does, so much so that he had one built here in the UK.
Last night, as the intense heat of the löyly (hot steam) hit my skin my thoughts turned to Alyona and her friend. I thought about Alyona's desire to see her estranged father. How Hanna, who lost her father at an early age, had a compulsion to be liked, to do the right thing. How these two characters naturally complemented each other and became firm friends. Suddenly I realised I had a plot - at least the major outlines of one. Enough to start properly writing.
Oh, and the foreigner helped a bit with a plot too. So much so that I told him he could have half of any money I made out of this manuscript. Not sure he's counting on it.
All this online activity does not increase the word count on my current manuscript, The Lost Daughter. Apart from my last short-lived crisis of confidence, the other reason I've found it hard to return to the story of my Russian heroine, Alyona, and her friend from Finland, Hanna, is that I hadn't quite worked out the plot in my head yet.
Yesterday afternoon I decided I should take a look at the four chapters I'd written so far. It'd been more than two months since I'd done this. Fearfully I started reading. What if I hated the story? What if the writing made me want to start afresh? I read slowly and carefully through the 50 or so pages. It was OK, in fact I quite liked it, no I loved it! I made a few edits, sorted out the time-line (that was one thing I had decided upon) and put the pages down. Surely now I could finish charting the plot?
I looked at the many notes I made at the University library in Helsinki, and the box of cuttings and print-outs I'd gathered together. But my mind was blank. My problem was the motives. What compelled all these people to act in a way I'd decided they would? I wanted the action to happen in the UK initially, then move to Helsinki. And I wanted one death at least, and I wanted it to be summer. My previous manuscript is set in Helsinki during a seriously cold week. There are only so many ways you can describe snow and ice and I had used them all. This time I wanted bright sunshine and blueberries. I wanted to describe how the pine forest smells after a summer rainfall.
My thoughts were interrupted by a partner arriving home after two days away. 'Sauna tonight?' It wasn't a question as much as an announcement.
Sauna is an essential part of being a Finn. In the olden days everything important happened in a sauna: births, deaths and love. I had my first sauna at the age of three days. Apparently I giggled as the heat hit my skin and then never looked back. So when I was deciding whether or not to marry a foreigner I tested him on a sauna first. Luckily (or not) for him, he loved the experience. Still does, so much so that he had one built here in the UK.
Last night, as the intense heat of the löyly (hot steam) hit my skin my thoughts turned to Alyona and her friend. I thought about Alyona's desire to see her estranged father. How Hanna, who lost her father at an early age, had a compulsion to be liked, to do the right thing. How these two characters naturally complemented each other and became firm friends. Suddenly I realised I had a plot - at least the major outlines of one. Enough to start properly writing.
Oh, and the foreigner helped a bit with a plot too. So much so that I told him he could have half of any money I made out of this manuscript. Not sure he's counting on it.
Saturday, 9 May 2009
The Wolseley, the Alcatraz and 25 years of marriage.
We started thinking about how to celebrate the first of our 25th wedding anniversaries about a year ago. (We have two - a story for another day) One thing I knew for a certainty, I did not want to throw a party. Selfish, I know, but I'd come to the end of my party-hosting days. This was somewhat of a shock to everyone, although I think friends and family should have noticed that the previous vodka-party-organiser-of-the-year had become a little more subdued in the last few months...ok we'll still throw a crayfish party (with schnapps) and possibly a small vodka-themed gathering for Finnish Independence Day, but I am no longer having midsummer parties, children's birthday BBQ's or Christmas parties. So, we had to think of something else to do to celebrate this a most unexpected of milestones.
Travel, that's obvious. Except there's the weak pound which hardly buys a thimble-full of wine on the continent, nor will it go very far to fund my NYC shopping habit. South Africa, Australia, I hear you shout. Yes, except I didn't want to leave daughter alone for weeks on end to face her finals, and husband had very little of something called holiday days left in his new position as salaried person. And with me selfishly having given up my paid career to pursue another much less successful one, I perversely had all the time in the world but little funds. We were in a very difficult situation indeed.
What else to do but to book a weekend in London. A nice hotel, excellent lunches, free evenings to do as we pleased. Sounded wonderful.
We started on Saturday at the excellent St John's Bread and Wine in Spitafields. We'd been there once before. The journey up from Wiltshire was as usual fraught with bad traffic, a couple of accidents and roadful of obnoxious drivers. While going around the roundabout near White City for the fourth time, determined to wait for the ignorant traffic police to open up the A40 after an accident, I did wonder if coming up to the city had been a good idea. We both spend a lot of time up here, but are usually so rushed that have no time to enjoy it. The food, friendly service and a good bottle of Rioja at St John's convinced me we had, after all, made the right choice.
The hotel was not such a success. For a change, I'd booked us into Andaz near Liverpool Street Station. It was supposed to be trendy and luxurious, and above all it was walking distance from Shoreditch House. The bed was huge and sumptious and breakfast was outstanding. They even had skimmed milk. A very difficult ingredient for some hotels to source. For the rest: the hotel staff, decor and organisation I'll just say that my husband of 25 years named it Alcatraz. Aah, but I forgot, cocktails in the restaurant were very acceptable. My Bellini was as good as I've had in New York. They were served by a genuinely enthusiastic barman, who infused the liquors to create his own drinks. We had a second round of strawberry Martinis with rosemary infused gin. They were absolutely mouth-watering. As predicted we spent the rest of the evening in Shoreditch House. The food there never fails to satisfy and the floor show is pretty good too.
On the Sunday husband had booked us into the Wolseley. Neither of us had been before, but heard good things about the place. Again it didn't disappoint. Very festive. Their Bloody Marys cured our cocktail hangovers with a flash, and when the waitress found out it was our wedding anniversary the kitchen made a celebratory shortbread biscuit to go with our pear tarte tatin. Afterwards we spent the sunny afternoon strolling around the pretty streets in Mayfair without rushing from one appointment to another.
In the evening we went to see Shifty at the The Soho Curzon and afterwards drifted to Soho House for a quick bite and a bottle of wine. The film was everything I like about British cinema. Good writing, honest acting and excellent direction. The economy of words and action suited the plot of a young London drug dealer, which moved from sad to tragic to funny. The tension in the action felt genuine, as did the setting.
Soho on a Sunday evening of a bank holiday weekend, however, is not a pleasant place to be in. Must be my age, but I found the many groups of drunk people a little threatening. Of course it's the same in any city late at night. Returning to the Egyptian cotton sheets at Alcatraz was a relief.
The drive home was accident free, first time in dozen or so trips up and down on the M4/M3. I am now looking forward to our second anniversary in early June, which we'll be spending loved and scrubbed as opposed to canned.
Travel, that's obvious. Except there's the weak pound which hardly buys a thimble-full of wine on the continent, nor will it go very far to fund my NYC shopping habit. South Africa, Australia, I hear you shout. Yes, except I didn't want to leave daughter alone for weeks on end to face her finals, and husband had very little of something called holiday days left in his new position as salaried person. And with me selfishly having given up my paid career to pursue another much less successful one, I perversely had all the time in the world but little funds. We were in a very difficult situation indeed.
What else to do but to book a weekend in London. A nice hotel, excellent lunches, free evenings to do as we pleased. Sounded wonderful.
We started on Saturday at the excellent St John's Bread and Wine in Spitafields. We'd been there once before. The journey up from Wiltshire was as usual fraught with bad traffic, a couple of accidents and roadful of obnoxious drivers. While going around the roundabout near White City for the fourth time, determined to wait for the ignorant traffic police to open up the A40 after an accident, I did wonder if coming up to the city had been a good idea. We both spend a lot of time up here, but are usually so rushed that have no time to enjoy it. The food, friendly service and a good bottle of Rioja at St John's convinced me we had, after all, made the right choice.
The hotel was not such a success. For a change, I'd booked us into Andaz near Liverpool Street Station. It was supposed to be trendy and luxurious, and above all it was walking distance from Shoreditch House. The bed was huge and sumptious and breakfast was outstanding. They even had skimmed milk. A very difficult ingredient for some hotels to source. For the rest: the hotel staff, decor and organisation I'll just say that my husband of 25 years named it Alcatraz. Aah, but I forgot, cocktails in the restaurant were very acceptable. My Bellini was as good as I've had in New York. They were served by a genuinely enthusiastic barman, who infused the liquors to create his own drinks. We had a second round of strawberry Martinis with rosemary infused gin. They were absolutely mouth-watering. As predicted we spent the rest of the evening in Shoreditch House. The food there never fails to satisfy and the floor show is pretty good too.
On the Sunday husband had booked us into the Wolseley. Neither of us had been before, but heard good things about the place. Again it didn't disappoint. Very festive. Their Bloody Marys cured our cocktail hangovers with a flash, and when the waitress found out it was our wedding anniversary the kitchen made a celebratory shortbread biscuit to go with our pear tarte tatin. Afterwards we spent the sunny afternoon strolling around the pretty streets in Mayfair without rushing from one appointment to another.
In the evening we went to see Shifty at the The Soho Curzon and afterwards drifted to Soho House for a quick bite and a bottle of wine. The film was everything I like about British cinema. Good writing, honest acting and excellent direction. The economy of words and action suited the plot of a young London drug dealer, which moved from sad to tragic to funny. The tension in the action felt genuine, as did the setting.
Soho on a Sunday evening of a bank holiday weekend, however, is not a pleasant place to be in. Must be my age, but I found the many groups of drunk people a little threatening. Of course it's the same in any city late at night. Returning to the Egyptian cotton sheets at Alcatraz was a relief.
The drive home was accident free, first time in dozen or so trips up and down on the M4/M3. I am now looking forward to our second anniversary in early June, which we'll be spending loved and scrubbed as opposed to canned.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
Digital - the new garlic bread?
It's an old joke, 'Garlic bread - it's the future.'
At the London Book Fair I sat through two seminars on the future of publishing. First one was a prediction for 2020 (=digital) and the second a discussion on what's free in the new digital age and where the money is going to be made.
Everyone agreed with the speakers of the first talk that digital is where we are heading (and fast), but where the large publishing houses thought they could make the money was unclear. As an aspiring novelist, I was scared to see people who'd been in the industry for decades looking at best confused and at worst defensive. It was clear that the members of the panel didn't know - or wouldn't say - what they intended to do about the digital revolution, how they plan to make money for authors or themselves, or how they would even survive. A question from the floor, 'Are publishers going to be needed in the future' was left largely unanswered. Another comment from the audience was, 'No-one has mentioned book sellers?' The answer to that was a dry, 'No.'
On Saturday there was an article in The Telegraph titled, 'Is the writing on the wall for books?' I started reading with great anticipation but soon realised it was merely a promotional piece for various e-books on the market and on how to get free downloads. It did have one piece of good news for old-fashioned books. Apparently they are a hard act to follow.
"The book is an exemplary example (sic) of good design, being robust enough to survive spilt cups of coffee, sun cream and sand, or being buried at the bottom of the briefcase or handbag, yet always ready for use."
The LBF panel of publishers cited examples from other industries struggling to adapt to the digital age: Newspapers give away issues, music artists make their money from performances (not cd's or downloads), in the TV and film industry piracy is a business model.
It occurred to me that books have other good features:
1. Books are generally only read once. It's not necessary to store them in the similar way as music or film on an ipod to be listened or watched over and over again by the same person.
2. Books are not current. They last forever, whereas yesterdays' newspaper is today's recycling (or should be).
3. Books are tactile - even paperbacks. They can be shown off on shelves and stroked.
I don't think it's wise to stare blindly at the horror stories from other related industries of moving to the digital age without considering the very unique aspects of the book. Surely the book as a form of communication is older and wiser than the rest of the field?
And no, I've never liked garlic bread much.
At the London Book Fair I sat through two seminars on the future of publishing. First one was a prediction for 2020 (=digital) and the second a discussion on what's free in the new digital age and where the money is going to be made.
Everyone agreed with the speakers of the first talk that digital is where we are heading (and fast), but where the large publishing houses thought they could make the money was unclear. As an aspiring novelist, I was scared to see people who'd been in the industry for decades looking at best confused and at worst defensive. It was clear that the members of the panel didn't know - or wouldn't say - what they intended to do about the digital revolution, how they plan to make money for authors or themselves, or how they would even survive. A question from the floor, 'Are publishers going to be needed in the future' was left largely unanswered. Another comment from the audience was, 'No-one has mentioned book sellers?' The answer to that was a dry, 'No.'
On Saturday there was an article in The Telegraph titled, 'Is the writing on the wall for books?' I started reading with great anticipation but soon realised it was merely a promotional piece for various e-books on the market and on how to get free downloads. It did have one piece of good news for old-fashioned books. Apparently they are a hard act to follow.
"The book is an exemplary example (sic) of good design, being robust enough to survive spilt cups of coffee, sun cream and sand, or being buried at the bottom of the briefcase or handbag, yet always ready for use."
The LBF panel of publishers cited examples from other industries struggling to adapt to the digital age: Newspapers give away issues, music artists make their money from performances (not cd's or downloads), in the TV and film industry piracy is a business model.
It occurred to me that books have other good features:
1. Books are generally only read once. It's not necessary to store them in the similar way as music or film on an ipod to be listened or watched over and over again by the same person.
2. Books are not current. They last forever, whereas yesterdays' newspaper is today's recycling (or should be).
3. Books are tactile - even paperbacks. They can be shown off on shelves and stroked.
I don't think it's wise to stare blindly at the horror stories from other related industries of moving to the digital age without considering the very unique aspects of the book. Surely the book as a form of communication is older and wiser than the rest of the field?
And no, I've never liked garlic bread much.
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