Margaret W. Tarrant

I never have enough space for my books and every so often undergo the painful process of culling my collection. I look at the spines along my shelves and think:

• Which books did I enjoy but will not read again?
• Which ones did I buy, haven’t read and will never read?
• Which ones have I bought, did read and wish I’d saved my money?

There are some books I ought to throw out but I can’t. I’ve got a really tatty book on nursery rhymes, for example.  It is falling apart;  its colour plate is missing from the hardback cover; its pages are held together by sellotape, itself brittle with age, and almost every page is freckled with rust spots. I bought it in an Oxfam shop about twenty years ago for 10p. I love it though. The rhymes in it are priceless.

I like this one:

‘Old Woman, Old woman, shall we go a -shearing?’

‘Speak a little louder sir, I am hard of hearing.’

”Old woman, old woman, shall I love you dearly?’

‘Thank you kind sir, I hear you quite clearly.’

I’m guessing they don’t use this one in playschool any more:

There was a man of Newington and he was wondrous wise,

He jumped into a bramble bush and scratch’d out both his eyes.

And when he saw his eyes were out, with all his might and main

He jumped into another bush and scratched them in again.

Here’s a lad who knows how to make small talk:

As Tommy Snooks and Betty Brooks

were walking out one Sunday,

Says Tommy Snooks to Betty Brooks,

‘Tomorrow will be Monday.’

The reason I handed over my hard earned cash for this book (it was in the same woeful condition 20 years ago) was for the illustrations. They’re by Margaret Tarrant (1888-1959) who trained at Guildford Art School, specializing in fairies and religious works and spent much of her life looking after her ailing parents. Her delicate watercolours are very much of their time. My book has 48 ‘colour plates’ Sadly, they do not include one of the man from Newington!

Wee Willie Winkie

Rachel Yankey ©intermix.org.uk

Seeing as The Times hasn’t bothered even putting the score in today’s paper I’ll let you know what happened in the qualifier for the Women’s World Cup 2011 last night. As I blogged yesterday I woz there, along with my daughter Hanya.

In a nutshell: Rachel Yankey gained her 100th cap for England and scored the opening goal. Turkey were never in the match - England’s possession must have been about 75-80%. The Turkey goalkeeper (a strapping lass) did something I’ve never seen a goalkeeper do before - she turned and walked straight into her goalpost! Ouch and what??

England should have won the match by about 9-0 but poor finishing let them down. They’ll be punished by such wastefulness with tougher opposition.

Attendance was 5,457, made up mainly of families. The atmosphere was great and it was reassuring for me to see so many little girls enjoying football - and bigger girls too. The football fan in me thinks anything that gets girls interested in the sport is such a good thing; the football writer in me thinks ‘potential sales.’ In fact, never one to let an opportunity miss, I handed out Girls FC postcards to potential customers as they arrived at the Walsall ground.  I gave my last two to a delightful Sikh family sitting along from us. Mum, Dad, Grandad and children were all there, cheering and waving the England flag.  It was like seeing my character Tabinda (Book 8 - Can’t I Just Kick It? in the flesh! What I also noticed - and this gladdened the heart, too - was some fans had names of their favourite England player on their shirts. Not Rooney or Lampard but  ‘Unitt’ (Rachel Unitt of England and Everton) and ‘White’ (Faye White - Arsenal). I can’t wait for Germany 2011 but please - no vuvuzelas.

©James Prickett photographer(www.jamesprickett.co.uk)

I’ll be in Walsall this evening, at Walsall FC’s Banks’s Stadium watching England Women play in a World Cup qualifier against Turkey.  Just thought I’d let you know seeing as there probably won’t be much mention of it in the papers!

Good luck to Hope Powell’s team.

I’m reading Tender Morsels at the moment, a book that caused a lot of controversy when it was first published in the UK. It’s based on the story of Rose Red and Snow White and has a raunchy introduction followed very quickly by a Grimm (ha!) opening but it’s an absolute page turner and I’m riveted. Full review to follow soon.

©The Guardian

Yesterday’s Yorkshire Post carried a report about probable closures and cut backs in library services throughout the region. ‘Libraries are a soft option for local authorities needing to cut costs,’ it read.

A soft option. It’s true I suppose. Threaten to close a hospital or a school or to reduce the number of fire engines and people are up in arms. Threaten to shut a library and well… what’s a few books here and there?

It’s so short sighted. In times of hardship, people need libraries more than ever. They need somewhere to go; somewhere to spend time where they are not judged or patronised. They need access to free, up to date knowledge provided by experts. They need the sustenance and inspiration books provide. Libraries change lives.

I love this poem by Bernard Kops (Dramatist and poet b. 1926) about what visiting his local library did for him. My thanks to librarian and publisher Ross Bradshaw for introducing it to me:

Whitechapel Library, Aldgate East (…continued)

…A loner in love with words but so lost

I wandered the streets, not counting the cost.

I emerged out of childhood with nowhere to hide

when a door called my name and pulled me inside.

And being so hungry I fell on the feast.

Whitechapel Library, Aldgate East.

And my brain explodes when I suddenly find

an orchard within for the heart for the mind.

The past was a mirage I’d left behind.

And I am a locust and I’m at a feast.

Whitechapel Library, Aldgate East.

And Rosenberg also came to get out of the cold

To write poems of fire, but he never grew old.

And here I met Chekov, Tolstoy, Meyerhold.

I entered their words, their dark visions of gold.

The reference library, where my thoughts were to rage.

I ate book after book, page after page.

I scoffed poetry for breakfast, novels for tea.

And plays for my supper. No more poverty.

Welcome young poet, in here you are free

to follow your star to where you should be.

That door of the library was the door into me.

And Lorca and Shelley said: ‘Come to the feast.’

Whitechapel Library, Aldgate East.

... when a door called my name and pulled me inside.

Bernard Kops outside the Whitechapel Library

inspiration strikes! image from Dreamstime

I know I’ve blogged about this before but ‘Where do ideas come from?’ is one of the most common questions I get from children and adults on school visits, so here goes again.

Sometimes I don’t know. I haven’t got a clue but often it’s from something I have either seen, heard or read. Newspapers and magazines are an obvious source. As E L Doctorow once said: ‘The responsibility of the artist is to reflect the times in which he lives.’  Newspapers and magazines do just that.

Heres’ an example. I was having a tidy up of my office the other day (another displacement activity I do when I’ve finished a book) and came across a folded piece of paper from the Newark Advertiser dated June 27 2008. Headline:

Immigrants discovered at layby. ‘Eight people from Afghanistan, including two children, were arrested at Foston on Monday night after being seen leaving the back of a foreign-registered lorry. A member of the public contacted Lincolnshire police at about 2pm after seeing a number of men leave the lorry which was parked in a layby on the A1.

The police took the group to Grantham police station before handing them over to immigration and border officials.

A UK Border Agency spokesman said: ‘Six of them were immediately taken into detention where they were fingerprinted. Two minors were taken into the care of social services.  We are using state of the art technology, fining lorry drivers who fail to secure their vehicles properly and working closely with port authorities, airlines and shipping companies to clamp down on illegal entry into the UK. Last year we removed one immigration offender every eight minutes.’

The spokesman said they had no information about where the lorry had come from as it had already left by the time the police arrived.

I know why I kept that cutting. There is so much drama in that short report, isn’t there?  So much going on.  What a play that would make; what a story.  Already we know those 8 Afghans have somehow traveled 3,500 miles across who knows what terrain; endured who knows what conditions and dangers. They’ve left a war- torn country, paid money they don’t have to dealers they don’t know who promise them freedom and hope. Somehow they arrive in England undetected, got as far as Lincolnshire. But the key sentence for me - the one that made me keep the cutting is: ‘Two minors were taken into the care of social services.’ My heart immediately went out to them. To come all that way, to overcome all those odds, to travel with those six adults - who were they? Uncles? Brothers? Neighbours? Strangers? Then to end up being separated after that dangerous journey and ‘taken into the care of social services.’ What does that mean?  What happened to them? Where are they now? So many questions.

But back to that balmy night in June 2008. Or was it balmy? Just because it’s June it doesn’t mean it’s warm - we’re talking England. (NB: fact to be double checked with the Meteorological Office website later!)

Anyhow, here’s the cast:

Act 1: Lorry driver

8 Afghans(including 2 children)

1 passer-by/member of the public

police (at scene)

Act 2:

police (in Grantham station)

Immigration officials

social workers

The setting for Scene 1:

It’s night-time.  A lorry pulls into a quiet layby. The driver lights a cigarette, staring ahead. He looks tired, anxious. He constantly checks his rear view mirror. After less than a minute he dashes out his unfinished cigarette into a meat pie foil tray, jumps down from his cab and strides to the rear of his lorry. He opens the doors furtively, hisses orders. Figures emerge, jumping, stumbling from the doors, standing in the layby looking bewildered.

Cut to: Half a mile further down the road.  A middle aged man is walking his dog. Let’s call him Wayne (the man - you make up a name for the dog). He’s in a bad mood is Wayne; he hasn’t slept properly for weeks now. He’s taking his mood out on the dog, yanking at the dog’s collar every time it stops to sniff anything. Up ahead, he sees a lorry in a layby. Envy bubbles inside him. Lucky git, that lorry driver - all snug in that cabin of his; snoring away knowing he’s nothing to do but drive down the road in the morning. What’s his worse problem going to be?  Getting stuck in roadworks at Peterborough? Big deal. He wants to take a walk in his shoes, Wayne thinks. He stops; what’s that?

Over to you, dear reader. I’ve got 3 more Girls FC books to finish and several other ideas on my back burner. I’ve no time to develop this idea. Off you go…

A scene from Beyond the Horizon at the National. L-R James Mayo (James Jordan) Andrew Mayo (Michael Thompson) and Captain Dick Scott (Robin Bowerman) photo © The Guardian

The short period between finishing one book and beginning another is like a mini holiday (unless you’re PD James - or is it Ruth Rendall - who begins a new book 20 minutes after finishing her old one). Although I am already plotting and planning ideas -indeed I’ve written the first chapter -  I allow myself to do other things without feeling that I’m skiving.

So on Tuesday I went to London for a matinee of Beyond the Horizon, a Eugene O’Neill play that has had five star reviews across the board.  Even more exciting than that is my friend Robin Bowerman was in it! I don’t just mix with writers and poets, darlings…

Robin offered to show my friend Mandy (neither an actress, nor a writer although I’m sure her life would make a good film one day!) and me backstage.  An opportunity not to be missed.

The Cottesloe is on the South Bank in London overlooking the Thames. It’s not the most beautiful of buildings, unless you’re partial to concrete, and the actors’ changing rooms reminded me of a ship’s cabin; cramped and confined. Of course, unlike a ship’s cabin the cubicle had a proper actor’s mirror, light bulbs an’ all.  I was impressed.

A flash of Robin’s special pass allowed us through to the actors’ and National staff’s canteen. I was even more impressed - the food was really good.

After lunch, we had a look round the stage.  We weren’t long - the scenery for Beyond the Horizon is best summed up as ‘minimal.’ We’re talking a tree, basically.

Robin then had to leave to get ready and we took our seats, bang in the middle of the auditorium - as they should have been for £32 a pop. Mind you, they’re going for £60 plus for War Horse.  Anyway, it was worth it. The acting was brilliant - and I’m not just saying that in case Robin reads this; it really was. I can see why the revival received such sound reviews. Liz White was particularly good as Ruth Atkins, the shrewish, unfulfilled wife and it was hard to believe that the play was lead Michael Malarkey’s acting debut. Greatness beckons! The best thing about good theatre is you are aware of not just the dialogue but how every gesture, every movement the character makes counts. There was an amusing exchange in Act 1between Captain Scott, James Mayo and a bottle of whisky. Nothing was said - everything was done through action and facial expression. Clever, clever stuff. I’d recommend you go see Beyond the Horizon only it ends today. Sorry!

Me on stage at the National - who'd have thought it? The prone figure behind us is actor Michael Malarkey getting in the zone for his role as Robert Mayo. We took care not to tread on him on our way out.

Robin in his dressing room with real light bulbs

I’m slowly feeling my way round my new book. I feel like a new home owner who is deciding where to put the furniture and feeling a little overwhelmed by all the unpacking that needs doing. In the early stages I do a lot of doodling and note making on large sheets of paper. I work out all the dates of birth for my main character, my main character’s siblings and parents. A family tree, I guess. It helps to put them into an historical time frame so that I can get my cultural references right, such as the music and TV programmes that were around then. Next I start plotting the key events, or the key events at the beginning anyway as, with me, everything is subject to change once I start writing.  I doodle a lot. The doodles aren’t necessarily related to the story but doodling helps me think.

the thinking and planning stage

It was fascinating looking at the art students’ notebooks and sketchbooks at the Edinburgh Art College exhibition recently and seeing the overlap between an illustrator’s draft work and a writer’s. My son Joe’s sketchbooks were so similar to mine (or mine to his). Not in content so much as in appearance. Notes, doodles, bits of paper torn from magazines.

Joe's sketch book ©Joseph Pielichaty

Joe's preparation for a new cover for Alice in Wonderland

my messy little world!

fashionista or feminist icon?

There’s a huge debate at the moment about whether or not governments should be banning the burka from being worn in public. France has already passed the bill to make it illegal and other countries may follow suit.

I must admit I’m not a big fan of burkas. I’m certainly not convinced by the argument about them being required as part of the need for ‘modest dressing’ . To cover the entire face seems unnatural to me. Humans need to communicate with each other and to do that we need to see the whole face. I also find it unfair to women  that when I see them in the street wearing a burka, they are often accompanied by men in full Western garb - t-shirt, jeans etc.

There’s a whiff of hypocrisy on the women’s part, too  - check out the amount of eye make-up the women wear beneath the veil and observe their footwear; painted toenails, ankle bracelets, the hem of trendy jeans - come on! I think that for some young women, the burka has become a fashion symbol worn as an act of rebellion. It’s saying ‘Don’t tell me what to wear!’ I’m all for that but I just think that the burka sends out all the wrong signals all the same.  It says that women’s bodies are so provocative they must be hidden or the men won’t be accountable for their actions.  Isn’t there a danger that radicalized Muslim males see girls and women who choose not to wear the burka as indecent or even tarty?

Having said all that I wouldn’t ban the burka. That’s too extreme, won’t help anybody and will be quite rightly seen as an anti-Islamic act.

If  going down the banning of clothing road can we also consider:

• the ghastly trend for women/girls to show every bit of their bras beneath thin, strappy tops.
• the even more ghastly trend for women and girls to show their boobs beneath said bras.  Enough already! Put them away!
• thongs (not as popular now but - urgh!)
• lads with their bums hanging out of the back of their jeans. It’s not cool.  I do not want to know what brand of underpants you’re wearing, mate.
• suggestive t shirts aimed at little girls with slogans such  as ’so many boys, so little time’
• little girls in heels, make up etc.

This rant was brought to you today by Helena Pielichaty wearing navy leggings, a blue linen shirt and purple pumps. Thank you.

© Joseph Pielichaty

Emma Thompson (or Nanny McPhee if you are under 12) has recently talked about how reading - and Jane Austen in particular - helped her through depression.  She also mentioned the poem Instantes by Jorge Luis Borges (1899 - 1986) as being one that cheers her up when she’s feeling down.

I hadn’t heard of the poem so I ‘Googled’ it.  I can see what she means - I like the sentiment behind it if not the sentimentality of it.

Here is the poem:

Instantes

If I were to live my life anew,

In the next I would try to commit more errors.

I would not try to be so perfect. I would relax more.

I would be more foolish than I’ve been,

In fact, I would take few things seriously.

I would be less hygienic.

I would run more risks,

take more vacations,

contemplate more sunsets,

climb more mountains, swim more rivers.

I would go to more places where I’ve never been,

I would eat more ice cream and fewer beans,

I would have more real problems and less imaginary ones.

I was one of those people who lived sensibly

and prolifically each minute of his life;

Of course I had moments of happiness.

If I could go back I would have only good moments.

Because if you didn’t know,

of that life is made: only of moments. Don’t lose the now.

I was one of those that never

went anywhere without a thermometer,

a hot water bottle,

an umbrella and a parachute;

if I could live again, I would travel lighter.

If I could live again,

I would begin to walk barefoot from the beginning of spring

and I would continue barefoot until autumn ends.

I would take more cart rides,

contemplate more dawns,

and play with more children,

If I had another life ahead of me.

But already you see, I am 85

and I know that I am dying.

Jorge Luis Borges

The line ‘Don’t lose the now’ is a car sticker waiting to happen, isn’t it?

According to his dates, Borges must have died a year after writing the poem; if indeed, he did write it.  There seems to be some debate online as to whether it was his work or whether it was written by someone else copying his style and falsely claiming it to be by him.  Anyway, thank you Emma Thompson for alerting me to the poem.  A good way to start the week, I reckon.