Kindle Surprise

Seven years ago, in a flush of ignorance over changing technology, I wrote an excoriating (and excruciating) blog on the subject of the Kindle, which still brings on a blush of shame. Not long afterwards, I acquired my first Kindle – for practical reasons - and soon, I was singing its praises. It has made life much easier in many ways. In a nutshell, I put Kindle in my bag before a plane or train journey, and have access to my reading material, downloaded books, periodicals, documents for editing, and so on. I simply adore my latest Kindle Paperwhite. And yet…and yet, I am delighted to see that sales of physical books are not only buoyant, but on the up. What follows is an unedited excerpt from my original article.

“How can you simulate the experience of going into a bookshop to row upon row of enticingly-entitled and beckoning, multi-coloured spines? How do you mimic the feel of newly-minted pages, the smell of ink, the romance of the illustrations, the glorious feeling of possession once you have bought the book? One, worrying prediction about these devices is that once they are accepted as being the ‘norm’, printed books, both new and second-hand, will become fewer in number and more expensive. Fine for a middle-class family that will boast a bookcase filled with books, and can still distribute a Kindle to each of the kinder, but what does it bode for the literacy levels of the less-well-off? Indeed, all children will be affected. One of my earliest memories is being mesmerised by the sight of a book. If Baby doesn’t see a shelf load of books over his cot for the first years of his life, then how can he grow to be a reader? And what about that inimitable experience, being read a bedtime story from a book filled with colour pictures, by Mum or Dad? And what about the playbook, that repository of endless touching, feeling, hugging? Is this entire slice of childhood to be cut out by an impersonal metal gadget, one that Baby’s tiny fingers can’t manipulate, let alone connect with what is going on on the screen? As I said at the outset of this post, I don’t see how the Kindle can replace the book.”
Well, it hasn’t and it won’t and, judging by the latest news from the publishing world (follow links to Danuta Kean and Zoe Wood), it never will. Kindle, I love you and would not be without, but nothing will EVER replace the book.

Yellow peril...

Egad – they are here, there and everywhere, bright yellow, swaying in the breeze and dancing on the high street. I am, of course, talking about those ubiquitous fluorescent, so-called hazard jackets worn by emergency workers, everywhere. And HGV drivers. And street orderlies, traffic wardens, builders, car park attendants, and nursery leaders and their little minions. Personally, I blame the former Chancellor of the Exchequer and ask: are we really doing ourselves a favour by marketing the hazard jacket as a lifestyle accessory? After all, when an emergency really does happen to happen, who can we call upon? Sure, certain groups have to be seen to carry out their duties but is it really necessary to warn us of the dangers of getting too close to nursery group leaders and their little minions – or are we a danger to them? I believe Baudrillard called it ecstasy, I mean, this phenomenon of a replacing a rarefied entity with a tidal wave of mimicry. Remember what happened in the wake of a love-lorn young couple attaching a padlock to a metal frame bridge in Paris? Now, entire edifices are threatened with collapse under the weight of lovers’ trysts made visible. Sure, certain worker groups wear other colours; red (postal), orange (railway maintenance) and pink – well, I’m certain that someone somewhere is wearing it. If you must be seen, how about bright blue or glowing green or vivacious violet? Whatever, leave hazard yellow for emergency workers, please.

Racks and Wrecks: Why I am off my trolley with buses

Will transport companies EVER put in place buses that are designed for passengers AND their shopping, luggage, buggies, children, wheelchairs and so on, to travel comfortably together - I do stress the comfortable bit. Recently, I endured a nightmare journey from Heathrow to the suburbs, on an airport designated bus. Quite simply, I was trying to look after my trolley suitcase, computer bag and handbag. Ravenous, I wanted to consume a sandwich while travelling in comfort. A not impossible feat, you would imagine, but the very few luggage spaces were already occupied when I got on the bus - at the airport, I stress - the craft being no different from a central London bus. I had no choice but to occupy a "normal" passenger seat while holding onto my computer bag and handbag with one hand, and clutching my roving-inclined trolley with the other. Every time the bus turned, lurched or even swayed slightly, I was obliged to become a human octopus, struggling to prevent my possessions from clobbering other passengers. Eventually, another "baggage" passenger disembarked and I was able to occupy his space, but not before I had become an enraged, sweating, humiliated wreck. The irony is - it does not have to be like this. When I lived in central Europe, even town centre buses were long, elegant transport cabins, with one or two seats abreast at one side, a wide aisle for walking up and down, and a floor-level rack along the other side. Suitcases leaved singly into this rack, while the smaller top rack was for lighter baggage. Sways, turns and lurches made no difference; the luggage stayed in place throughout the journey. When whatever passenger disembarked, he could simply retrieve his suitcase without disturbing that of anyone else. Best of all, the rack was bayed at intervals, leaving space for buggies, wheelchairs, walking aids, whatever. This seating arrangement enables the passenger to sit alongside his or her secured luggage or child or invalid companion, and allows him or her to eat, read, listen to music and actually enjoy the urban voyage. Of course, I am aware that in chilly, old Great Britain, any sucker unable or unwilling to pay £50 or so for a taxi deserves every discomfort and humiliation that the system can throw at him. If we have to haul luggage onto those boxy, inflexible, rack-free "passenger" buses, all I ask is that designers leave enough room - in the downstairs deck, at least - between and underneath seats, for suitcases - please.

My Big Fat Greek House

The writings of Vitruvius have always fascinated me – oh, how I love to explore his Ten Books on Architecture, and absorb his instructions on how to build city walls that resist battering rams, and learn how the Roman race has the keenest wit and share his musings on ancient cosmology. I quote: “The heaven revolves steadily around earth and sea on the pivots at the ends of its axis”. Beautiful, Vit; your sound bites rival those of another, 2,000-year-old tome. On a recent perusal of TBOA, I discovered the word “gynaeconitis”. No, it’s not yet another, weird down-there disorder, but the name given to the half of the Greek house where women (and slaves) sit and talk and weave their cloths. By implication, the androiditis is where the men converge and entertain their guests. This knowledge set me a-wondering if the modern house could be gendered? For example, how would you rate the wet and slippery bathroom, the clammy kitchen with its cooking odours, the dry, white and uptight living room, and the soft and lush bedroom with its array of scents and colours? I have my opinion on those, meanwhile, I’m returning to Vit’s TBOA, to explore subjects such as “scamilli impares” and to consider building a hoisting machine according to the principles of Chersiphron.

Why I'm all for the Elf on the Shelf

I have just read Stuart Heritage’s take on that phenomenon, the Elf on the Shelf, (Guardian Newspaper) and all I can say – with due respect – is, Stuart, come off of it! I will paraphrase a few of his soundbites: “the most violently dreadful thing to happen in 2016” – (and I thought that was the triumph of the great Orange Gnome!) – “nightmarish, murderer-looking totalitarian snitch”, “terrifying and cynical”, and “a post-truth doll for a post-truth age”…really, Stuart? What else is the elf but a modern take on the eye in the sky, and on all of the supernatural helpmeets that throughout the ages, parents have called in to help supervise wayward children? I haven’t got my James Frazer to hand just now – curses! – but I do remember reading that in certain European cultures, on the days in advance of the festive season, a fairy in the guise of an old woman goes from house to house, looking in windows and down chimneys to see who’s being naughty or nice. I find that scary, and I do know that at least as many children are as afraid of Santa Claus as of other supernatural creatures. Surely at this time of year, harassed parents are entitled to call in a little extraneous assistance while pulling through the marathon of preparations that define the modern, family Christmas? And as for the parents who move the elf around the house in the dark hours to make it seem to the little ‘uns that said elf is actually alive, well, such people are bound to show scheming and devious behaviour in other matters – and they won’t need any elf in being so. https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/dec/18/elf-on-the-shelf-isnt-real-christmas-tradition-post-truth-doll-intimidation

Sweet Dreams!

You’re not exactly unaware of Health & Safety and as the season of goodwill approaches, your defences go up even further. You have read all the warnings about unfused fairy lights and dangerously mobile festive trees. You know better than to undercook the turkey and you take care not to set the house alight along with the plum pudding. Carving knives are kept out of reach of little fingers and none of your guests are overfilled with the Christmas spirit before driving home. Every year you manage to reach the evening of 25/12 without having succumbed to any of the hazards lying in wait for the less aware. You fall asleep that night, the Christmas fairy smiling benevolently upon you and yours. Once again you have bypassed the terrors of the season, haven’t you?

On Boxing Day you visit Aunt Kate, a sprightly, feisty lady who scrimped coupons to keep her family in white flour and treacle during the war. You present your gift and sit down to a sumptuous Christmas tea before returning home. It is all there; the heaped cold turkey and ham, the cranberry sauce and Branston pickle, the bread and butter, the mince pies and slabs of cold plum pudding. The tea is over and you have done yourself proud. You’ve tasted everything on the table and, pleading gastronomic exhaustion, prepare to leave. But Aunt Kate has a wicked gleam in her eye and though you have done everything to avoid it, you know you will not escape tasting her special Rich Dark Fruit Cake. The recipe was in her mother’s family, and her mother’s family before that. Really, how can you not..? Smelling of liquor and boasting a thousand calories per cubic centimetre, raisins winking malevolently beside bleary yellow almond paste and rock-hard white icing, you can hear the theme music of Jaws, the movie, as the dark-brown danger approaches. Aunt Kate urges you on, and on. Finally, determinedly, you bite into a slab. Your tongue curls in loathing, your teeth blench in fear, but it is too late. A myriad of sweet-stuffs descend to your stomach and invades your pitifully pleading cells. You fall into a half-faint… In your diabetic coma the Christmas fairy waves her sparkling wand over a vision of days of yore when fruit picked and preserved during summer months brought welcome sweetness to bleak mid-winters. For older people with memories of wartime rationing Rich Dark Fruit Cake undoubtedly evokes a certain nostalgia. For someone about to expire from cold and hunger on a frozen Arctic waste, it just might be a life-saver. But for a well-fed modern palate and stomach, in overheated surroundings, it is nothing short of medieval torture. Slowly your sugar rush subsides and the world once more slides into focus. But your ordeal is far from over. The gastronomic terrorist is standing in front of you, smiling sweetly, unaware of her assault on your digestive tract. ‘Will you have another piece?’ she asks, moving the plate forward. The Christmas fairy waves her wand manically as your hand reaches out…

It's happened AGAIN...

Talk about hope triumphing over experience: another bunch of eager parents have paid £7 a pop for the greater seasonal enjoyment of themselves and their little ‘uns. And yet another clutch of puzzled, disappointed children find themselves in a sea of mud and chaos with about as much Christmas cheer as a derelict seaside town. This time, the culprit is the Bakewell Winter (so-called) Wonderland in Derbyshire. Apparently, even Santa didn’t show up and among the reasons trotted out by the purveyors for the lack of festive brio was that “the reindeers had gone to bed”. Hmmmm… Once more, I take pains to explain that Christmas – as we know it – is but a consumerist construct, one that cannot be created in the wilderness. And once again, I explain that the best place to find Christmas is – on the high street. It’s an unfair transaction but a valid one that the store-owners are best qualified to construct this annual festival of consumption. They have the venues, the props and the personnel, the years upon years of experience of selling luxury goods, of creating atmosphere with artificial greenery, glittering baubles and piped carols a-singing, electronic bells a-ringing, cash tills a-bleeping, many lords a-leaping, five thousand gold rings in the jewellery department, French perfumes in cosmetics & toiletries, and roast partridge and pear tart on offer in the store restaurant. In the grotto, the on-duty elves point in the direction of the mechanical, nodding reindeer and the talent-agency Santa, who patiently asks every transfixed little ‘un what he or she wants for Christmas – aaaaaaaah, what’s not to love? Perhaps it’s all too easy for certain people, just hopping on a bus and going to a place that you can visit any day of the week all year round – and all free of charge? But the seasonal, magical transformation of these colloquial emporia never ceases to fill me with wonder; I’ll be celebrating Christmas in the high street this year – how about you?