Tuesday, 16 January 2018



Since announcing that I really must read The Masters ('the best academic novel in English'), I've discovered that the Strangers and Brothers cycle is being repeated this week on Radio Four. So that's my lunchtimes sorted. Timely, as I am forced to admit that I've rather lost the McMafia plot; anybody else losing track of who's who? All the younger characters look exactly the same!

Monday, 15 January 2018















I'm suffering from a bad attack of January lethargy; not being a morning person, I never seem to catch the day before it's nearly over and it doesn't seem worth setting out. But at long last, having been scheduling a visit to Dulwich Picture Gallery pretty much every day since before Christmas, I made it to the Tove Jansson exhibition for the last hour or so yesterday afternoon ... and it was packed, busier than I'd ever seen it there before. Silly me, when I could easily have gone on a weekday. (It would have been a good idea to book.)

I have to confess that I've never read the Moomin books; I'm not sure that they'd have appealed to me as a child. Now I can see their charm.
But there's only so many Moomins you can take in one afternoon. I was interested to see her satirical illustrations from the 1930s - when, if you look closely, the Snork sometimes appears beside her signature ...



And her extraordinary illustrations for Alice in Wonderland.

This is her take on Gollum from The Hobbit, more like a startled woodland spirit than the slimy creature of my imagination.



For all that she wanted to be taken seriously as a painter, her paintings aren't terribly interesting - apart from a series of self-portraits.



On the way home I kept my eyes peeled for snowdrops - I still haven't seen my first snowdrop, possibly because I've barely been out in daylight. No luck - I'm desperate for a glimmer of spring - but I did pick a branch of catkins and they're now in a vase with a wonderfully garish bunch of tulips which makes me smile every time I look at them. First bunch of the year. There were sweet williams in Tesco but that just ain't right!

Saturday, 13 January 2018



I opted for Dorothy L Sayers as an undemanding read over Christmas, thinking that I'd read Gaudy Night again - but I'd forgotten how terribly wordy it is, all those arch quotations from clever people.  And I still couldn't keep track of who's who amongst all those female dons. Then it struck me that I'd never read Strong Poison, the earlier book that explains how Lord Peter Wimsey saved Harriet Vane from the gallows. Much shorter, much brisker, and Harriet - who can be rather irritating - is safely out of action in Holloway Prison throughout. Funny how Lord Peter seems to have changed over the course of two books; is it spurned love? He seems much more urbane and sophisticated in Oxford and not nearly so much of a chinless but brainy wonder.

Friday, 12 January 2018



The Sunday cinema ladies - both of us - reconvened for the first time this year and just to keep us on our toes, we chose a Friday evening outing instead. I'm never sure if it's worth posting about foreign films when they're on for one night only in London but there was a good turn-out for this Latvian film and maybe it'll show up again at a festival somewhere.  We've seen several films recently with outstanding performances by child actors (Soleil Battant, The Florida Project) and this was another, about a wayward 12-year-old whose mischief is tipping into delinquency; there's a trailer here (in Latvian, sorry).

Thursday, 11 January 2018


I know almost nothing about the life of Jenny Joseph who died a few days ago. I'd have thought that she'd have merited an obituary in the Times or the Guardian, but I can't find one as yet. All that I've discovered is that she wrote her famous poem when she was 29 and that she hated purple - but I do hope that she learned how to spit. What I'd love to learn as an outrageous old lady is how to wolfwhistle very loudly with my fingers in my mouth ... you could have some fun doing that.

Tuesday, 9 January 2018



I'm in two minds about this. I love the cover; it's irresistible. (Despite the aberrant apostrophe on the back. Praise for Howard's End is on the Landing! Sloppy.)
But 250-odd pages in the company of Susan Hill? She feels like a grumpy neighbour who makes you feel, 'Oh, god! How long am I going to be stuck?' as she's approaching. (I admit it. I can do grumpy old woman with the best. See that apostrophe grouch above? Typical.)
Anyway, Susan Hill ... She's great chatting away about books and I've made a note to myself that I really must get around to reading CP Snow's The Masters, which has lingered in a pile on Mary's Landing for far too many years, gathering dust.
But then she drones on and repeats herself. On and on, word for word, about the silly questions students put to her about The Woman in Black. And the weather. She doesn't like it when it's hot; she doesn't like the cold. Her opinions seem set in stone. She doesn't like Jane Austen and she's never read Jane Eyre. (We all have gaps in our reading but that's an odd one, and she sounds rather proud of it!) She would love to visit the Northern Lights, 'but I don't suppose I ever shall?' Well, why not? I wanted to shout ... all those royalties rolling in from The Woman in Black. Get out there. Live a life. Stop burying yourself in all those books. Her interest in Antarctica is extinguished once she realises that people go there on holiday and she takes 27 books about the white continent to the charity shop.
Normally I feel that reading is a Good Thing. But Susan Hill depresses me.
But then she's very good on Aelred of Rievaulx and she puts her finger on why I don't much like Barbara Pym and and she makes me want to re-read Olivia Manning's The Balkan Trilogy. Like I said, I'm in two minds. Perhaps Susan Hill is better dipped into and taken in small doses rather than read straight through. But Susan Hill is Due Back at the Library.

Friday, 5 January 2018

Feeding the Fowls

We braved a truly horrible day for a bus jaunt to the Watts Gallery to see the Helen Allingham exhibition. When we've visited in spring, the woods have been full of celandines. anemones and primroses; yesterday it was torrential rain and muddy puddles. Straight into the cafe to warm up with tea and Welsh rarebit, then a whizz around the exhibition with two boys who, predictably, turned out to be vocal critics of the Hollyhocks and Cottages School of English Art. 'If I had money, I wouldn't buy that,' said one. Well, neither would I, though I'd be happy if one came to me in a will from a longlost relative. And on a grim, grey day, I enjoyed the riotous herbaceous borders, whilst thinking that those picturesque cottages were an insanitary health hazard for the rural poor. Expect they were delighted to be moved into council semis a generation later.

The Little Path, Kitchen Garden, Sharston Manor, Cheshire

I think I was more engrossed by Helen Allingham's illustrations in Victorian weekly magazines, especially those for the Cornhill Magazine serial of Far From the Madding Crowd. (Thomas Hardy said she was his all-time favourite illustrator.)





I also enjoyed her little portrait of Tennyson, especially after revisiting the whopping great plaster maquette by Watts in the sculpture gallery. Not a must-see exhibition but a pleasant start to the New Year. And it got me out of the house because two weeks of Christmas is too much!