I am facing that same crisis that occurred in the careers of the writers of “ Fawlty Towers “ and “ Blackadder “ , “ Black Books ‘ and “ Green Wing “ They had all written succinct and successful series and then decided to quit whilst they were ahead and refuse the public demands to write more.
Now, I am not suggesting that my humble blogs ( not sure that anybody who knows me would apply the word ‘ humble ‘ to my character… egocentric, controlling, arrogant, power-crazy, maybe, but, humble no ) are in the same class as any of the above ( or even in the same literary universe ) but the principal remains the same. When is it time to call time? As you know Homeland ended, the as yet unfilmed series of Peaky Blinders will be the last, the Gallagher brothers resolutely refuse to reform Oasis, Paul Simon has definitely retired so am I flying in the face of all those precedents by battling on. Or, having reached 50, do I call it a day? Or call is a blog ? Or simply call a cab and leave the building ? And where would I find a cab anyway ?
Well, to put you out of your misery ,as I ‘ve got to the third paragraph I might as well carry on, like the trouper I am. There’s a line from a Robert Browning poem ( getting the cultural bits in early today) that says,” What becomes of love I wonder, when the kissing has to stop? “
And what becomes of blogs and The Big V I wonder when the clapping has to stop. If we aren’t yet up to the Big Void in our lives ( without the NHS Clap and the face-masks ) (another mutant form of Big V ) then who am I to create it and cause a Black Hole to enter your lives? I think I will know when I have outstayed my welcome. My footballer clients (don’t worry non-sports fans I am not tootling down that primrose path today ) used to tell me that when their legs ached so much when they woke up that they had to drag themselves out of bed to go to training, then it was time to retire. At the moment I am still waking up before 6 am, leaping out of bed and all ready to write my blog bright-eyed and bushy-tailed every morning. So, in the words of … I can’t remember who, I ain’t done and you ain’t seen nothing yet.
Where to start today ? You all thought I had started already, but you were wrong. My fellow blogger Andrea gave us an insight into her reading habits when she talked about how she and her husband are filling in the time by sorting out books either to give away or sell. I would find that really hard. I did donate a load of books to the Oxfam Book Shop a few months ago but included in that donation was not a single volume I had bought for myself. They were unwanted ( though very generous if the donor is reading this ) gifts of books I hadn’t chosen for myself.
I’ve several rules about books. I don’t borrow them as I can’t read a volume that anybody has read before me. I can’t read a book if it gets damaged. I’ve been known to buy a second copy of a book I am reading if some disaster happens to it. I only use book-marks. I carry spare bookmarks around with me and have been known to hand them out to total strangers if I see them turning down the corner of a page to mark their place. Many many years ago (I’ve been married for 48 years so you get some idea of how many ) I went out with a girl who ripped out the pages of the book she was reading as she went along so it fitted more easily in her hand bag. The relationship did not outlive that act of vandalism. I often say I prefer books to people ( not you my readers of course ) but as a generalization that is probably true. When I have finished with a book it looks pristine, spine unbent ( I stop people bending books back to read them as well …. not obsessive compulsive behaviour at all ) and it has to be if it wants to occupy a place on my bookshelves.
I don’t like lending books either. People are even scared to ask if they can borrow a book from me. There are exceptions. My Cotswold neighbour, Diane is a welcome borrower and always returns them looking the same as when she got it. In fact, she and my other neighbour Jane are using my Cotswold collection as their local public library at the moment. I’ve not been to Blockley since January and that will be my first forage out when I get my NHS text to say I can go. That sort of useful text that I want to receive they never send !
My book collection is like a library. It’s author by author and the problem I have is finding space on the shelves for additions to my favourites. I was all set up with John Le Carre and then the bugger at his old age goes and writes another one. I don’t like it when one of my favourite authors die, but it does solve a logistical problem for me of where to fit in their new editions. Yes, I shed tears for Terry Pratchett and Philip Kerr ( he of the brilliant Bernie Gunther series ) and Anita Brookner and William Goldman and even for Len Deighton but their little collections are now frozen and present me with no further issues
It’s the prolific living authors like Jeffrey Deaver. Nikki French ( she’s two people by the way, husband and wife who write alternate chapters ) Harlan Coben, David Baldacci Scott Turow ( not so prolific ) and Denise Mina and Ian Rankin who cause me the problems. I got so stressed about volumes by Jonathan and Fay Kellerman and Cathy Reichs and Minette Walters that I just stopped buying them.
The current problem living in the times of The Big V is that I feel I have to maintain a full bookshelf above my bed ( that’s where my current reads and to reads sit ) so I’ve dipped my toe back in the literary waters to find new authors. Like William Shaw and the Australain Peter Temple to renew my appetite. That linked to the fact that I have the worlds’s biggest bookshop in the shape of Amazon at my finger-tips ( I know I should be supporting Waterstones ) coupled with the fact that I’ve very little else upon which to spend my money, means the books keep rolling in . It also means that Santa keeps delivering although I suspect one does not usually pay him for the presents he brings and that the wrapping is probably prettier.
I certainly prefer books to magazines and newspapers. As you know by now I do read “ The Cricketer “ avidly ( my wife buys the subscription for me every year as a Chanukah present ) In fact, just back to books for a moment ( I can never pass a bookshop without going in so given the opportunity… and I just gave myself the opportunity because I feel really generous to myself this morning and self-indulgent of returning to my fav subject ) whenever it’s my birthday ( July 13th if anybody wants to take the hint ) I give my sister-in-law a book list to buy me. Same for Chanukah . She’s happy as she doesn’t have to think about and she then takes the time and trouble to wrap them up in gift paper and I take the time and trouble to express surprise at what I’ve been given.
But, today’s story isn’t from a book or a magazine. It is from the paper and it’s probably the best Big V story yet. It seems a homeless man, Sultan Monsour, aged 45, is to face trial for “leaving his house during lock-down “ Seems he was arrested at Liverpool Station and then charged with being “ outside of the place where you were living, namely no fixed address “
Some truths are simply stranger than fiction.
Lots to do today so lots left to write which means Blog 51 will arrive. Merrily We Roll Along as the Sondheim musical says. Forgot to mention his 90th birthday the other day. Great You Tube special concert to celebrate. You either love his stuff or hate it. I’ve got tickets for “Assassins “ in Chichester in October and am still holding out some hope of getting there. Mind you, I am also holding out hope of being selected to open the innings for the England cricket team or playing International football for Poland ( or Belarus if I get my passport in time ) and I suspect neither of those things will happen either.
Wow, finished by 10.20 am Can get back to Cape Town 1958 and my new book whilst relatively fresh . Hurrah !
Stay safe and see you all tomorrow if we are all spared