I have been taking quite a lot of photos, such as the ones below. The first two are from yesterday’s 10-mile walk which began and ended in Henley-on-Thames, via the exceedingly quaint village of Hambleden. The weather was beautiful, as was the scenery. It’s a highly recommended walk (even for sedentary types like me, although my hip and knee played up, and I’m now hobbling around pathetically).

I felt exhausted after the walk; but, as usual, my brain wouldn’t switch off enough to let me sleep properly. So it was a bit of luck that 10 Things You Need To Know About Sleep happened to be on TV. It skimmed over several methods for ensuring a good night’s sleep, two of which I’m going to try – muscle relaxations and, possibly, sleep restriction therapy. The latter sounds a bit hardcore, but I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night and woke up feeling refreshed, so it might be worth a try.

It’s utterly fascinating, but also strange, to hear beloved writers’ voices for the first time. I hadn’t heard Virginia Woolf’s voice before. It’s deeper than I thought it would be. It’s odd, having lived only with the words on the page and in your head, to then discover another dimension of the writer that makes them into a more rounded human being, rather than a sort of detached consciousness.

I also watched this Daphne Du Maurier interview. My impression of her had been a half-formed one of a beautiful, mysterious character, who had a distinguished family history and a sometimes unhappy marriage to a Lieutenant General, throughout which she supposedly had affairs with women. It hadn’t occurred to me that a video would exist of her, full of vitality at 65, dismissing the interviewer’s suggestion that writers are somehow different from ‘non-creative’ people. She insists that writing is just a job that she switches off from at the end of the day, just as people who work in offices do: “When I’m on the job, working, I just go ahead and fill the day and live the thing completely until it’s time to knock off, then I relax. Sups on a tray, and the telly.”

The TV programme threw up some excellent snippets, and made me want to immediately read books by Elizabeth Bowen, Jean Rhys and Graham Greene. The excellent snippets include E.M. Forster claiming he could never be a great novelist because, unlike Tolstoy, who he believes can create all types of people, he can only create three: “the person I think I am, the people who irritate me, and the people I’d like to be.” There is also Graham Greene, when asked why he never wrote about Nazi Germany, giving as his reason that he “disliked the thing too profoundly. We were getting tired of Hitler. He was a boring subject. He was a bore, who was going to destroy my world.” And, in a particularly sad interview, Jean Rhys claims that she never wrote when she was happy; that she wouldn’t even know how to describe happiness; but that, “If I had to choose, I’d rather be happy than write. If I had my life all over again, and could choose.”

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You may have noticed that this blog has had a makeover. I’m hoping this will prompt a renewed enthusiasm to post more often. I still need to tweak bits of it, and change the header image from the current generic-but-pretty one, if inspiration happens to strike.

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I’m still reading slowly and intermittently. I’m not sure why: there are plenty of books I feel excited about, but the actual amount of reading being done is minimal. Perhaps I need to learn to read in places other than on the train, or in bed when I’m very tired. I’m currently reading Lud-in-the-Mist. I probably shouldn’t have read the glowing Amazon reviews beforehand. I was expecting something phenomenal; a gem that would stand up to the likes of writers such as Diana Wynne Jones and Susanna Clarke. I do like it. I like the constant latent presence of otherness. But I found the book slow (and repetitive) to start with. I find that, while the writing is often bright and quirky, and there are some excellent passages and ideas, it doesn’t particularly engage me. I’m also put off by the shockingly huge number of typos in my copy. But I will persevere.

I’m also reading Margaret Atwood’s The Year of the Flood. It being my bedtime book, I can’t seem to manage more than a chapter before falling asleep. And the chapters are very short. That’s not a reflection on the book, though. I’d missed reading Atwood. I’d almost forgotten how good she is; how every word counts; how every sentence is like a little injection of literary vitamins. Yum.

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On Saturday I went to an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. It was on Camille Silvy. I saw lots of beautiful prints of his photographs, and learnt more about the technical side of early photography, which I’ve been reading a bit about recently.

This doesn’t mean that I’m particularly motivated to be better at my own photography. For some reason, I decided at the beginning of this month to do that Flickr photo-a-day thing again. I’m remembering now why last time I stopped doing it after six months – it’s really bloody difficult, and I end up copping out by mostly taking pictures of food or random things in the flat. It does mean, though, that I do have my camera with me should I encounter something actually worth photographing. Not that I’m brave enough yet to take photos of everything I would like to.

• I spent yesterday reading the final few hundred pages of The Children’s Book. I felt bereft when I finished, and still do now. It is a beautiful, rich book. There are many characters, all of whom I either cared deeply about or felt strongly about in another way; who (mostly) have strong motivations and passions of their own; and who are set against richly detailed political, social and cultural backdrops. I’m finding it very difficult to try to describe it in a few sentences. It’s just the kind of book that I’m very grateful exists.
• I also finished Wolf Hall. I liked and admired it very much. Again, especially as I finished it a while ago, I’m having difficulty trying to sum it up. My lasting impression now is of the clarity and accessibility of Mantel’s style. Mantel weaves masses of research and the burden of a much-studied historical story into an informal, contemporary narrative, which is a huge achievement. Here‘s a review I like, which expresses many of the things I thought about the book.
• I also read Holes, which is short and perfectly formed. It is immaculately plotted. It’s also highly imaginative and idiosyncratic – digging holes in the desert, an outlaw called Kissin’ Kate Barlow, spiced pears, and onions are some of the important parts of the story. It’s also a sad book, about injustice and outsiders. And, best of all, it features a character called Mr. Sir.
• I’m now reading The Dream Life of Sukhanov, which flows well. It’s nice to read a newish debut novel which doesn’t seem stripped down. Sometimes I feel that contemporary novels focus too much on succinctness, and sometimes that means a voice, or some other spark, is lost. Sukhanov is more sumptuous than that. It seems to remind me of things I read long ago.
• BBC 6 Music has been saved! Some comments on this article suggest that it was all just a publicity stunt to gain more listeners. I’m not sure I believe that; but then again, it does sound plausible. Either way, though, it’s excellent news.
• I finally have a possible theatre trip on the horizon: Enron at Richmond Theatre in September. The overall impression I got from reviews of the play when it was at the Royal Court and in the West End was that it was good, but not that good. But I’m still going to see it, if I can, out of desperation to see something. This at the Orange Tree looks interesting, too.

Near Hastings, we went clay pigeon shooting. It rained the whole time. The gun was heavy. I missed all the pigeons: by the time I’d got the hang of holding the gun and where I was supposed to aim, my turn would be up. We went on a gorgeous clifftop walk and almost bumped into a naked man on his way to the nudist beach below (we didn’t know there was a nudist beach at the time). We went to Bodiam Castle. We made friends with the pet dog, who was very cat-like; so we renamed her Dot.

Bournemouth was last weekend. There was a lot of eating, drinking, sun-worshipping and staying up late. Bournemouth has a reputation for being a retirement town, but I really like it. Alum Chine beach is well kept, with good facilities. Yes, that makes me sound old. Both weekends were relaxing and fun-filled, anyway. They were little jewels studded in an otherwise mediocre month.

For example, on the train today an older man was talking to a younger woman, whom he clearly knew through her parents. I (thought I) overheard him say, “…yeah, she’s okay. But she’s thirty now. Past her prime. Got a bit of arthritis.” Which made me raise my eyebrows. But further eavesdropping revealed that they were talking about pets, and he probably said thirteen, not thirty. Hopefully mishearings also count for the project.

Music/radio

• This post was inspired by Grizzly Bear, to whom I’m listening now. They’ve been recommended to me by a few people. I finally bought Veckatimest after hearing the track Dory on Adam Buxton’s Big Mixtape. I liked the album, then didn’t listen to it for a while. Then tonight, I listened to it again, and I realised that it’s brilliant. I also very much like Joanna Newsom’s Have One On Me, which I need to listen to again.
• When I use proper grammar in a sentence, like ‘to whom’ in the previous point, it feels a bit wrong and poncy. Although I cringe at spelling mistakes and misplaced apostrophes, sometimes it’s fine to do rebellious things like put a preposition at the end of a sentence, because otherwise it would just sound weird.
• Grizzly and Newsom are the only new musical offerings I’ve properly listened to lately. It feels strange to be detached from music like this, only delving into the odd thing that takes my fancy; but I suppose that’s what happens when you don’t put the time and effort into keeping up with new stuff.
• I’m trying not to think about the fact that Tori Amos is playing in London next month, and I haven’t got tickets. It feels wrong. I saw her twice last year, though, so that should make it okay. It doesn’t, really.
• I’m glad that half of Adam and Joe is still on the air, in the form of Adam’s Big Mixtape, which I’ve enjoyed. But when Adam’s on his own, before his guests arrive, he tends to go off on crazed tangents; and while they’re enjoyable, you feel that Joe needs to be there to rein him in. They’re the perfect couple.

Film

• I watched the film adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s Coraline recently. The animation was fantastic. It was quite scary for a kids’ film – I was too frightened to leave the room alone (but then, I’m easily scared. Jonathan Creek used to terrify me). The overriding feeling I got from it, though, was one of hollowness. I realised that the Gaiman novels I’ve read, Neverwhere and Stardust, left me with the same feeling. (His short story collection, Smoke and Mirrors, I found much more rewarding). I wondered if, perhaps, the hollowness in Coraline was deliberate – was it intended to reinforce the bleakness of Coraline’s real life, and the eerieness of the life she finds in the other world? But even if it was, it was still unsatisfying (even the bleakest book I’ve read, The Road by Cormac McCarthy, was packed with intimacy and tenderness).
• I thought about this a bit more, and realised that I’ve been hesitant to admit that I’m underwhelmed by Gaiman’s novels. After all, he’s a close friend of Tori Amos. His themes, genres, characters and settings appeal to me greatly. He cites Diana Wynne Jones as a big influence. I should love his stuff. But I don’t. His work simply doesn’t have the warmth, erudition and complexity (but mostly the warmth) of, for example, Wynne Jones’s.

Books/theatre

• All this rambling is just an attempt to mask the fact that I’m still reading the two books that I was at the beginning of May – Wolf Hall and The Children’s Book. I think that (recently, anyway) I have had an issue with chunksters; that is, books that are over about 400 pages. They’re overwhelming. I should never again try to read two at the same time, even if they are by authors I already know and admire. (I do love both books, though, so I should see it as a good thing that I’m spending a lot of time with them).
• It’s also an attempt to persuade myself that I don’t need theatre in my life, with all these musical and filmic delights to explore. But I miss it, and need to book (cheap) tickets for something soon.

The stories seem to be very well ordered within the book. There are several about people living unsatisfactory lives, who are heading for unavoidable change, often with a surreal bent. In Shark! Shark!, Brian can’t get over a sudden, obsessive, irrational fear of sharks; in Shell, Doreen’s realisation of just how dissatisfied she is coincides with a gradual physical transformation; and in The woman with fork and knife disorder, cutlery plays a big part in driving unappreciated Irene into the realms of madness.

There are a few stories convincingly written in the patois of Jackie Kay’s native Scotland. There are those narrated by outsiders, such as the fantastic title story which made me empathise with a character I would probably avoid or clash with in real life; and the unsettling Making a movie. Then there are the love stories: in the wonderful Physics and Chemistry, two female schoolteachers are fired when their relationship is brought out into the open, despite having worked there for years with no issues. They simply leave the bigotry behind and open a wool shop, because “they had this thing between them, this spark. It could always change colour.” In the heartbreaking final story, In between talking about the elephant, two lovers have an agreement that helps them transcend bleak reality. The story hurtles towards its devastating ending in a sort of desperate, fevered, exhilarating tone.

It is, essentially, a book overflowing with warmth, especially in the final three stories. Some of the tales have the power to shift your perspective and make you rethink prejudices. Kay is also unflinching in her descriptions, and not just of physical things: she’s not afraid to really prod at a subject until the raw emotion behind it oozes out.

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I’m also (still) reading The Children’s Book. I adore every word. I never want it to end, and it does appear to be my mission to drag it out for as long as possible. I’m also reading Wolf Hall (it’s my commuting/lunchtime book). It actually took a little while to get into, which surprised me, as I was already a big fan of Mantel’s writing. It was probably just because of my shamefully patchy historical knowledge. I’m really enjoying it now (150 pages in), though.

My next read might be Hope Mirrlees’ Lud-in-the-Mist, which I recently bought, and should hopefully satisfy my recent yearning to read something faerie-related. I can’t remember where I found out about it, but I’m surprised I didn’t sooner, because it’s been hugely influential on contemporary fantasy writers; and because she was associated with the Bloomsbury Group. I’m also on the lookout for any similar books; but failing that, I’ll just have to re-read Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, a book I think about quite a bit, despite it being five years since I read it.

It is about a fictional Oxford University club called the Riot Club, which many have compared to the infamous Bullingdon Club. The play is set in a private room in an Oxfordshire pub, and takes place over the course of one evening, as the members eat a “ten-bird roast” and get more and more drunk. They are determined to uphold Riot Club tradition by making sure the room is thoroughly trashed by the end of the night. When it becomes clear that the pub landlord and his daughter, the waitress, are less than keen to accommodate their needs, things turn nasty.

It is an enjoyable play to watch. The acting and dialogue sparkle. The characters are clear-cut: Wade has paid meticulous attention to the details of their language and customs. The boys are funny, witty, rude, and often caricaturish. Their behaviour is similar to that of many groups of people on an evening out, and this was reflected in the audience’s enjoyment of the jokes: they could identify with the Riot Club, because they knew peope who actually behaved like that. This placing of the upper-class and traditional within a contemporary context was also reflected in another great touch: interludes of perfectly executed a cappella group singing of such modern classics as Wiley’s Wearing My Rolex.

Just before the interval, the character Alistair makes a speech, bemoaning the lack of cooperation they are getting from the landlord. It is one of the first glimmers of menace. He is angry that people of their status seem no longer able to command the respect that they once did. It is a promising set-up for the second act, in which their behaviour deteriorates, and culminates not just in trashing the room, but in acts of violence against the landlord and his daughter; from which the Riot Club are easily absolved. The play is essentially a warning, and a condemning of a certain attitude. The characters think they are entitled to get their way, and will do so, because they know they have the cleverness, resources and connections with which to cover up any resulting mess.

This is where I become confused: as I’ve said, I liked the actors, and the script, and all the small touches. I liked what the play was trying to say. And yet I ultimately felt that, as much as it shone in many ways, Posh stopped short of its potential. I wanted the climax to epitomise the idea that the play was obviously building towards – that these people could be genuinely dangerous. But instead, it felt implausible and empty. It’s frustrating, because I really wanted it to work, and I can’t pinpoint exactly why it didn’t.

The Little Stranger is the kind of book that, once you’ve finished reading it, you immediately have a great urge to discuss it with someone else who’s just read it. It’s also a book that does not tie everything up in a neat little package at the end. Instead, the implications of the ending gradually wash over you, so that even hours after you’ve finished, you’re still realising that the book you’ve just read (possibly) isn’t what you thought it was at all.