Over To You - Lockdown Legacies

Time for another one of these - only a couple more to go from this latest round (as always, either a good or a bad thing depending on your preference). Today's prompt came courtesy of James and it goes a little something like this...



Lockdown Legacies

Day 1579. That was all it was now. No more months, years, anything like that. Just the endless creep of the days ever upwards as everyone sat in their homes and did what they had to do. It had been around Day 300 that people seemed to give up on the old calendar. What was the point of having them if there was never really anything to plan? Just the inside days, ticking upwards, ever upwards.

Martin logged on. That was the start of every day, logging on. It was easier now that everything was connected through FaceTwiGram. His username, though. Eurgh. If he’d known that your user ID would be how you were legally referred to (as enshrined in law on Day 795), he never would have chosen StuPitt. Still, what was done was done. No use 😭  over split 🥛.

He scrolled through the feed. The usual list of cancellations and counter-cancellations for the day (most of which would be swapped round by the end of the day). He was just on the third of the mandatory five funny cat videos per day when that dreaded wheel of death appeared. No internet connection. Eurgh, the perfect start to the day.

Switch wifi off and on again. Nothing. Ok, step two - reboot machine. Still nothing. Sigh. This meant that Martin (in his head, he still thought of himself as Martin despite the legal mandate) would have to go all the way downstairs and reboot the router. Great. What a brilliant start to the day. He’d already been downstairs to get breakfast. He wasn't expecting to use the stairs again until at least lunchtime. Unbelievable.

OK, router off and wait thirty seconds. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Was that thirty seconds? It felt like it, it was probably close enough. Router back on. Check phone. Apparently connected but still no wifi. Alright then, back upstairs to check the main machine.

Nope, nothing. No internet. Another check on the phone (using data for this; resentment and irritation levels increasing). No reported network problems.

Martin huffed in irritation. He would have to call The Company (there was just the one broadband provider now; it was easier that way). Speak to an actual person - or, at the very least, an excellent AI approximation of one anyway. Martin dithered. Actual vocal contact was something he avoided as much as possible these days. Why bother? It wasn’t like you were going to meet anyone in person anymore anyway.

Girding himself, he phoned up. Twenty minutes navigating the auto-menu system finally brought him to a voice, one which Martin was reasonably sure was not strictly speaking human in the traditional sense.

Forty more minutes and a sinking sensation opened up in the pit of his stomach. The investigation was complete. The problem was the router. Martin would need a new one.

“Can I get one delivered?” said Martin, trying his best not to let the rising sense of panic within him creep into his voice.

“Certainly, StuPitt. That will be with you in...twenty days.”

“No. No, no, no,’ said Martin, “I need it sooner than that, can't I get one quicker than that?”

“Certainly, StuPitt. There is an appropriate model available for collection now at your local Company Collection Point which is… 0.4 miles from your current location.”

Martin swallowed. He did his best to sound calm. On the inside, though, a long drawn out scream of sheer existential terror was building and, if he let it out, it might not end. It was becoming clear that there was only one choice. He would have to go outside.

---------------

Martin paced fretfully up and down the hallway. He checked and double-checked his outfit. FullSeal Face Mask. HypoClean Outdoor Onesie with TruSeal Gloves. Wipes, sprays, lotions, oils, gels. All the standard accoutrements for leaving the house. He was ready. But he was not ready. Martin hadn’t left the house since Day 983 and even then that had only been to go to the end of the drive. 

He could do this. He just had to get out and go. He could do this. He could do this. Martin opened the door.

---------------

It took Martin something close to an hour to navigate his way the seven hundred yards to the Company Collection Point due to the various doubling backs and crossing of the road he had to do to avoid the (very few) other similarly suited people he passed on the way. Eventually, he found himself before the collection desk explaining to the bored-looking (at least Martin assumed that he or she was bored looking; it was hard to tell through the gear) desk operative what he was there for.

After a sigh, a shrug and a shuffling off into the depths of the Collection Point, the desk operative eventually returned with a small and unobtrusive looking box which was placed into the VacuSeal airlock chamber before being liberally sprayed with various anti-viral solutions. When Martin's side of the VacuSeal opened, he took the package with slightly trembling hands and did his best not to cry. He had done it. He had navigated the outside and achieved his goal, like some great adventurer of yore.

“You are all I ever wanted in a wifi,” he found himself whispering to the box.

“What was that?” asked the desk operative, seemingly confused.

“Nothing,” muttered Martin quickly and scuttled out of the door.

-----------

The box was opened, the router installed and power flowing. All looked well. Martin checked his phone - connection and full signal. Looking good. Well, it had been a trying day, what with the whole “going outside” thing but Martin had achieved his goal and made it through unscathed. All in all, a good day. He couldn’t wait to get logged on and tell all of his friends about the Great Adventure - DonkeyPoop789, MeMeQueen, The Stinkinator.

Martin went upstairs (yeesh, this was becoming a habit today) and switched on the computer. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing, No response, no sound of starting up. Nothing. The machine was dead.

Martin wept.




The Prompt
Here is what I had to work with courtesy of James:-
Story title - "Lockdown Legacies"
Character name - "Stu Pitt"
Object - "Wifi Router"
Line of dialogue - "You are all I ever wanted in a wifi"

WatchSeeLookView At The LFF 2019 Addendum - The Personal History Of David Copperfield

We've reached the point that films that I wasn’t able to see at the London Film Festival last year are becoming commercially available, so here’s one that I was unsuccessful in getting Gala screening tickets for in the members ballot.

The Personal History Of David Copperfield
Dir. Armando Iannucci / Dur. 119 mins. / Country. UK/US
In A Nutshell:- It’s Dickens but it’s not your usual stuffy costume drama.

The Good:- So much to choose from on this one. The style and pacing is a refreshing change from the usual formal stuffiness that can be associated with a period piece like this - there are some nice narrative touches when it switches between his writing/remembrances of events and what happened. The casting is spot on with everyone here on top form and having the time of their lives from Tilda Swinton’s manic Betsey Trotwood to Hugh Laurie’s scatterbrained Mr Dick to Peter Capaldi’s put-upon but upbeat Micawber. It’s genuinely funny as well, something that I was apprehensive about going in; there’s always a concern whether the humour will translate to a modern audience but Iannucci and Simon Blackwell’s has a rhythm and lightness of touch that carry you through. As Copperfield himself, Dev Patel easily carries the show, managing to be both funny and affecting. It also zips along at a good pace - I genuinely didn't notice that two hours had passed and was quite surprised when I realised that it was coming to an end.

The Bad:- I honestly can't think of anything that I didn't enjoy about it - I’ve been racking my brains to try and come up with something here but I haven’t got anything.

The Verdict:- If I had to sum up the film in a single word, I’d use the word “joyful”. There’s something about it, the combination of script, direction and performance together with a pace and energy that give it a joyfulness that feels rare in cinema nowadays. In these times of constant bombardment with bad news, this just might be the right sort of escape (for a few hours at least).

The Venue / Intro / Q&A:- Hmm, maybe this part of the “Film Festival Reviews” template doesn’t really work anymore. At home, obviously, without a single member of the production telling me anything about the making afterwards. Rude.

Over To You - An Abundance Of Catflaps

Time for another one of these - they have flowed much slower this time round but, fear not, if you're still waiting on yours, it is on the way. Today's effort comes courtesy of The Brother and goes a little something like this....



An Abundance Of Catflaps

Mickey Bundles sat in the lounge bar of The Newt And Pimple and looked at his pint disconsolately. Normally he looked at it with cheerful anticipation (it was a pint, after all) but today his mood was low. He tried his best to ignore them but the thirty one boxes piled next to him were hard to ignore, as were the stares from Barry The Barman who clearly was not best pleased with the situation. Mickey could sympathise. He wasn’t best pleased with it himself.

It was all Scottish Jerry’s fault. He’d started it. This was usually the case but it never normally escalated this far. 

Alright, maybe it wasn’t entirely Scottish Jerry’s fault. Mickey might have to take some small measure of blame. You see, he could never resist a bet. He didn't know why but there was something inside him that meant that he couldn’t walk away from a bet and, once he’d accepted, there was no way he was going to lose face and not see it through. The problem was that everyone else knew this too.

Particularly Scottish Jerry. He always seemed to judge the perfect tipping point, when the combination of boozy recklessness and stubborn pride was just hitting its peak. Like the time Scottish Jerry he bet him the he couldn’t climb the toilet walls using only his lips. Multiple lacerations and a course of antibiotic injections should have warned him off after that but sadly not. He’d been up for it when Scottish Jerry had bet him that he couldn’t make his way back home blindfold and still hadn’t been deterred by a night in the cells for accidentally groping an old fella. 

This time, Mickey really did wish that he hadn’t got involved though. He’d been determined not to let Scottish Jerry get the better of him when, at around the sixth pint, Scottish Jerry had produced a small object from his pocket and waved it in front of Mickey.

“Here, Mickey,’ said the balding antagonist, “see this?”

“Yeah,” said Mickey with a hefty amount of suspicion, “what is it?’

“It’s a teeny, tiny, titchy, wee spoon,” said Scottish Jerry, turning the small object this way and that to catch the light and reflect it irritatingly back into Mickey’s eyes. Mickey narrowed his eyes, partly because the reflection was annoying, partly because it was always suspicious when Scottish Jerry (who had lived in London for over thirty years) became profoundly Scottish and partly because he had a sneaking suspicion where this was going.

“I can see that. What I meant is, what’s it got to do with me?”

“I bet you-” Mickey groaned but Scottish Jerry was undeterred, “I bet you that you cannae make….two thousand pounds from this teeny, tiny, titchy, wee spoon.”

Six pints were definitely causing a swirling feeling as he tried to think but there was something about the phrasing that caught in Mickey’s head. Mickey sensed a loophole; a way around it. This could be the one that he might well win. This would be it. This would be the time.

“What do I get if I win?”

“You keep the dosh.”

“And if I lose?”

Scottish Jerry grinned. “You spend an evening in here in the nip and you ask out Joanne The Barmaid.”

Mickey squinted, ostensibly to try and work out if this was worth it but also because he’d had six pints. After an almost audible turning of cogs, Mickey had nodded and stuck out his hand.

“You’re on,” said Mickey, shaking Scottish Jerry’s hand vigorously.

--------------

It had taken some doing but, with all of his powers of persuasion, wheedling and flat out begging, Mickey had managed, through a series of frankly improbable trades to barter the teeny, tiny, titchy, wee spoon all the way up to a collection of thirty one catflaps. Not bad going but he’d hit an impasse. He couldn’t seem to trade them further up and no one was overly interested in paying two grand for thirty one catflaps.

That was until two nights ago and a conversation with Colonel Shitpipe in The Newt And Pimple. That wasn’t his real name, of course. Nobody had ever got his real name but, since he looked a bit like Colonel Mustard from Cluedo and every story he told seemed to involve some sort of disastrous bowel evacuation, the nickname had pretty much stuck. Mickey was now too embarrassed to ask what his real name might be and, on the one occasion that he had referred to him as “The Colonel” to his face (fortunately omitting the Shitpipe), the old duffer hadn’t seemed to mind.

The conversation had gone something like this in Mickey’s memory of the event:-

Colonel S:- “Blah blah blah small windfall blah blah not a full set of trousers hahahaha blah blah blah local businesses blah blah blah investment opportunity blah blah blah.”

Mickey:- “Oh, I have a new business.”

Colonel S:- “Really blah blah etc etc?”

Mickey:- “Yup, it’s new… set of exercise equipment. Very now, very niche, popular with young urban professionals.”

Colonel S:- “Splendid blah blah blah!”

So now here he was, waiting with thirty one catflaps that he was going to attempt to pass off as exercise equipment in order to sell them to a man he barely knew. A shadow passed over the table and Mickey looked up to see the rotund and tweedy form of the Colonel looming over him.

“Right then, let’s see what you’ve got,” boomed the Cluedo lookalike. Mickey winced and opened up one of the boxes, pulling out a catflap for his demonstration.

“Hnnnnng! Gmmmmf! Rrrrrgghh!” What followed was a frankly pathetic and clearly doomed attempt to con an older gentleman out of two thousand pounds. After a few moments, the Colonel held up a hand, stood up and walked out of the pub without saying a word.

“Fair enough,” thought Mickey, trying his best to pull the catflap from around his neck.

-----------

After the first hour or so of general laughing and teasing, Mickey had found it fairly liberating spending an evening in the pub naked, Scottish Jerry having squared it all away with the landlord first who had then hit on the idea of selling tickets (of which Scottish Jerry received a cut). He’d even got a surprisingly positive response from Joanne.

“Fair play to you, young Mickey,” said Scottish Jerry, “ye’re a man of your word.”

He raised a glass and Mickey clinked his pint against it.

“I don’t suppose you fancy a wee wager mind?”

The spluttering of Scottish Jerry as he wiped Mickey’s pint from his face and general laughter of the surrounding tables meant that Mickey never did find out what that next bet was. 




The Prompt
Here is what I had to work with courtesy of Andy:-
Story title - An Abundance of Catflaps
Character name - Colonel Shitpipe
Object - A teeny tiny titchy wee spoon
Line of dialogue - "Hnnnnng! Gmmmmf! Rrrrrgghh!"

10 Books... With Context - Rebel Without A Crew

It’s a crossover point between books and film here - two of the key obsessions in this Baldy Fella’s life…

Rebel Without A Crew
(Or How a 23-Year-Old Filmmaker with $7,000 Became a Hollywood Player)
By Robert Rodriguez
First published in 1995

What’s It About?
It takes the form of a diary, following Rodriguez’s stint in medical research programmes in order to earn the cash to go off and make an ultra low-budget feature (El Mariachi) shot on 16mm film for only $7,000.

Background
In the early / mid-nineties, this book was a revelation. Prior to the home camera boom and well before it was possible to shoot high definition imagery on just your phone, the film industry held tight to the myth that making a feature film was only possible with a huge budget and a full size crew. Filmmakers like Rodriguez, Kevin Smith, Peter Jackson and Quentin Tarantino were part of a new wave who grew up fully immersed in film and pop culture with a strong desire to just get out and do their own thing. This book came out just as this was all starting to shift.

Why’s It Good?
Because, at the time, I was getting more and more interested in film and picking up whatever video cameras my mate and I could get hold off (including one that was housed at the training college my mate’s dad was the manager of which took actual full-size VHS tapes) to try and film something. This was a real shot in the arm to say that it could be done and it could be successful - El Mariachi was successful enough to lead to a Hollywood sequel/remake (Desperado). It’s also just an enjoyable read - Rodriguez describes the guerilla nature of the making of the film in an entertaining way and runs through the chances he took and the obstacles he had to work around on the fly in order to get it within the minimal amount of cash that he had (which was pretty much all spent on 16mm film stock). If you’ve got any interest in low to no budget filmmaking and how you can get it done then give this one a read.
(Side Note:- His follow up book, RoadRacers: The Making of a Degenerate Hot Rod Flick, which details the making of his first film within the studio system and how his attempts to do it guerilla style did not fit in with the established way of doing things, is also an entertaining read too.)

Wrapped In Plastic: A Twin Peaks Rewatch - Part 9

Laura Palmer’s killer has been apprehended. So what happens next?

S02E10 AKA Dispute Between Brothers
In Which:- A wake is held and Cooper’s departure from Twin Peaks is interrupted...

- There’s a rare moment of the character’s just taking a beat and spending time en masse during Leland’s wake (including a return appearance fro Doc Jacoby and a rare sighting of Mrs Hayward).
- In what’s becoming a disturbing theme in the series, we have another very old man in a relationship with a very young woman. Not a great theme, this one.
- Following a very touching goodbye between Coop and Truman, he (of course) is prevented from leaving by the arrival of IA agents investigating his trip to One Eyed Jacks.
- Some more foreshadowing going on - Coop reveals more of his past with Windom Earle to Audrey and The White Lodge is mentioned for the first time (which feels like it has come into the series quite late).
- Overall, though, the momentum is being held by what feel like mostly sub plots at the moment (Nadine at school, Audrey and Bobby, hints at Leo not being completely brain dead) until the end when the weirdness comes back in as Major Briggs disappears.

First Appearance:- Mayor Milford’s brother, Dougie
The Owls:- A owl is heard by both Major Briggs and Coop prior to the Major’s disappearance
Cliffhanger:- During Coop and Major Briggs camping trip,a white light appears around the Major while Coop is away. The Major is gone and Coop stares not the white light as it fades...


S02E11 AKA Masked Ball
In Which:- Sadly, the James subplot kicks in…

- I think I’ve made it pretty clear by now that James is my least favourite character and a rewatch has not altered this opinion. I don’t think I was alone in that as this was the point that viewers started to leave. The first three minutes of the episode are just shots of James driving around on his bike. It’s a long three minutes…
- We get a vocal cameo from David Lynch as Gordon Cole over the phone which is pretty much representative of his involvement during much of this back half of the second season…
- I’d forgotten that David Duchovny was in the series as trans character Denise Bryson. There’s a slight moment of “it’s a man in a dress” humour creeping in which is swiftly swept aside in favour of acceptance (relatively refreshing for an early 90s series).
- The Black Lodge is mentioned for the first time along with some more details about the Lodges and their significance in Twin Peaks.
- We’re still largely being driven by subplots at the moment - Josie’s history with Mr Eckhardt and Catherine's brother Andrew is coming to the fore; Ben is going slightly off the rails after losing his deal and being arrested for murder - it would all be enjoyable enough if we had less time spent on bloody James...


First Appearances:- Denise Bryson; Andrew Packard; Windom Earle (voice only)
Cliffhanger:- The supposedly dead brother of Catherine and husband of Josie, Andrew Packard, is in fact alive and well; a fact which Catherine has known all along…

Over To You - The End

Yes, I have been very slow in getting through these this time round. Dreadful cliche but I hit a bit of a block and it's only just now starting to clear. So here's the next entry in the series with a prompt courtesy of Morag. It feels a little different to my usual guff - let's see if it works....


The End

It was her last client of the day and Dolores was feeling it. She’d had Mr Fredericks (whose neuroses had neuroses; although this did make him a fairly solid source of regular income) followed by Miss Malone (who rampant narcissism was truly exhausting by the end of the allocated hour) and that double whammy always left her drained and a little fractious. Dolores checked the calendar. Ah, this should be interesting.

As a matter of course, Dolores didn't really like to continue a professional relationship with the ones that she considered to be truly delusional but there was something different about Cynthia Hunter. Dolores couldn’t pinpoint exactly what made Ms Hunter different which, admittedly, was a source of mild concern for someone who spent their time helping people work out what was going on in their heads.

A gentle knock at the door. Dolores smiled. “Come in.”

There was something about the way that she moved that always struck Dolores. She’d struggled to put her finger on it before but now, as she watched Cynthia approach the couch and position herself upon it, Dolores realised what it was. Dolores had recently become the slightly obsessed owner of a relatively young cat (not really a kitten anymore but not quite a cat) which, for reasons not even entirely clear to Dolores, she’d decided to name Humphrey Bogart. She’d watched it with amusement the first time that Humphrey Bogart had gone outside and discovered the small family of birds living in the apple tree at the end of the garden. The watchfulness, the stalking, the preparations for pouncing (all of which she’d allowed as the birds were too far away and not in any real danger). This was what Cynthia put her in mind of. A cat sizing up its prey.

“How are you today, Cynthia?”

Cynthia sighed. “Wearing a little thin, Dr Miller.” (Always went with the title despite Dolores’ repeated requests to use her first name.)

Now that Dolores took a good look at her, she could see what Cynthia meant. There was something different about her today, a certain wanness that she didn't usually exude. If anything (and Dolores felt a little silly admitting this even to herself), there was usually something almost too solid, too healthy about her. Dolores suspected that the reason she felt that way may well be a subconscious reaction to Cynthia’s claims about herself.

“I did meet someone recently.” Cynthia had a tendency to just launch in on something (which, at the end of a long day, Dolores was thankful for). “Our eyes met across a crowded room - a dreadful cliche, I know, but sometimes they are cliches because they happen so often. There was a definite spark there - I felt it and I could tell she felt it too.” Cynthia sighed. “But what’s the point? I’ve been through it before. It’s fine for a while but then they get old and wither and die and I just… keep going.”

Cynthia stared off into the middle distance, a pensive look on her face. Dolores was about to say something when a sudden smile illuminated Cynthia’s face. “I do like the chase, though. I’ve always liked the chase.”

Cynthia turned to look at Dolores. Dolores knew her mannerisms well enough now to know that this was usually the precursor to a conversational shift.

“I miss worshippers. They’re just not there anymore. Back in the old days… ah, they knew how to worship back then, you know. Really worship. None of this half-hearted praying and putting on your smart stuff on a Sunday. Proper, one hundred percent worship. The Athenians knew how to do it - sending their girls for a year of servitude. That’s how you worship. And as for the Spartans? Proper blood sacrifice, that’s the way you show your fealty. Not these bloody mournful hymns.”

Dolores nodded. This was a well worn routine, usually trotted out when something had been agitating her. She had an idea what it might be.

“How’s your brother?”

Cynthia huffed. “A pain in the arse as always. That whole overprotective thing wore thin a millennia or so ago but Sol just doesn’t seem to get it. He’s obsessed with this whole ‘defending my honour’ schtick. It’s just so… tiring.” 

She sighed and leaned back with her eyes closed. Dolores let the silence stretch out for a moment. Always a fine line this point between waiting for them to fill the silence again and letting it go on too long. Dolores was just about to ask something when Cynthia chimed in.

“You’ve never really believed me, have you? You just think I’m delusional.”

“We’ve discussed this before - it’s not about what I believe, it’s about what you believe and why.”

Cynthia looked at her again. “I’m wearing thin. This body, that is. We can wear them for a while - much, much longer than they would normally last anyway - but they always wear thin in the end.” She smiled an odd smile. “The form will fade but I will endure. I always endure.”

In a swift motion that seemed to come out of nowhere, Cynthia reached into her handbag and pulled out a large bright red handkerchief which she folded diagonally, making a triangle shape with it. Before Dolores realised what was happening, Cynthia had closed the distance between them with a frightening speed and draped the handkerchief over her shoulders (neckerchief now, she supposed) and delicately tied it around her neck. 

"This is going to hurt. A little."

Dolores started. She felt...something. She couldn’t say what it was but it was something. A sting, a jolt, a notion, an understanding of something except she wasn’t sure quite what. Like a sudden icicle through the brain but one that faded into memory almost as soon as it happened.

Cynthia stepped back and observed her handiwork. She nodded with apparent satisfaction.

“I have enjoyed our times together.” She smiled as if at a private joke. “And I shall continue to do so in the future. Goodbye for now, Dr Miller.”

With that, Cynthia turned and left the room. Dolores sat there for some time, hand on the neckerchief, head filled with the sounds of thundering hooves and arrows being loosed, blood pounding in her temples...



The Prompt
Here is what I had to work with courtesy of Morag:-
Story title - The End
Character name - Dr Dolores Miller
Object - A bright red silk handkerchief
Line of dialogue - “This is going to hurt”

10 Books…With Context - Fungus The Bogeyman

As unlikely as it was that I was going to let this list go past without a choice from Terry Pratchett, equally unlikely was the possibility that I would not include a book that didn't have a selection of pictures alongside all the wordy goodness. And I’m going to go with this one.

Fungus The Bogeyman
By Raymond Briggs
First published in 1977

What’s It About?
The book follows a day in the life of a bogeyman, Fungus, a member of underground dwelling race of people whose average working day involves coming out at night to frighten the mundane human types who live above ground.

Background
Briggs was originally planning on doing an alphabet-based illustrated book - A for apple, etc… - but, after wondering why the alphabet books have to be so blandly nice (“...why does it have to be so perfect? Why can’t the apple have a maggot sticking out of the top?”), the world of bogeydom was instead born.

Why’s It Good?
Briggs is most famously associated with The Snowman - the perennial Channel 4 Christmas special based upon his 1978 picture book - but, somewhat downbeat ending aside, that doesn’t really represent the gloominess that permeates Briggs’ work. His Father Christmas book follows a grumpy version of Santa who hates Christmas, while When The Wind Blows is as bleak and chilling a warning on the dangers of nuclear proliferation as you’re ever likely to read / watch.

That dour outlook on life seeps through every aspect of Fungus The Bogeyman but it still doesn't stop the book from being delightful. It’s not really much of a narrative - we merely follow Fungus as he goes about his working “day” - but where it comes alive is in the world building. The sheer wealth of detail packed into every page, forming a mini encyclopedia on the world and lives of the bogeys is what I loved most about it. I would pore over every tiny little detail contained in the book and spend hours taking it all in.

As with many of the books I have loved, word play and a love of language is front and centre in this book. Briggs clearly loves playing with language, whether it be dredging up old obscure English terms / bits of dialect to press them back into use (“hodmandod” being the bogey word for snail, for example; very pleasing to say) or filling the background with literary jokes and allusions (the bogey library, for example has books like Far From the Madding Bogey and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Bogeyman).

It’s a book that’s ostensibly for kids but has much to offer adults as well. Kids will love the strange new world lurking under our familiar one while adults will empathise with the working man plodding his way through just another day. If you’ve not read it before, give it a go. It might well surprise you.

[I would add a picture of my own copy but the eldest nephew borrowed it before lockdown (good call)...]

10 Books…With Context - Mort

Look, I wasn’t going to let this list go past without Terry Pratchett featuring in there somewhere, now was I?

Mort
By Terry Pratchett
First published:- November 12, 1987


What’s It About?
Mort is a gangly farm boy whose father just wants him to land a good apprenticeship. When a skeletal chap with a scythe offers him an apprenticeship in the reaping (soul) business, long term employment seems assured. However, an incident involving a princess and his own romantic nature might just spell doom and not just for Mort...

Background
For those of you who aren’t familiar with the works of Terry Pratchett, this is the fourth of his highly successful series of books set on the Discworld - a flat disc of a world (carried through space on the backs of four elephants on the back of a giant turtle) where magic and comedy exists in equal measures. Pratchett had written a couple of more sci-fi leaning books before launching into a spoof of sword and sorcery novels with The Colour Of Magic in 1983 which launched the Discworld. He would then go on to write another forty novels in the series (as well as a few spin offs and other books too) before his untimely death in 2015 as a result of Alzheimer’s.

Why’s It Good?
If I’m being honest, I could pick most of the Discworld books to go in here but I think that this is the first one that has real mainstream appeal and is the most accessible way in to the series (arguably, Equal Rites is a close second here as it introduces Granny Weatherwax; one of the best characters in the series). It showcases the blend of humour, ideas, fantasy and strong character work that are the hallmark of Pratchett’s work. In the first book (The Colour Of Magic), you can see that he is still working out what the Discworld is. By the second one, it’s beginning to become more recognisably The Discworld and, by the third, we’re getting some of the iconic characters who will stay the distance. 

There’s a personal connection for me with these books too (and let’s face it, this is a personal choice list so they’ll all have some sort of personal resonance). From the age of about thirteen, every birthday and Christmas (conveniently spaced about six months apart for me), my Nana would buy me the latest Terry Pratchett hardback (which continued right up until her death in 2006). It was a standing joke, my feigned surprise at what this hardback-shaped gift could be, but my delight at receiving them each time was genuine. So a set of books that I loved is inextricably bound in my memory with my Nana. What more could you ask for from a book?