Six Degrees of Separation: from The Post Office Girl to The King’s Mother

On the first Saturday of every month, a book is chosen as a starting point and linked to six other books to form a chain. Readers and bloggers are invited to join in by creating their own ‘chain’ leading from the selected book.

Kate:  Books are my Favourite and Best

This month’s chain begins with Stefan ZweigThe Post Office Girl. Which I haven’t read. I’m going to hunt for six books with the names of jobs and occupations in the title.

This gives me an easy way to begin my own chain – with The Peculiar Life of a Lonely Postman by Denis Thériault .This is a bittersweet, poetic tale about Bilodo, a lonely postman in Quebec who escapes his somewhat empty  reality by secretly reading the letters inside open envelopes. When he comes across a mysterious haiku, he becomes deeply entangled in a long-distance romance. 

There’s many a children’s book featuring postmen. many of them written by Janet & Allan Ahlberg. But the Ahlbergs covered other – er – occupations in their very many books, of which a family favourite was – Burglar Bill. The book follows an entirely amiable burglar as he goes out nightly to steal – well, a toothbrush and the like, and whose life changes when he accidentally steals a baby, and then meets a soul mate – Burglar Betty, leading them to abandon their criminal ways, marry, and presumably live happily ever after.

Returning to more public-service professions, there’s The Light House Keeper’s Lunch by Ronda and David Armitage which follows the story of Mr. Grinling, a lighthouse keeper, and his clever wife Mrs. Grinling, who daily sends his lunch along to him from home to lighthouse via a complicated pulley system. When scavenging seagulls repeatedly steal Mr. Grinling’s delicious lunches, it’s up to Mrs. G to upset their nefarious schemes by making sandwiches generously filled with …. mustard.  That soon sorts the thieves out.

Perhaps a more useful occupation for a landlubber is that of the milkman.  And Milkman is a book by Anna Burns.This convoluted, stream-of-consciousness narrative is no easy read, but it rewards the effort made to get under its skin. An eighteen year old woman living somewhere in (it has to be, though never said) in Northern Ireland during the 1970s, attempts escape from the convoluted realities of loyalties, honour, family, tribalism, rumour by reading 19th century novels, attending French classes. There is no escape from the attentions of The Milkman, a married man who all-but stalks her. There’s her maybe-boyfriend, her wee sisters, her mother’s attempts to marry her off, her family to contend with, and all this is described in multi-layers of language, which simultaneously illuminate and confuse. The inability simply to be, to get on with life without meaning being imposed by others on the simplest routines is described in all its confusing power by Burns’ use of language – adjective piled on adjective, metaphor on metaphor. It’s suffocatingly powerful, and quite honestly, I was glad to finish it. Though very glad to have read it. 

Luckily, The Memory Police are not part of the job-offering here in the UK – yet. I’m not normally a fan of dystopian fiction, but I found this a powerful and unsettling read, by Yōko Ogawa . Simply yet lyrically written , the writer – this is told in the first person – lives on an island in thrall to the Memory Police. Things comprehensively disappear, and the inhabitants soon lose any memories of the things that have vanished. Those unfortunate people who find they do not forget simply are removed by the Memory Police and never seen again. The ‘writer’ of this book is herself a novelist and she hides her editor in her house, because his memories do not fade, and he is therefore in danger… We never find out more about the Memory Police, or know to whom they are answerable. But we are left with a lot to think about – totalitarian regimes, life, death and the process of letting go and of dying. 

Is being The King’s Mother a job?  Read Annie Garthwaite’s book about Cecily, Duchess of York, and you’ll discover that it is indeed a job for life. This narrative, a successor to Garthwaite’s first book, is about the troubled reigns of Cecily’s sons Edward (IV) and Richard (III), who are brought to life in the story told from the perspective of their redoubtable mother. It offers a rounded perspective of life as it must have been at that time. Being rich, powerful and influential was no passport to an easy life, with allies becoming sworn enemies, and enemies friends, for a whole variety of reasons both good and bad. Richard in particular is sensitively portrayed, and is a different one from his image in popular mythology.  An involving and powerful story from a troubled period of history. 

So. Job done. A chain all about jobs. Next month’s looks to be about Woman’s Work. It’s Caro Claire Burke’s Yesteryear. I’ve just read the Guardian’s review, which hasn’t tempted me to read it. But it’ll make for am intriguing chain, I hope.

Yesterday, I informed you that you’d seen the back of me for a while. I’d forgotten about my Six Degrees post lurking in drafts. Now I really AM off … though I’ll try to respond to any comments on this post.

The Rule of Three

Today, I offer a miscellany of shots setting out to explore the Rule of Three: that images with three subjects (or more, but always an odd number) are more appealing and therefore more memorable. It’s Tina who invites us to look at this idea for this week’s Lens-Artists Photo Challenge.

Country Mouse is inevitably book-ending this post with sheep. Part of the daily round here.

But she gets herself out and about sometimes. Here she is in London, near the Thames. Overlooking the river near Greenwich; looking at Peter Burke’s Assembly in Woolwich in the company of a pigeon; and over at Granary Square, part of the Gasholder development.

She’s even ventured further afield. To be intrigued by a window sill in Alsace, at Soulzbach-les-Bains; and by a decorated pillar in the Castell de Santa Florentina, Canet de Mar, Catalonia.

But those sheep are calling, back home.

Don’t those lambs grow up quickly? They were adorable little bundles of wool a month ago, playing races, and I’m-the-king-of-the-castle. Now they’re stolid little mini-mums.

Country Mouse must have known inside herself something about this Rule of Three, as she took these shots unaware that she was Sticking to the Rules.

Signing off now for a bit, apart from tomorrow’s scheduled post. I may not see your posts, though I might send the odd Virtual Postcard.

Canals & Rivers & Waterfalls & Sea

How very British is that? The photo just above is of the quietly flowing Ripon canal, upon which the rain is gently beating down.

More man-made flowing water: A lock on a different canal, the Leeds -Liverpool Canal, near Gargrave: and a detail from a different lock – er – somewhere else.

No waterfalls on a canal. To find those, you need to find trainee waterfalls, like this little torrent in Cantabria, or these jumping, weaving and bumbling ones on the River Wharfe at Grassington, and the River Swale near Muker.

Then there’s the sea: a winter sea here, at West Wittering: and a summer sea at Premià de Mar. All that equipment tells you the sea had been flowing rather too much, and nicking the beach. The citizens wanted their sands back.

But if you’re going to do this, or any other challenge, what you need most is a photographer to record these images for you. Here he is. I can’t use his photos, because he went off, unidentified, taking all his images with him.

For Leanne’s Monochrome Madness: Flowing Water

Last on the Card: the Four for the Price of One Edition

The sight of the area round the ponds in our village these days tends to make most of us who live here grumpy, and to sound like fully paid members of Reform UK, the anti-immigrant political party responsible for normalising racism.

It’s Greylag Geese, wherever you look. As you can see.

Each pair of devoted geese (and I have to hand it them, they’re excellent and solicitous parents) has a brood of about nine. They spend much of their time terrorising the other water birds, who have largely done a bunk: or alternatively crossing the main road that bisects the village. This brings cars, bin lorries, the local bus to a halt in both directions as each mother leads her brood slowly across the road, while father brings up the rear. One brood may follow another. Then another brood, from the opposite side may decide to return. I wasn’t quick enough on the draw with this shot. The action is almost over.

This photo was taken a couple of weeks ago. Astonishingly, only we were held up on this occasion.

It’s not just ducks and moorhens who are terrorised. We are not welcome either.

‘Hissssss’

They only discovered our ponds about three years ago. But every year, last year’s babies return to the place of their birth, and every year, the problem gets worse. Back home, as we clean from our shoes the excrement which the geese deposit in plentiful piles on the pavements, we can be heard to mutter: ‘B***** immigrants, terrorising our ducks and murdering our ducklings. Why can’t they just go back where they came from?

Well, that’s not a happy note to end on. So instead, glance back to the header shot. That’s truly the last shot on my camera for May: the sunset from our bedroom window.

For Brian’s Last on the Card.

An Elderly Barn

Near to us is an ancient barn, unused apart from housing bits and pieces that somebody at sometime, decided needed storage space, and has probably long forgotten. The windows are broken, the woodwork rotten, the paintwork peeling. It’s ear-marked for development sometime soon and will be treated sympathetically and with respect. That’ll be good for its long-term future, but meanwhile, I’m rather fond of this distressed and decayed old building, and have chosen it for Egidio’s Stuck in Place challenge, where he invites us to stay close to home, and to spend a good half hour wandering nowhere very much, to see what we can see.

Monday Portrait: The Story Begins Here

You remember those little nuthatch hatchlings I showed you last week? That was not the beginning of the story of course. Here are some great tit eggs. The mother has been laying them day by day, allowing them to get cold as she disappears to feed. Then, when she’s laid the lot, she starts to incubate them. They warm up as her body covers them, and lo! They hatch at pretty much the same time as each other. Will they all make it to leaving-the-nest stage? That is another story …

Monday Portrait

… And Just for You, I’ve Chosen Blue

This week, for the Lens-Artists Photo Challenge, Ritva asks us to Pick A Colour.

I ruminated on red, pondered about purple, almost opted for orange, nearly yielded to yellow, gleaned several greens, prevaricated over pink, but in the end, went for ….

Well, obviously you have to have sky … even if day is long past and evening’s getting on for being midnight blue …

And water’s a must too. Nothing idyllic here. Just industrial sprawl near Rotterdam.

And let’s keep up our less-than-picturesque watery scenes, on the River Thames….

… before nipping off to the fishing town of Arenys de Mar in Catalonia. That’s better. Mended nets hung out to dry.

Let’s stay in Catalonia, but head to Barcelona and some street art …

We’ve got ourselves about a bit. Maybe we need another car wash. That’s where we began, and it’s shown in the featured photo.

Spring has Sprung?

This week, Dawn of The Day After fame, has asked us to consider Spring for Leanne’s Monochrome Madness. No, she doesn’t want daffodils, blossom, gambolling lambs (though actually they would definitely do). Instead she wants us to treat the word as a verb, and find images about springing, or synonyms thereof.

So I’ve headed straight for some shots from Ripon Theatre Festival last year, from the weekend of street entertainment:

… which put me in mind of more dancing, of the Morris variety …

The dancers of Four Hundred Roses are my featured photo, where Morris dancing meets belly dancing meets steampunk.

Then I remembered an exhibition in The Baltic, Gateshead where an astronaut was about to leap on my head, And the day at Thorpe Perrow Birds of Prey Centre, when an owl plunged down to seize a meaty titbit, before springing up and away once more.

And then those springing lambs. Considering I live in Sheep Central, you’d think I’d have plenty of energetic shots. Nope. This is the best I can do.

Finally, I’ll give water a look-in. It can be fairly lively. Here’s poor Atlas at Castle Howard, bearing the whole world on his shoulders. And getting soaked in the process as water leaps and plashes around him. And next to him is a frisky and ebullient waterfall near Muker .

Eight Monday Portraits of Eight Tiny Birds

Mondays at the moment are when I help some of the Wildlife Team here at Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal as we check nestboxes round and about the estate. I’m very much a junior member of the team – lots to learn. The questions change as the season progresses. Which boxes are occupied? (by no means all). Which boxes have meticulously constructed nests within – different species, different nesting styles? Which ones have eggs? How many? Covered or uncovered? Cold? Meaning more will be laid. Or warm? Meaning they are about to be incubated. Is there an adult sitting on said eggs? And now – increasingly – have they hatched? Are the absent parents out and about frantically securing food for those ever-open mouths. Which nests – partly finished or fully constructed have been deserted?

The first photo is of nuthatch hatchlings, maybe four days old, courtesy of Colin, a fellow volunteer. My – slightly fuzzier -photo is of some even younger blue tits.

It’s a tough year. It’s been cold, and insects and caterpillars simply aren’t about. Food is hard to come by. Eggs are abandoned, hatchlings starve. Today wasn’t as bad as we feared, and we were glad to see so many boxes with eggs yet to hatch, just as – finally – the temperatures are promised to rise this week.

For Monday Portrait.

I did rather wonder why not a single soul had either ‘liked’ or commented on this post. It turned out to be simple. I hadn’t pressed ‘publish’ after I had written it …