It's been predominantly good (with a smattering of less good) but now it's time to watch classic Doctor Who in a living room elsewhere - yes, I have just moved house. People have been asking whether I'll miss the flat after three years there. I have penned a letter to the place in response.
Dear Flat,
Thanks for the brinners, the Lord of the Rings drinking games, the nights of nintendo and the random booze box afterparties. Thanks for seeing me through the end of the libbiray times and into a fabulous new career in freelance journalism with a heavy side order of temping. Thanks for not falling down during Snowmageddon (although it seemed like touch and go for a while) and thanks for giving me shelter to complete 12 Books in 12 Months.
(I could have done it all without you, but as it goes I didn't. So cheers.)
Goodbye fragile windows whose panes are held in mostly by mould because the landlord refuses to replace them even though it’d add significant value to the property.
Goodbye sloping floors that are slowly and inexorably tipping towards the Water of Leith - no amount of flood prevention will stop that subsidence now.
Goodbye number 8 bus, you unreliable sod (don’t think I didn’t see you drive right past that unfortunate tourist in the pissing rain last week).
Goodbye neighbour who still blanks me after three years (unless you meet me on the communal stair, but even then you stare awkwardly at those battered trainers rather than look me in the eye).
Goodbye fridge with your broken seal and tendency to freeze anything with the audacity to get nudged towards the back (you've destroyed so much perfectly good mayonnaise, you heartless robot).
Goodbye man across the hall who communicates mainly by post-it notes and likes to spend Friday nights lovingly painting the skirting boards wearing a nifty head torch.
Goodbye hole with wires hanging out where the buzzer used to be back in about 2010.
Goodbye constant redelivery fees because the postie couldn’t access the building to deliver anything larger than a red ‘sorry you were out’ card.
Goodbye paranoid lady downstairs who thinks junkies will invade if we leave the front door ajar for even a second.
Goodbye invisible junkies masquerading as innocent passers-by.
Goodbye army of overweight daschunds owned by assorted little old ladies with too many hats.
Goodbye 10pm ice cream runs to the garage.
Goodbye, proximity to the Botanic Gardens (I hope the baby moorhen grows up big and strong).
Goodbye Tanfield gable end, with your gorgeous autumn ivy.
Goodbye daily walk past bridesmaids dress shop (although I’ll be back to check your window displays, you crazy geniuses).
I hope it all works out for you, that you get a new fridge and sealant on the roof and that one day the landlord deigns to replace the windows. May you bring your new tenants the same highs and lows you brought us in our time together.
I think it would be best if we didn't see each other again for a while - I need some time to heal, and I'm sure you do too - but maybe in a few months or a year or a decade we could meet up for a coffee and talk about the old times. Maybe.
So long, and thanks for all the Bumrod.
Ali
Wednesday, 4 July 2012
Thursday, 28 June 2012
A Whole Lotta Thwartin'
I've been having one of those weeks where life seems to be conspiring against me, and this week - as is the fashion in this day and age - I tweeted about it rather than getting on and doing something proactive.
My tweet said 'The thing where you think everything is sorted and then BAM, it isn't. Again. Seriously world, enough thwarting already.'
So far, so banal, but then someone tweeted back saying "There's a whole lotta thwartin' goin' on these days. Makes a good rock song tho." I concur, and so I decided to have a bash at some lyrics for said song. It's a work in progress, but this is for you, @LillyLyle.
Spoken (in the style of Ferlin Husky):
This is a song for anyone who ever have one of those weeks where
Things just didn’t seem to go your way.
Sung (also in the style of Ferlin Husky)
There’s a whole lotta thwartin’ goin’ awn
And I don’t know what to do
There’s water pourin’ through the roof n’
I’m pretty sure I failed an interview
(although I ain’t heard back yet,
so I guess no news..
is good neeeews)
(Oooh – oohs...)
Ah’m movin’ house - or that’s the plan
But stuff keeps going wrong.
My sister’s boyfriend’s van is broke
And so I wrote this song, yeah
There’s a whole lotta thwartin’, goin’ awn.
White van men charged me 90 pounds
To drive ma stuff ‘cross town
I helped them in torrential rain
It nearly made me drown, oh
There’s a whole lotta thwartin’, goin’ awn.
Every plan I try to make
To help ma life go smooth
Is thwarted by an unseen foe
Who wants me not to move!
The milk’s gone off, my new shoes hurt
I think I’ve got a cold
My muscles ache, I broke a glass
I’m feeling really old, yeah
There’s a whole lotta thwartin’ goin’ awn.
And so the lesson I have learned
I’d like to tell to you
Life’s a thwarter, you’ll get burned
Unless you find a way
To struggle throoo – ou – ooo – ough.
(Mine’s gin).
My tweet said 'The thing where you think everything is sorted and then BAM, it isn't. Again. Seriously world, enough thwarting already.'
So far, so banal, but then someone tweeted back saying "There's a whole lotta thwartin' goin' on these days. Makes a good rock song tho." I concur, and so I decided to have a bash at some lyrics for said song. It's a work in progress, but this is for you, @LillyLyle.
Spoken (in the style of Ferlin Husky):
This is a song for anyone who ever have one of those weeks where
Things just didn’t seem to go your way.
Sung (also in the style of Ferlin Husky)
There’s a whole lotta thwartin’ goin’ awn
And I don’t know what to do
There’s water pourin’ through the roof n’
I’m pretty sure I failed an interview
(although I ain’t heard back yet,
so I guess no news..
is good neeeews)
(Oooh – oohs...)
Ah’m movin’ house - or that’s the plan
But stuff keeps going wrong.
My sister’s boyfriend’s van is broke
And so I wrote this song, yeah
There’s a whole lotta thwartin’, goin’ awn.
White van men charged me 90 pounds
To drive ma stuff ‘cross town
I helped them in torrential rain
It nearly made me drown, oh
There’s a whole lotta thwartin’, goin’ awn.
Every plan I try to make
To help ma life go smooth
Is thwarted by an unseen foe
Who wants me not to move!
The milk’s gone off, my new shoes hurt
I think I’ve got a cold
My muscles ache, I broke a glass
I’m feeling really old, yeah
There’s a whole lotta thwartin’ goin’ awn.
And so the lesson I have learned
I’d like to tell to you
Life’s a thwarter, you’ll get burned
Unless you find a way
To struggle throoo – ou – ooo – ough.
(Mine’s gin).
Friday, 15 June 2012
Before the rooster crows you will deny me three times…
Do you ever go to a comedy gig and listen in mild horror as the comedian picks on audience members? Does it make you hunker down in your seat like a small animal whose main defence mechanism when a hungry bird of prey/tiger/human turns up is to HIDE NOW?
A lot of people endeavour to sit in the middle or towards the back of gigs to make sure this won’t happen to them. Sometimes it’s out of shyness, or perhaps because you think your answers won’t be very interesting, but let’s be honest – the main issue is that most people don’t like being made fun of. It’s one of those things that is amusing mainly when it’s happening to someone else.
As you may have guessed I was at a comedy gig this week, and I got asked what I do. The gig in question was Bright Club at The Stand in Edinburgh, where a load of academics try their hand at stand up. The audience is therefore filled with people who have PHDs, or at least degrees in difficult subjects like science and maths. Not that arts degrees aren’t difficult, exactly, but they do essentially involve reading lots of books and telling people what you thought of them with an air of authority – or that’s my experience.
Anyway the compere at this comedy gig full of people who work much harder at university than I ever did was asking what people studied. He’d come across a gang of neuroscientists, a couple of mathematicians, my brother (who is studying psychology), and one writer who hasn’t been published yet. Then there was me.
“Are you a student as well?” he asked. (I wasn’t even at the front; I was hiding behind a linguistics student who appeared on stage later as well.) Curses, I thought, I’m not that brainy or anything, I work in an office - not a subject ripe for comedy (remember The Office has a) been done and b) wouldn’t really work as a stand-up routine).
“I… work,” quoth I, and it turned out he was able to use that anyway – “These people work too ya know! Just because they’re students doesn’t mean they don’t work hard!” – so fair play to him, he's a seasoned pro.
But I was thinking about it afterwards, and wondering why I didn’t say I was a writer. Now, obviously he’d already had one writer and duly taken the mick out of her for not being published yet and whatever – but ultimately it is what I do, I have been known to earn money from it, and being a temp is not really a career (unless I was as good at it as Donna Noble, but frankly who is).
I’ve concluded it might be because I’m in a bit of a slump. I’ve had a few writing-related rejections recently – nothing too crushing, don’t get out the world’s smallest violin just yet (anyway it goes with the territory) – and epically failed to regain any semblance of writing routine since March. I’ve missed several deadlines for submissions and performance opportunities lately and I’ve not finished anything in ages. On returning from our epic backpacking adventure I promptly started a new temp job with more hours than the old one, started preparing to move house at the end of this month and began working on promotion for Homespun UK.
Essentially life has been getting in my way, so maybe I have been more of a temp than a writer. This is a problem that needs to be rectified – probably through discipline and sheer force of will. My gut reaction should not be to tell people, even comedians, that I’m an office temp instead of a journalist or a writer or an editor or a media officer. I do all of those things and temp on the side, god damn it. If people are going to take the mick out of me it should at least be for the right reasons.
So, identity crisis over – bring on the hours of hard work on top of a full time office job for no guaranteed reward.
Bright Club is really good by the way, you should totally go.
A lot of people endeavour to sit in the middle or towards the back of gigs to make sure this won’t happen to them. Sometimes it’s out of shyness, or perhaps because you think your answers won’t be very interesting, but let’s be honest – the main issue is that most people don’t like being made fun of. It’s one of those things that is amusing mainly when it’s happening to someone else.
As you may have guessed I was at a comedy gig this week, and I got asked what I do. The gig in question was Bright Club at The Stand in Edinburgh, where a load of academics try their hand at stand up. The audience is therefore filled with people who have PHDs, or at least degrees in difficult subjects like science and maths. Not that arts degrees aren’t difficult, exactly, but they do essentially involve reading lots of books and telling people what you thought of them with an air of authority – or that’s my experience.
Anyway the compere at this comedy gig full of people who work much harder at university than I ever did was asking what people studied. He’d come across a gang of neuroscientists, a couple of mathematicians, my brother (who is studying psychology), and one writer who hasn’t been published yet. Then there was me.
“Are you a student as well?” he asked. (I wasn’t even at the front; I was hiding behind a linguistics student who appeared on stage later as well.) Curses, I thought, I’m not that brainy or anything, I work in an office - not a subject ripe for comedy (remember The Office has a) been done and b) wouldn’t really work as a stand-up routine).
“I… work,” quoth I, and it turned out he was able to use that anyway – “These people work too ya know! Just because they’re students doesn’t mean they don’t work hard!” – so fair play to him, he's a seasoned pro.
But I was thinking about it afterwards, and wondering why I didn’t say I was a writer. Now, obviously he’d already had one writer and duly taken the mick out of her for not being published yet and whatever – but ultimately it is what I do, I have been known to earn money from it, and being a temp is not really a career (unless I was as good at it as Donna Noble, but frankly who is).
I’ve concluded it might be because I’m in a bit of a slump. I’ve had a few writing-related rejections recently – nothing too crushing, don’t get out the world’s smallest violin just yet (anyway it goes with the territory) – and epically failed to regain any semblance of writing routine since March. I’ve missed several deadlines for submissions and performance opportunities lately and I’ve not finished anything in ages. On returning from our epic backpacking adventure I promptly started a new temp job with more hours than the old one, started preparing to move house at the end of this month and began working on promotion for Homespun UK.
Essentially life has been getting in my way, so maybe I have been more of a temp than a writer. This is a problem that needs to be rectified – probably through discipline and sheer force of will. My gut reaction should not be to tell people, even comedians, that I’m an office temp instead of a journalist or a writer or an editor or a media officer. I do all of those things and temp on the side, god damn it. If people are going to take the mick out of me it should at least be for the right reasons.
So, identity crisis over – bring on the hours of hard work on top of a full time office job for no guaranteed reward.
Bright Club is really good by the way, you should totally go.
Friday, 20 April 2012
Bookmark This
As discussed in a previous post I am now heading off for a bit, but I have scheduled a load of stuff on the 12 Books blog to keep you entertained. The timetable is as follows:
Monday April 23rd – Interview with Sian Bevan about Electric Tales storytelling and comedy night in Edinburgh
Monday April 23rd – Interview with Sian Bevan about Electric Tales storytelling and comedy night in Edinburgh
Wednesday April 25th – Why I Write by John Steele
Friday April 27th – April’s Pictonaut Challenge
Monday April 30th – Fanfiction, a brief introduction by Seneska
Wednesday May 2nd – The Book Blogger interviews #1 Roof Beam Reader
Friday May 4th – How to Say Thank You Part 1 by Tracey S. Rosenberg
Monday May 7th – How to Say Thank You Part 2 by Tracey S. Rosenberg
Wednesday May 9th – The Book Blogger interviews #2 Tolstoy is my Cat
Friday May 11th – Interview with Laura from Write in for Writing’s Sake
Monday May 14th – The Politics of Book Buying by Lyndsay Wheble)
Wednesday May 16th – The Book Blogger Interviews #3 Rob Around Books
Friday May 18th – Feminism in Romantic Fiction (or lack thereof) by Rose McConnachie
Monday May 21st – Young, single and free of Venereal Disease? You too could be a romantic hero... by Rose McConnachie
Wednesday May 23rd – The Book Blogger Interviews #4 The Lit Bitch
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
Heart
I wrote a story for a competition on IdeasTap which had to be on the theme 'Heart'. It didn't win, which is kind of my thing, so I thought I'd stick it up here. Enjoy...The Lady's Long Lost Love
“Oh, Dunstable,” she sighed, tracing a long tendril of golden chest fuzz with a coiffed fingernail, “let us make sweet love one last time before you leave on your perilous quest.”
“Enid,” he responded dramatically, “my dear sweet Enid, I cannot. You know I am an advocate of the moral high ground, and thus I must refuse to ravish your milky white bosoms, your tender kneecaps or your softly undulating clavicle until you consent to be my wife once and for all.”
She felt dizzy at the sternness of this ultimatum, even though she had heard it a hundred times before.
“You know I can never be your wife,” she wept, large salty tears rolling down her ample cheeks and glistening like rainbow crystals of cubic zirconia, “I vowed to my sweetheart I should never wed another, though he has long been lost and probably buried at sea.”
Dunstable frowned, his ordinarily perky moustache drooping like a sad horseshoe.
“You think he might still be alive?”
“They never recovered the body,” she whispered, her eyes aglaze with moisture as the magic of hindsight transported her back to the night of that fateful promise, and a man who was never coming back to her.
Enid pulled her pink fleecy negligee closer, shoulders shoogly at the memory of the day she received word he was missing. It had been so long – almost eighteen months – she had nearly forgotten the particulars of his freckly aspect. Of course at the time she had been plunged into black despair but then, little by little, days had begun to get brighter, until she fell headlong into Dunstable’s dependable embrace.
Dunstable knew she was riding the horns of a most furious dilemma, for whilst she truly loved him she could not break her promise to the brave childhood sweetheart who would always hold a place in her heart, just down from the aorta.
“I’m sorry my love,” he told her, full of regret, “I should not have asked you again. It was totes inapropes.”
“No,” she said with a weak smile, “it’s only natural you should feel this way. I know how men love weddings and commitment.”
“I do dream about the smell of ruffles and the flash of sweet pea in my bouquet most every night,” he agreed, “but as long as you are in my arms, I am content.”
He moved to embrace her once again, when all at once the door was thrown completely open.
“Not so fast,” said a booming voice the colour of coffee.
“Who are you?” Enid asked, even though she already knew.
“It is I, Johnny Sailorington, your long lost sweetheart!”
The owner of the voice stepped into the room. Dunstable and Enid stared at him in dismay and wonderment. The long lost Sailorington cut a dashing figure in his baseball cap and floral cravat, but gosh darn it why could he not have remained lost at sea? Now everything was quite ruined.
“Oh Johnny, where have you been all this time?” Enid asked, moving towards her erstwhile sweetheart as though propelled by a force akin to gravity, only it radiated sideways out of his belt rather than up from the ground. “I felt sure you must be dead and buried at sea, and as you know the psychic intuition of a lady is rarely wrong.”
Johnny Sailorington sighed, a deep and manly sound, and paced to the window to look out over the grey ocean. Unfortunately the sea was on the other side of the building, so he had to content himself with staring at a supermarket car park.
“Your feminine intuition was not actually far wrong,” he confessed, gazing heroically at a paper bag fluttering across the concrete outside. Crumbs of pastry scattered artistically from a hole in the side like some kind of metaphor, which all three silently agreed was oddly beautiful.
“After I went to make my fortune as a ship’s makeup artist, our vessel was captured by fierce environmental campaigners. They mistakenly thought we were evil scientists bent on creating a new strain of über tuna using bits of old whale, rather than the honest and upstanding members of the music industry we truly were.”
“So that is why there were news reports claiming the latest Pop Factor tour was a lot more highbrow than previous years,” Enid murmured.
“Indeed. The evil scientists went in our place, and forced everyone to carry out practical chemistry experiments in front of a pyrotechnic display instead of dancing and singing songs.”
“How horrible.”
“Yes. Meanwhile the environmental campaigners locked us in a metal storage container. When we finally escaped, we found all our singers had applied to go to university to learn more about science.”
“It must have been a terrible blow,” Dunstable said sympathetically.
“A little part of my soul died that day,” Johnny Sailorington confirmed. “The only thing that kept me going was the thought of returning home to my one true love – ” His voice caught on the back of his throat – “but I see now she is false. Oh, sweet Emily, how could you wrong me so?”
“I’m not Emily,” said Enid, “I’m Enid.”
Johnny Sailorington stopped staring at the car park and took her face in his hands.
“Enid?” he said. Then, “oh, I remember you from the Christmas party! You used to step out with Johnny Taylorington from Accounts. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“My loss?” she wobbled, face filling with tears again.
“Why yes,” said Johnny Sailorington, “haven’t you heard? He married the captain of the green lot and absconded to live in a Cornish commune. Terrible business. Anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ll be off to find my Emily.”
The lovers watched him leave, a great weight lifting from their shoulders.
“Enid,” Dunstable said, “dear, sweet Enid. Now will you consent to be my bride?”
She smiled at him and took his hand in hers.
“Dunstable,” she whispered in a voice thick with love, “I think I will.”
Friday, 23 March 2012
Walking to Azerbaijan
If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you may be aware that I am very much pro the Eurovision Song Contest. Last year I live blogged it, and this year I had thought I would be in Eastern Europe for it – but it turns out the final is being held on May 26, two days after our triumphant return.
Before I checked the dates, however, I did have a bit of a look round Google Maps to see how feasible it would be to detour from our planned route (Germany – Poland – Czech Republic – Slovakia – Austria – Hungary – Croatia – Slovenia – Italy) to Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan and home of Eurovision 2012. Not very, as it turns out – Azerbaijan is a bit out of the way.
In fact, if you were to walk it from my flat in Edinburgh (because that’s something you would do), it’d take 34 days and 9 hours – assuming you walk at the pace of Google Maps (which gives you about 20-25 minutes to do a mile).
The directions are pretty extensive, although as we all know they are bound to have missed out countless mini roundabouts and pedestrian areas. Still, they do warn that the directions are in beta, and to be fair to them 3, 347 miles is a pretty large area to cover. Possibly my favourite thing is that they also warn: “Use caution – this route may be missing sidewalks or pedestrian paths.”
There aren’t any pavements on the North Sea, then?! What an outrage! I shall be writing to my MP.
I jest, of course – Google Maps knows the average person cannot walk on water. Instead they advise you to saunter down from Edinburgh to Newcastle and get a ferry to Ijmuiden, although presumably you can pace up and down the deck if you really want to keep moving. After that it’s a simple case of walking up through the Netherlands and across the top of Germany till you get to Kiel, from whence you take another ferry to Lithuania before a brisk march down through Belarus, Ukraine, part of Russia and Georgia. Then bob’s your uncle, you’re crossing the border into Azerbaijan before you can say ‘are we there yet?’
Rather brilliantly, the directions are full of things like ‘Turn right, Entering Russia.’ This is nice because it makes it sound really simple, when in actual fact the parts of Russia they are suggesting you traverse are flagged up on the Foreign Office website as amber for ‘advise against all but essential travel’, due to issues including terrorism and the political situation. Somehow I don’t think a pilgrimage in support of Englebert Humperdinck counts as essential.
Which brings me on to another point about this year’s contest; namely, was it somehow influenced by Eddie Izzard? Until recently Definite Article was my only reference point for Azerbaijan, whilst Dress to Kill provided my only knowledge about Englebert Humperdinck. Now he is representing us there, several years later. Coincidence? I think not…
Before I checked the dates, however, I did have a bit of a look round Google Maps to see how feasible it would be to detour from our planned route (Germany – Poland – Czech Republic – Slovakia – Austria – Hungary – Croatia – Slovenia – Italy) to Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan and home of Eurovision 2012. Not very, as it turns out – Azerbaijan is a bit out of the way.
In fact, if you were to walk it from my flat in Edinburgh (because that’s something you would do), it’d take 34 days and 9 hours – assuming you walk at the pace of Google Maps (which gives you about 20-25 minutes to do a mile).
The directions are pretty extensive, although as we all know they are bound to have missed out countless mini roundabouts and pedestrian areas. Still, they do warn that the directions are in beta, and to be fair to them 3, 347 miles is a pretty large area to cover. Possibly my favourite thing is that they also warn: “Use caution – this route may be missing sidewalks or pedestrian paths.”
There aren’t any pavements on the North Sea, then?! What an outrage! I shall be writing to my MP.
I jest, of course – Google Maps knows the average person cannot walk on water. Instead they advise you to saunter down from Edinburgh to Newcastle and get a ferry to Ijmuiden, although presumably you can pace up and down the deck if you really want to keep moving. After that it’s a simple case of walking up through the Netherlands and across the top of Germany till you get to Kiel, from whence you take another ferry to Lithuania before a brisk march down through Belarus, Ukraine, part of Russia and Georgia. Then bob’s your uncle, you’re crossing the border into Azerbaijan before you can say ‘are we there yet?’
Rather brilliantly, the directions are full of things like ‘Turn right, Entering Russia.’ This is nice because it makes it sound really simple, when in actual fact the parts of Russia they are suggesting you traverse are flagged up on the Foreign Office website as amber for ‘advise against all but essential travel’, due to issues including terrorism and the political situation. Somehow I don’t think a pilgrimage in support of Englebert Humperdinck counts as essential.
Which brings me on to another point about this year’s contest; namely, was it somehow influenced by Eddie Izzard? Until recently Definite Article was my only reference point for Azerbaijan, whilst Dress to Kill provided my only knowledge about Englebert Humperdinck. Now he is representing us there, several years later. Coincidence? I think not…
Monday, 12 March 2012
Why Social Media is Good For the Mind
“I need you to read this and tell me what happened,” says my sister, thrusting a copy of Haruki Murakami’s A Wild Sheep Chase into my hands, “I don’t think it made sense. Although it might actually be the middle of three, which would explain it…”
Once Upon a Time I would have balked at this request.
“You want me to deliberately read a series Out Of Order?” I would have shrieked in a dramatic mixture of caps lock and italics, “What kind of MONSTER do you think I AM???!!!11”
On this occasion though, I shrug and acquiesce – not because my instinct did not tell me to read Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973 first (turns out the book is the last of the set), but because I have become accustomed to reading things backwards.
“But why?” you probably aren’t bothering to shout.
The answer, dear reader, is social networking.
For those who don’t know (people based in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland where the internet is regarded as black magic; and the population of China*), sites like the Facebook and the Twitter work in real time. This means that when you log in you get the most recent messages people have posted and have to work backwards to find out what everyone’s complaining about / laughing at / watching on TV. It’s sort of like being the star of your very own slightly banal detective story.
Almost everyone has had a go at social networking even if they can’t see the point of it (and indeed I realized - as I was contemplating changing to the new Facebook timeline yesterday - that I've been using that site for about seven years) - so it stands to reason this way of taking in information would begin to filter through to other walks of life like some kind of insidious metaphor. It seems only logical that as more people sign up, human perception of time and compulsion to do things in a particular order will break down ever further.
“Whaddya mean, 1, 2, 3?” we will shout at the generation of children born to us in a future where Twitter is implanted into our retinas like a nightmare Charlie Brooker had once, “this isn’t the Stone Age! What’s the matter with 3, 2, RT 2, OMG RT 2, 1?”
In this future, book series are read backwards as standard, government advice suggests Lost only be viewed from the final episode of series eighty seven, and government legislation ensures Monopoly starts with everyone bankrupt and in jail.
It may sound strange and frightening now, but by and large I think all of this is A Good Thing. Reading backwards is great exercise for the brain and helps us empathise with our dyslexic cousins, who read everything out of order all the time and are more creative human beings as a result.
Furthermore, it turns out reading Murakami the wrong way round only makes him more interesting and this is how I shall approach IQ84. To find out how that goes, join me on Twitter… (@periwinklewine)
*this is an hilarious joke at the expense of Chinese governmental restrictions which include a Facebook ban, but actually they have their own versions of these sites so it probably doesn’t apply there at all.
Once Upon a Time I would have balked at this request.
“You want me to deliberately read a series Out Of Order?” I would have shrieked in a dramatic mixture of caps lock and italics, “What kind of MONSTER do you think I AM???!!!11”
On this occasion though, I shrug and acquiesce – not because my instinct did not tell me to read Hear the Wind Sing and Pinball, 1973 first (turns out the book is the last of the set), but because I have become accustomed to reading things backwards.
“But why?” you probably aren’t bothering to shout.
The answer, dear reader, is social networking.
For those who don’t know (people based in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland where the internet is regarded as black magic; and the population of China*), sites like the Facebook and the Twitter work in real time. This means that when you log in you get the most recent messages people have posted and have to work backwards to find out what everyone’s complaining about / laughing at / watching on TV. It’s sort of like being the star of your very own slightly banal detective story.
Almost everyone has had a go at social networking even if they can’t see the point of it (and indeed I realized - as I was contemplating changing to the new Facebook timeline yesterday - that I've been using that site for about seven years) - so it stands to reason this way of taking in information would begin to filter through to other walks of life like some kind of insidious metaphor. It seems only logical that as more people sign up, human perception of time and compulsion to do things in a particular order will break down ever further.
“Whaddya mean, 1, 2, 3?” we will shout at the generation of children born to us in a future where Twitter is implanted into our retinas like a nightmare Charlie Brooker had once, “this isn’t the Stone Age! What’s the matter with 3, 2, RT 2, OMG RT 2, 1?”
In this future, book series are read backwards as standard, government advice suggests Lost only be viewed from the final episode of series eighty seven, and government legislation ensures Monopoly starts with everyone bankrupt and in jail.
It may sound strange and frightening now, but by and large I think all of this is A Good Thing. Reading backwards is great exercise for the brain and helps us empathise with our dyslexic cousins, who read everything out of order all the time and are more creative human beings as a result.
Furthermore, it turns out reading Murakami the wrong way round only makes him more interesting and this is how I shall approach IQ84. To find out how that goes, join me on Twitter… (@periwinklewine)
*this is an hilarious joke at the expense of Chinese governmental restrictions which include a Facebook ban, but actually they have their own versions of these sites so it probably doesn’t apply there at all.
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