Of The Week (Zombie Edition): 7/05/2013-14/05/2013

I know this comes to you out of sync, but you ought to be used to my aperoidic behaviour by now. A quickie but a goodie, here's your Of The Week

Book Of The Week: World War Z:An Oral History of the Zombie War by Max Brooks

Anyone who has parked themselves in a cinema in the last few weeks has seen the trailer for World War Z, a film which, I've read, is Brad Pitt's attempt to build himself an action franchise. When I also read that it was based on a book, I took myself off to Amazon and, a few hours later, was a huge fan. Written as a series of first person accounts by survivors of a world wide zombie war, Max Brooks' second zombie book is smart, interesting, poignant, cynical and often darkly humourous. Far from your standard zombie fare, it contains insightul commentary on American isolationism, global politics, military tactics and human instinct. Your standard horror novel this is not; one big departure is that there is no traditional suspense- you are told at the beginning that the war is over so any 'heroes' you take a liking to have necessarily made it through- but it still chilled me to the bone and had me considering what I would do if my neighbour suddenly tried to eat my face off. I may have added a few extra tins of vegetables to my shopping trolley when I was done reading it. Get involved, even if horror isn't your thing, because it's a good one.

Film of The Week: Warm Bodies

Not by design, I also watched a zombie film this week. This was mainly because it had Nicholas Hoult in it, who I've adored in a slightly creepy way since About A Boy. The story is textbook Twilight- young pretty girl falls for the undead- but that's where any similarities end. In fact, mentioning Twilight and this film in the same sentence is an insult to Warm Bodies. And sentences everywhere. A less insulting literary allusion is Romeo and Juliet (Warm Bodies comes complete with a balcony scene and main characters named R and Julie) but the romance is a sweet backdrop to a film that is often laugh out loud hilarious. Hoult plays reluctant zombie R, who lives in a grounded airplane he fills with records, beers and knickknacks he collects to try and stay human. His love interest, Julie (played by  disgustingly gorgeous Aussie Teresa Palmer), is the daughter of the leader of the remains of humanity (played by John Malkovich) and they meet when Julie is out collecting supplies. Backed up with a cracking soundtrack (including Bob Dylan's Shelter from the Storm and one of my modern faves M83's Midnight City) , this film is often entirely ridiculous but remains a smart, modern, thoroughly enjoyable comedy. In fact, the only bad thing to say about it is there wasn't enough John Malkovich to suit me. Endorsed.


More later, booskis.

xxx

"Not By Foot, I Hope!" - Roger Ebert on Death

This great piece, published by Salon upon Roger Ebert's death, has already made the rounds on a number of blogs and online publications and has doubtless been shared via email a million times over- I tweeted the link myself last week. I thought to share it again here because it's simple, considered and poignant without being morbid which, considering the subject matter, is fairly phenomenal. Ebert was a pithy, witty man whose famous film take downs were a delight to read. He famously wrote of The Village ( directed by M Night Shyamalan , or as my incredibly maure mate calls him, M Night Shamalamadingdong ) that:

"To call it an anticlimax would be an insult not only to climaxes but to prefixes. It's a crummy secret, about one step up the ladder of narrative originality from It Was All a Dream. It's so witless, in fact, that when we do discover the secret, we want to rewind the film so we don't know the secret anymore. And then keep on rewinding, and rewinding, until we're back at the beginning, and can get up from our seats and walk backward out of the theater and go down the up escalator and watch the money spring from the cash register into our pockets."

I particularly enjoyed this piece because it outlined a way of living I've always admired- the idea that above and beyond all personal beliefs, one's priority ought to be being kind to other people. I also like the fact that he used some cracking quotes in this- I love finding new quotes in good things I'm reading. It's a treat within a treat. Enjoy.


Roger Ebert- I do not fear death



I know it is coming, and I do not fear it, because I believe there is nothing on the other side of death to fear. I hope to be spared as much pain as possible on the approach path. I was perfectly content before I was born, and I think of death as the same state. I am grateful for the gifts of intelligence, love, wonder and laughter. You can’t say it wasn’t interesting. My lifetime’s memories are what I have brought home from the trip. I will require them for eternity no more than that little souvenir of the Eiffel Tower I brought home from Paris.

I don’t expect to die anytime soon. But it could happen this moment, while I am writing. I was talking the other day with Jim Toback, a friend of 35 years, and the conversation turned to our deaths, as it always does. “Ask someone how they feel about death,” he said, “and they’ll tell you everyone’s gonna die. Ask them, In the next 30 seconds? No, no, no, that’s not gonna happen. How about this afternoon? No. What you’re really asking them to admit is, Oh my God, I don’t really exist. I might be gone at any given second.”

Me too, but I hope not. I have plans. Still, illness led me resolutely toward the contemplation of death. That led me to the subject of evolution, that most consoling of all the sciences, and I became engulfed on my blog in unforeseen discussions about God, the afterlife, religion, theory of evolution, intelligent design, reincarnation, the nature of reality, what came before the big bang, what waits after the end, the nature of intelligence, the reality of the self, death, death, death.

Many readers have informed me that it is a tragic and dreary business to go into death without faith. I don’t feel that way. “Faith” is neutral. All depends on what is believed in. I have no desire to live forever. The concept frightens me. I am 69, have had cancer, will die sooner than most of those reading this. That is in the nature of things. In my plans for life after death, I say, again with Whitman:

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

And with Will, the brother in Saul Bellow’s “Herzog,” I say, “Look for me in the weather reports.”

Raised as a Roman Catholic, I internalized the social values of that faith and still hold most of them, even though its theology no longer persuades me. I have no quarrel with what anyone else subscribes to; everyone deals with these things in his own way, and I have no truths to impart. All I require of a religion is that it be tolerant of those who do not agree with it. I know a priest whose eyes twinkle when he says, “You go about God’s work in your way, and I’ll go about it in His.”

What I expect to happen is that my body will fail, my mind will cease to function and that will be that. My genes will not live on, because I have had no children. I am comforted by Richard Dawkins’ theory of memes. Those are mental units: thoughts, ideas, gestures, notions, songs, beliefs, rhymes, ideals, teachings, sayings, phrases, clichés that move from mind to mind as genes move from body to body. After a lifetime of writing, teaching, broadcasting and telling too many jokes, I will leave behind more memes than many. They will all also eventually die, but so it goes.

O’Rourke’s had a photograph of Brendan Behan on the wall, and under it this quotation, which I memorized:

I respect kindness in human beings first of all, and kindness to animals. I don’t respect the law; I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.

That does a pretty good job of summing it up. “Kindness” covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.

One of these days I will encounter what Henry James called on his deathbed “the distinguished thing.” I will not be conscious of the moment of passing. In this life I have already been declared dead. It wasn’t so bad. After the first ruptured artery, the doctors thought I was finished. My wife, Chaz, said she sensed that I was still alive and was communicating to her that I wasn’t finished yet. She said our hearts were beating in unison, although my heartbeat couldn’t be discovered. She told the doctors I was alive, they did what doctors do, and here I am, alive.

Do I believe her? Absolutely. I believe her literally — not symbolically, figuratively or spiritually. I believe she was actually aware of my call and that she sensed my heartbeat. I believe she did it in the real, physical world I have described, the one that I share with my wristwatch. I see no reason why such communication could not take place. I’m not talking about telepathy, psychic phenomenon or a miracle. The only miracle is that she was there when it happened, as she was for many long days and nights. I’m talking about her standing there and knowing something. Haven’t many of us experienced that? Come on, haven’t you? What goes on happens at a level not accessible to scientists, theologians, mystics, physicists, philosophers or psychiatrists. It’s a human kind of a thing.

Someday I will no longer call out, and there will be no heartbeat. I will be dead. What happens then? From my point of view, nothing. Absolutely nothing. All the same, as I wrote to Monica Eng, whom I have known since she was six, “You’d better cry at my memorial service.” I correspond with a dear friend, the wise and gentle Australian director Paul Cox. Our subject sometimes turns to death. In 2010 he came very close to dying before receiving a liver transplant. In 1988 he made a documentary named “Vincent: The Life and Death of Vincent van Gogh.” Paul wrote me that in his Arles days, van Gogh called himself “a simple worshiper of the external Buddha.” Paul told me that in those days, Vincent wrote:

Looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots representing towns and villages on a map.

Why, I ask myself, shouldn’t the shining dots of the sky be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France?

Just as we take a train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star. We cannot get to a star while we are alive any more than we can take the train when we are dead. So to me it seems possible that cholera, tuberculosis and cancer are the celestial means of locomotion. Just as steamboats, buses and railways are the terrestrial means.

To die quietly of old age would be to go there on foot.

That is a lovely thing to read, and a relief to find I will probably take the celestial locomotive. Or, as his little dog, Milou, says whenever Tintin proposes a journey, “Not by foot, I hope!”

Bucket Bathing, Break-Ups and Belabouring

I’ve never been skiing. I’ve been invited on the usualnumber of ski trips but the universe has always contrived to get me out of them.I imagine this state of affairs will change soon- a friend will pitch it to me the right way, placing heavy emphasis on the après ski and minimising the ordeal of the actual ski. It’s not that I’m afraid of skiing, exactly, it’s just that it seems to me to be an activity that combines a great many of my dislikes, viz, hurtling down a mountain, cold weather, mastering a skill that requires a modicum of co-ordination, avalanches.

I have a real terror of avalanches. I’m not going to explain this phobia with a charming childhood story or a slew of scientific facts because I shouldn’t have to. I’m talking about being afraid of the possibility of being buried alive under a literal mountain of unforgiving snow, probably with one or more broken bones, left to slowly freeze to death, alone or possibly in the company of your ski buddy who may or may not eat you when the hunger pangs become too insistent. If you aren’t afraid of avalanches too, you’re clearly an idiot. 

The last few months have been a bit tricky for me. One thing started to slip, then another, then another and before I knew it I was in a cold dark place and I didn’t feel like I could move.(Oh, the drama!)

What? Oh. You want details? I’ve spoiled you all. Fine. Details would take too long , and be boring besides, so instead , you get a summary.

My last post was in January wasn’t it? Christ. I really am shit.

 Alright.

 February was actually a good month. It was as close to perfect as real life gets in that even thoughthe usual daily rainfalls of shit that you can’t avoid kept happening, I felt impervious to it. Being here has taught me that what we assume to be the basic necessities of modern life- running water, constant electricity- can be quite rightly classified as luxuries. Despite being in a pretty recently renovated flat, February gave us issues with the pipes (which needed replacing entirely)and the water pressure (which was peripatetic at best). We hired a guy to dothe work and were dismayed to find, hours and lots of banging later, that westill had crappy water pressure when it was coming out of the taps at all.Bucket bathing, as my sister calls it, sounds charmingly Victorian, but isreally just tedious. Then, my dear old Jeep, which I love, began to slowly succumb to the rough handling it had gotten from clumsy drivers and the factthat it’s about 6 years old now. So I had to swap cars to a much less belovedvehicle and send  Bessie  back to the shop about 5 times. It’s stillnot entirely fixed. Perhaps this is where you say I’m spoiled but I like bigcars, damn it, and I’m particularly attached to Bessie! What else? Theelectricity which, it has to be said, is usually pretty reliable in Abuja flickeredin and out like a shy fairy. The angry growls of the generator became whitenoise.  We hired a new steward to help usout around the house and…well. I was warned that she was ‘fresh from thevillage’ but was quite keen to have her anyway as this way she wouldn’t haveany bad habits to unlearn. However, when she attempted to clean the bathtubsand sinks with the loo brush and made a pot of stew dripping with shimmeringinches of oil, I realised that we had a problem. Despite all this, I was in aglorious mood in February. I’d like to say it was because a short story of minegot published, or that a child I sponsor passed a crucial exam and will now definitelyescape her grinding life of poverty, or even that I discovered that real joycomes from helping others and being kind. I’d like to be the kind of personthat has a perfect month for those reasons. But the real reason? I wasdisgustingly happy with my lad. 

Anyway. March marched on. There were some cracks, obviously,but for the most part an intact relationship with my lad emerged. I had a friend here to visit and we got up to the usual adventures (highlights include buying "enough Valium to fuck up a rhino" at 2am and finding a guy in Wuse who makes artwork out of the wings he rips off the still living bodies of beautiful butterflies.) . I also had the  best week ofthe year so far in March, when I went on holiday with my friends. We went somewhere far away and hotand exotic, with decadent hotels, food that made you cry, too much booze, moongazing and rooftop dancing, quiet afternoons wandering around temples, raucousevenings smuggling bottles of liquor into taxis, palaces and spa days and boat rides….ahh.I had one truly great week in March. But the rest of it…well. Here’s wherethe ominous rumbles became sliding clumps of danger. (Yes, yes, I’m stilltrying to work the avalanche metaphor in). I had a nice few days in England,but didn’t see as many friends as I usually do and the ones I did manage tograb for supper or lunch seemed to be moving on without me. By the end of thetrip, I hadn’t quite decided within myself whether I was regretting moving toNigeria for a bit- I still don’t know- but what I was sure about was that thepeople I left behind in London were all doing amazing things and there was afair chance that, had I stayed, I too would maybe be…anyway. I fired my driver and my steward.

Roll on April and here we are. The lad and I split up. I didthe splitting but it’s a complete myth that she who does the dumping feels nopain. I did what I usually do when the world disappoints me, and became adedicated hermit. I read half a library worth of books, watched the LOTR 5 times,drank an amount of gin I don’t like to think about, and communicated to mysister and friends in one word messages and grunts. Anita kept me sane, makingsure I ate, bathed occasionally, and saw the sun at least once a couple ofdays. She also didn’t bother me to ‘talk about it’ like most girls do, and I’mincredibly grateful for that. Every break up is different- some of them need tobe fixed by talking it out. This wasn’t one of them. This break up was a grossfacial disfigurement. I know it’s there, it happened; I can’t avoid seeing itwhenever I look in the mirror but for God’s sake don’t mention it. Pretend it’snot there for long enough and eventually you’ll stop noticing it.

Anyway I'm pleased to report that I have now dug myself out of my iceprison using the sharpened femur of my ski instructor, Lars, and here I am. I have absolutelyno desire to be in a serious relationship at the minute- “…and the worst ofhaving a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic” – but I’m meagain. Bathing regularly, using entire sentences to communicate, drinking normal amounts of gin, and most telling of all, I'm back to reading often asopposed to incessantly. 

Look, I won’t bullshit you and promise I’ll be regular asclockwork from now on. I’ll only promise to try. I’ve missed you all andabsolutely do not deserve the loyalty you guys show me. I got so many emailsand tweets and messages asking when I was going to blog again and I cannot tell you how much Iappreciated every single one of them. You guys are outstanding in everyparticular. I was determined to start this week off with a post of some sort, and although this one perhaps highlights how rusty my blogging skills have become, I hope it serves to put me back in your good books. At least a little.

Love you all, booskis (hahahahahaha! Dodgy metaphor officiallybelaboured. Get in.) xx 

PS. Oh, and as a sort of peace offering, here is a shortlist of some of the best books I read (and in some case re-read) during my Dark Time that you may want to check out: Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts, On the Road by Jack Kerouac, Capital by John Lanchester, Advent by James Treadwell, The Passage by Justin Cronin, Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman, Bitterblue by Kristin Cashore, Seraphina by Rachel Hartman, the entire bibliography of Tolkien, Ursula Le Guin, Shana Abe, and NK Jemisin (I particularly recommend The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms by NK Jemisin) and Robert Jordan's A Memory of Light.

French Restaurants, Foie Gras and Filthy Wellies

Always the post-Christmas holiday comedown. This year's wasn't too bad- I got on a plane back to London with my family. We wrestled all our luggage home, I saw them off to their various real homes later that night and then I had about 5 days home alone in England before Abuja beckoned. New Year's Eve wasn't a real event- it passed in jet-lagged, Nytol-assisted sleep mostly. I didn't feel properly awake until about the 2nd, which was just in time as I had friends to see, places to go, shops to lust about in.

I started with an evening at my sister's. She had moved into a new place late last year and I hadn't been to see it yet. That sort of thing upsets her so I had amends to make. My sister is a consummate home maker. The kind of person who hand sews her own chair covers and calls complicated craft projects 'super easy'. She bakes her own bread. So, as expected, her new place was cosy and homey and flawlessly decorated. I felt comforted and loved but also deeply inadequate. I think whenever I set up my own home- one with mini-humans and a growling man partner I mean- I will have to hire her to make it look real.

I went back to my (drafty, old, suddenly completely poo) home and  very soon set off for a day with my friends. Lovely- I met them in a French restaurant, La Boudin Blanc, in Shepherd's Market. I'd been fiddling about on the internet the night before, clicking through my favourite blogs etc, when I'd come across an outfit on a fashion blog I realised I could totally recreate. So I did. I also managed to get my natural hair into a sort of fro-hawk after much cursing and..well. I thought I looked pretty good. I may have done, I never really know, but what I'm certain of is I was riotously, comically, over-dressed for our little lunch. This was in the end completely fine because...friends. They have to put up with that sort of thing, don't they.? Lunch was fun and outrageous. One of our number had recently gotten engaged and was  sporting a garish funhouse ring because her fiance, who'd proposed on holiday in New York, wanted her input in picking out her real ring. To mark the moment, they'd picked one of those 5 dollar rings you win by getting a crane in a box to pick up the right bauble, or something. I didn't know this back story and had a very hairy moment....Another of our number, S was, like me, just back in England for a few days. We swapped stories about how lovely but depressing it was to have all these flying visits. I'd seen her last at the L's wedding at the end of the summer, after which we'd both had slightly teary returns to the African countries we are currently calling home. I however am well aware that my fairly comfy life in Abuja doesn't compare to S's very real work in a war-torn country.  Our quartet was rounded out by my essential Fizzy, soon jetting off herself to Russia to continue being amazing and also a journalist for Reuters. Someone told a story about having an orgasm in an inappropriate place, someone told a story about penis sizes, we all had a glass of wine each and I felt very smug. I have great friends.

After lunch, Fizzy and I moved on about 10 steps to a nearby pub where I massively overshared about the details of my love life over a few gin and tonics. I'd missed pubs...the way they immediately feel familiar and comfortable but also reassuringly impersonal at the same time. Bars in the Booj aren't really like that. Someone is always looking at you. Fizzy's verdict on Mr Tango and Silent John -just wait and see. Correct and correct. 

I got some culture in- the Marilyn Monroe exhibit which I coincidentally went to see just after I caught A Week With Marilyn on Sky Movies. It was okay. I remain a bit bemused as to why she captured the fantasies of the entire male population of her time (and some of ours). Clearly, I'm not the target audience. I got my lady bits lasered by a Polish lady who told me her philosophy on life - "everything hurts for a minute, then it goes.". Or maybe that was just her advice to get me to stop flinching. I had other necessary appointments and emerged reassured I wasn't going to die or go blind any time soon. I went to church, Hillsong, which left me feeling like I'd just had a full body spa day. Except, you know, spiritually. I tagged along one night with S to the house of some friends who'd been at uni with us. We ate pizza and drank wine and I lusted over their beautiful dog, Lupin. I had another supper with Fizzy, this time joined by L, whose wedding we were at last year. I always leave suppers with L feeling like all I've done is talk about myself- she has that quality of seeming truly, entirely interested in you and she won't ever barge in with 'I have news!' the way I will. I adore her. We went to Pierre Victoire. I had foie gras which was such a treat. Oh don't judge!

I shopped much less than I expected I would. I just didn't seem to want anything. This scared me- was this that fabled contentedness people spoke of? So I went out to the H&M sale and picked up an armful of stuff for less than £50! I love post-Christmas sales. It feels like stealing. And then you go along to market days in Abuja and they have the same stuff going for 10 times the price. Now that IS stealing.

I didn't get to see Liz, she was snowed in with work, so all we had were long chats on the phone. That wasn't too depressing, in the end, because she is plotting a trip to come and see me in Abuja soon. I told my bestie and she laughed and said "You're like an importer of white people."

 I went on an incredibly long walk along the river by my house, deliberately stepping in mud puddles like a child and getting my wellies properly filthy. I did this with a cracking playlist in my ear so of course as soon as I got home I went straight to my study and wrote some stuff.

Too soon, much too soon, it was Abuja time. I had the easiest last day I think I've ever had. Lie in, cleaned fridge, emptied bins, got in taxi, checked in in less than 10 minutes. Balance was restored when my flight was delayed for two hours. However, the delay meant I discovered Gordon Ramsey's Plane Food picnics which are the most delicious things....! Soon enough, I was in the back of my car, looking out over Abuja's Harmattan-fuzzy skyline. It was a new year, I was home, and I was ready to begin.

More later, booskis. xx

Of The Week 21/01/12 - 28/01/13

Only a day late this time, but as you’ll also be getting another hit of my Misadventures later today, I consider myself forgiven. *hugs you all in gratitude*

Books of The Week: Jonas Jonasson’s The Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out Of The Window And Disappeared, Chris Pavone’s The Expats and Robert J Crane’s  Alone.

*Last week, while restraining myself from trying to copulate with my delicious cup of vanilla nut coffee, I read an article in the New Yorker about the current British obsession with all things Nordic. The Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out Of The Window And Disappeared would have probably been a success at any time but it’s recent release totally cashed in on that trend. I adored it- it’s a hilarious, outrageous, picaresque book that I defy you not to love.  Allan Karlsson, our star and the 100 year old man in the title is a great character. After leading a long, globe-trotting life of adventure that included several close brushes with death, the invention of the atomic bomb, many meetings with the leading figures of the 20^th century (including a drinking session with Truman), we meet Allan when has ended up a virtual prisoner in an old people’s home. For reasons mainly based on an unacceptable (to Allan) lack of vodka and boredom he decides to escape the home on the morning of his 100^th birthday by climbing out of his bedroom window. The book slips back and forth in time, covering Allan’s insane, Gumpian adventures during his youth and his present day race through Sweden accompanied by (at various times) an elephant, a red haired woman and a suitcase full of money. Despite being full of some very good sense,  its main appeal for me was that it was so relentlessly funny I was almost tired of laughing well before the end.  A total must read. 

**The Expats surprised me. I bought it on a whim, seduced by the cheap Amazon  price tag .  Expats however is a very, very good suspense/thriller that follows the life of ex CIA agent Kate who, due to her husband’s new shiny job, is now living as an expat in Luxembourg. Kate quits the CIA to become a housewife and raise her two young boys in this new, foreign culture. She and her husband Dexter quickly befriend another American couple- Julia and Bill- and, at first, Kate’s biggest worry is combating the boredom induced by her drastically altered occupation. Pretty soon though, Kate starts to get suspicious about Julia and Bill and a suspicious, highly trained but currently bored housewife makes for a pretty formidable investigator. Pavone’s skill isn’t just in a weaving a good plot, but in how many clever things the plot accomplishes. On the surface- the slow building suspense and tension, some very good action, a clear, crisp narrative style. But beneath that, he manages to paint Kate so well that we’re not sure for quite a while whether there is anything dodgy about Julia and Bill or whether Kate’s just bored and jumping at shadows. Can't wait to read more of Pavone's stuff.

***I’m a fan of Crane’s other stuff so I figured I’d like Alone. I’m about 40% sold. The first in the Girl In A Box series, Alone tells the story of Sierra, a teenage ‘meta-human’ (an X-Man basically) who has been locked in her house by her mother her whole life, surviving on television, martial arts lessons and an abundance of sarcasm. The story starts off with instant action- Sierra’s home is invaded by two men with guns, her mother hasn’t come home for a week, and we’re instantly carried along as Sierra fights to stay alive and figure out what the hell is going on. This is a YA book- the writing style is first person narrative, lots of modern language. Crane, an accomplished writer, gives us good action scenes, some great comic book style characters and a pretty scary villain. I like the mythology of the world, but I did think it all felt sort of familiar and a bit rushed. There isn’t a lot of back story or world building- the action starts on page 1 and while we do get more pellets of information as things progress, we spend most of the book racing around places or in fights. On the whole, I think it’s perfect for the YA genre but fantasy buffs will probably feel a bit short changed. I might read the rest of this series one day but I’d say it’s a book better suited to YA fans who like quick, kick-ass, action. 

*hums happily*

Film of The Week: Flight

*Denzel is a beautiful man and a great actor- Flight , a film in which Denzel is on screen for about 90% of the time, was a wonderful opportunity for me to appreciate and cherish those unassailable truths. I also quite liked the story itself- an intense portrayal of  the struggle against internal demons and external pressures by an alcoholic pilot following the crash of a plane he was flying while drunk. I thought the ending was a bit too preachy- after seeing Washington go through every sort of emotion an addict on the road to recovery goes through, I thought I’d get a meatier ending than what was essentially an ad for AA. But that was a minor quibble. Flight is a solid movie and I hope Denzel wins an Academy Award because everything  about that man is perfection in a bun.

Songs of The Week: Locked Out Of Heaven by Bruno Mars and Frank Ocean’s Lost

No new music this week, I’ve started running again and I can only run to songs I know by heart so I can sing along to keep morale up. My bestie and I huff and puff around Maitama in the evenings and these two songs have been- to borrow a current Nigerian phrase- “giving me life”. She can only listen to clubby Nigerian tracks, I generally need boppy stuff that makes me mentally spaced out but happy because the physicality of running certainly doesn’t. But these abs won’t flatten themselves, will they? More’s the pity.

*I love Locked Out Of Heaven mainly for the first 25 seconds or so. Who doesn’t love a count in? That clack of drumstick against drumstick that says ‘Hey, this song is going to be cool’….I could wish that the lyrics didn’t include emphatic repetitions of “your sex takes me to paradise” because it means I can’t play it within earshot of my dad without getting yelled at, automatically making it ineligible for addition to my Play Me While You’re Cooking To Reduce Kitchen Angst playlists, but other than that, pretty flawless stuff, Mars. Well done, sir. 

** Again, it was the beginning of Lost that reeled me in. It’s so vibey, so old-school chill, I feel like I ought to be wearing brogues and a hat and snapping my fingers on a street corner when I listen to this. Ocean could sing a list of deep conditioner ingredients (hey there, natural hair girls, hey) and I’d love it but this is particularly cool stuff. 

That’s it. As usual, vom a comment below, say hello on Twitter (@miafarradaily) and generally remain the awesome souls that you are. 

xxx

Of The Week 13/01/13-21/01/13

I read 15 books this week. I cannot fathom how I managed it, but it explains why I haven’t averaged more than 3 hours sleep per night. Reading this much usually means I’m cross at the world. Looking at the books I read (mostly romances i.e. my comfort genre) well, we can deduce that I spent most of this week being very cross at the world. Crisis over, here are my thoughts: 

 Books of The Week: Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus. I also read Catherine Anderson’s Coulter series, Nora Roberts’ The Bride Quartet series, Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, Danilla Sacerdoti’s Watch Over Me, Elisabeth Naughton’s Wait For Me and Shelly Laurenston’s The Mane Attraction. 

*The Night Circus is fantastic. It came out in 2011 and has been on my ‘to-read’ list since then. It’s a lush, lyrical, evocative book about magic in all its forms- actual magic, the inherent magic of a circus, the magic of faith and belief and the magic of beauty. Written with flawless precision and vivid imagery, it will have you seeing every scene as if you were watching a film and dreading the time you’ll eventually have no more pages to turn. It follows the rivalry of two magicians, Celia and Marco, pitted against each other by their parent and mentor respectively. Their challenge is simply to beat each other, the venue for the competition is a gloriously wonderful Night Circus or Cirque des Reves and the story is full of colourful secondary characters and a fair amount of wonder. Highly recommended.

 **Anderson’s Coulter series consists of 6 books (Phantom Waltz, Sweet Nothings, Blue Skies, Bright Eyes, My Sunshine, Sun Kissed) following 5 Coulter brothers and their sister Bethany. They all live in smallish-town, rural America where they are either cowboys or closely connected thereto. It’s all standard romantic fare for the most part- ruggedly handsome man from a big loving family who isn’t ready to settle down but is knocked off his feet by a woman who blows into his life etc. These books aren’t literary masterpieces and are a bit repetitive, especially when read in one go, but they’re warm, comforting and easy to read. Extra points for ingenuity due to Anderson’s attempt to give her heroines real issues such as physical and mental disabilities and domestic violence. If you enjoy these books, there are more connecting books following the extended Coulter family to sink your teeth into.

*** Roberts’ Bridal Quartet series consists of 4 books (Vision in White, Bed of Roses, Savor The Moment, Happy Ever After) following 4 childhood friends who grow up to jointly own a wedding company called Vows. One bakes the cakes, one does the photography, one does the flowers, and one provides the venue and plans the weddings. One after another, they all fall in love with hot men. These books are all a bit too perfect and the dialogue was at first a bit too choppy to work for me but by Happy Ever After, I was over it. They’re good for what they are but they’re not Roberts’ best work- as with the Coulter series above, read for comfort not quality.

****Stranger in A Strange Land is a book I’m ashamed to have taken so long to read. It’s long, shockingly clever, a bit slow and weird in places ( I bought the author’s original draft which is 60,000 words longer than the version that won the Hugo Award) but quite obviously a classic. It follows the adventures of Valentine Smith, a man born and raised in an advanced Martian culture. Set in the future, all hell breaks loose when a space exploration team goes to Mars, finds him, and brings him back to Earth. It’s often hilarious, especially when Heinlein has fun taking a look at ‘normal’ human customs through the eyes of entirely innocent Valentine. But it is also enormously silly in places (lots of orgies, for example, which serve no real purpose but then again, it was written in the 60’s) and downright offensive in others (a major female character says that rape is 9 times out of 10 the girl’s fault). Read if you’re into sci fi, like me, or at least interested in reading thought-provoking ideas on human nature, philosophy and religion.

*****Watch Over Me is basically Marion Keyes diluted but it’s so earnest that you can’t help but like it. Set in an idyllic Scottish village, it’s a romance engineered by the long dead mother, now in spirit form, of protagonist Jamie. Jamie’s wife has done a runner leaving him the broken and almost alcoholic father of a precious little girl called Maisie. Eilidh has just had a miscarriage after years of trying for a child with her unfaithful husband and the pain of it all has sent her racing back up to the tiny Scottish village she grew up in and Jamie still lives. A bit of help from ghostly mum and Jamie and Maisie meet up with Eilidh and they all fall in love with each other. I’m making it sound ridiculous, and I suppose it is, but it is very sweet and quite heart-warming. It has some major flaws, Eilidh’s family are all painted as arseholes for no reason I could see, there are a few side stories that should have been edited out but overall it’s a book most will enjoy despite itself.

******Wait For Me is (yes another one) a romance with some actual suspense in it. Kate has amnesia and relies on her husband for everything. He’s a bit of a twat as husbands go, but apparently well-meaning and with her son Reed, Kate is happy enough. Then Kate’s husband dies and while going through his things, Kate finds a picture of a little girl who can’t be anyone other than her daughter and some medical records which raise some serious questions about her amnesia. Meanwhile, Ryan is slowly getting over the death of his wife Anne in a plane crash, helped along by his best friend/ brother in law and precocious daughter Julia. Kate’s search for answers brings her to Ryan’s door and the similarities between Kate and Anne are startling. Is Kate Anne? And if so, who faked her death and why? Naughton creates a pretty good mystery and all within the first few chapters. There's also some pretty intense chemistry between Kate and Ryan. However, the book starts stronger than it finishes- some of the loose ends are tied up quite lazily, the conflict between Kate and Ryan is often unnecessary and contrived, the writing could be better and there’s a bit too much swearing by adults in front of kids to suit me. It's not a bad book but it doesn’t quite live up to its potential.

*******The Mane Attraction is another one of Shelly Laurenston’s wildly popular shifter romances. Laurenston has a great ear for dialogue and comedy. She is also deliciously bloodthirsty, the result being that she succeeds where a lot of other paranormal romance writers fail-  she paints a wildly improbable world in such a charming and satisfying way that you’re quite happy to play along. I like everything she writes, this book included, though it’s far from my favourite (see Bear Meets Girl). Our leading man is quite shockingly lazy and there’s a bit too much of ladies doing the cooking for the big man to suit me. That being said, our leading man is actually part man/part lion and everyone knows that lionesses do most of the work so I suppose Laurenston was being true to life. Sort of. 

OH: I also read Barely Breathing by Rebecca Donovan. This was a total accident and I thoroughly regret it. It’s a shitty  YA book, full of all the crap I hate about shitty YA books: a female protagonist who makes truly idiotic choices, too much angst for no reason except for angst, bad writing, a love triangle and mind numbing tedium. It’s apparently the second book in some sort of series about a girl who seems to exist only to have a really awful things happen to her which she responds to by making choices that seem to have the sole result of ensuring that more awful things continue to happen. It ought to be a book that deals with the very real issues of child abuse and alcoholic parents but it just comes across as gratuitous angst and stupidity. Avoid.

TV Show of the Week: Scandal

*I heart Scandal in the same way I heart Grey’s Anatomy. Save for the truly shite Private Practice, I have drunk of the vine of Rhimes and I like it.  Far from The West Wing but more than good enough to suit me, Scandal follows the life of Olivia Pope; political fixer, PR guru, fashionista and presidential mistress, and her team of ‘gladiators in suits’ as they skirt the bounds of the law to keep the movers and shakers of Washington out of public trouble. The most recent episodes- with Fitz being in a coma- haven’t been my favourites because I am sappy enough to admit my favourite bits are the Fitz/Olivia chemistry scenes. But I think it was an enormously clever thing to do- we can’t just have naughty fumbling in the Oval Office to keep us going- and the ‘procedural’ aspect of the show, with a weekly PR crisis to solve, is what will keep it running for season after season. I disagree with critics who say that Kerry Washington’s portrayal of Olivia Pope is irritating because Pope is meant to be this total badass but Washington always looks fragile and about a second away from tears. Men are allowed to show their emotions and no one considers that weak because ‘manly’ emotions, such as anger, shouting, swearing, are perfectly acceptable in the work place. Feminine emotions however are some sort of weakness? Bollocks. As she gets results every time, I think it’s entirely fine Washington/Pope does it while looking like a pretty pixie. And if she occasionally has a lip wobble, well, given her case load, I think she’s entitled.  

That’s it for this week, guys. Sorry this one was a bit late. Don’t forget- comment below and/or get in touch via Twitter (@miafarradaily) to share your reading lists/opinions. Love you all booskis!