A Bad, Bad, Place.

by Frances Crawford

A Good, Good Book.

It has been a good year for reading through my TBR pile.* I have particularly enjoyed Frankly, Nicola Sturgeon’s memoir, and, in fiction, I was captivated by Will and Testament by Vigdis Hjorth, a book recommended by Sturgeon during Covid, The Girls by Lori Lansens, first published in 2006 in UK – shows how long my TBR has been growing! and Saoirse, a book group choice. I may have been the only member to enjoy it but I certainly did.

On a recentish trip to visit Baby Bomber and her family I was lucky enough to spend time browsing The Main Street Trading Company bookstore in St Boswell’s in the Scottish borders. A fabulous wee bookshop with impressively curated book shelves. I treated myself to two hardbacks – How to Kill a Witch by Claire Mitchell and Zoe Venditozzi, whom I had seen being interviewed at Granite Noir, and A Bad, Bad, Place by Frances Crawford. On a wee side note, the bookseller noted that the paperback of How to Kill a Witch was due out in a few days time and would I prefer to wait for that. I didn’t but it was refreshing to be offered the option.

I haven’t read How to Kill a Witch yet, although I am really enjoying Claire and Zoe’s podcast, The Witches of Scotland, and will hopefully immerse myself in it soon, but I read A Bad, Bad, Place last week. What a treat! I did not grow up in Glasgow but the sense of voice and place emerge as very authentic and it was really striking how Glasgow, and the rest of Scotland, has changed since 1979. Janey, as a 12 year old girl has a childhood innocence and naivity that may be hard to find in 2026 and is refreshing in itself. The background of poverty, criminalty and community are equally well drawn and belivable. Hard to think it was such a short time ago.

A Bad, Bad, Place centres around Janey finding a murdered young woman and her grandmother’s attempts to protect her from the trauma she suffers as a result. Nevertheless there is a lot of humour to be found too. There is a particulaly Glaswegian way of describing things that made me laugh out loud at times. For example, ‘Before all this, the only time I encountered big lies was Tottie-Heid’s version of himself, and Tricia McNulty’s version of dominoes.‘ Maggie, Janey’s grandmother, only ever refers to her boss as Tottie-Heid (Tiny head) which in itself draws a vivid picture for the reader of the odious character.

A horrible crime is central to the story but this is not a crime story. Rather it is about friendship, grief, caring and community even when some members of the community are less than desirable characters. I loved Janey and Maggie and I am very impressed this was Frances Crawford’s debut novel. I can’t wait for more from her!

*My TBR pile is not a small one. There are probably a couple of hundred books awaiting my attention and some have been there for several years.

A Happy Rejection.

A rejection in any walk of life is never pleasant. We can often take a rejection, even in the profesional setting, of our ideas or work, personally. This is understandable and we have to take a little extra care of ourselves when we face this situation. Other times, with a little self assessment, the rejection is not unexpected although may still sting a little.

I recently saw the call by The National Theatre of Scotland for stories from the public that they hope to turn into a piece of theatre as part of their program of celebrations for the 20th anniversary of the Theatre. A member of the creative team from the theatre came to a script-reading group I attend to tell us about the project and ask that we consider submitting a story. Unfortunately, the deadline was in 2 days time!

I had a think (a very quick one) about what story I could tell and did manage to write out a story and submit it before the deadline. It was a story about events that happened in my youth and was therefore very personal. However, I was very aware of the speed with which I wrote it and knew it wasn’t my best work or even the most accesible story to transform to a piece of theatre.

Today I got the rejection letter. However, I did not feel sad or rejected. Not least because the letter was so lovely and that they had included a beautiful notebook for me to continue writing stories. Good luck to those whose stories have been shortlisted and I look forward to voting on my favourite in due course.

As Long as Someone Speaks your Name.

We settled down recently for an evening of television and were watching the contestants on Masterchef attempt to make a baked alaska. It brought back a memory from more than 40 years ago of being invited to our friend Finlay’s flat for dinner and he made a baked alaska, the first I had ever eaten. I was in awe of his creation!

In reminiscing, The Wing Commander remembered Finlay’s flatmate but couldn’t recall his name. During the conversation I recalled his name, Martin, that he was Canadian and had been a student at University at the same time as Finlay but that he was perhaps originally a friend of another friend, Alan.

As I tried to sort the memories in my head I was about to say that I would ask Alan the next time I saw him when I realised that I wouldn’t see him again as he was dead. Finlay was too. I sat with my fresh grief for a moment before being washed with a whole new set of memories from our long friendship. The Wing Commander remembered the reason we were invited for dinner was to view the slides from Alan and Finlay’s recent trip to Italy.

I met Alan when we were both training to become teachers. He became one, I didn’t. Through him I met Finlay and other friends and for many years we were a fixed team. I miss them both and will continue to speak their names to bask in the warmth of those memories, even when recalling brings back the pain of no longer having them in my life.

The Perils of Ill-Health.

Today I had to pay a visit to the local health centre where I was prescribed, among other medications, penicillin tablets. Hurrah for Alexander Fleming! I took the first tablet on returning home and sat down to read the paper insert detailing the medication, its usage, and possible side effects. A, thankfully, rare side effect is a ‘black, hairy tongue.’

If you need me I will be in front of a mirror.

The Bookshelf Rule.

I am looking for new bookshelves and/or display cabinets for my sitting room. I have seen lots of possibilities but none have so far struck me as essential to what I am looking for. Today I thought I would try another online search. Imagine my surprise when the first item was a description of something called ‘The Bookshelf Rule.’

I have a natural dislike for ‘rules’ when applied to style or design but I thought I would read it anyway. Apparently The Bookshelf Rule requires one to completely empty their bookshelf and then return only items which they use every day or often. Furthermore, when one buys a new book an old one has to be removed. What madness is this?!

Further proof, if proof were needed, that madness lurks in every corner waiting to pounce at any minute. Do not listen to the madness and do not fear it. Fellow book owners and collectors of various objets know full well that every single piece is precious and valued. Now, begone madness. You have no place in my head and I have shelving to find.

January, I am so over you.

And February, I don’t like you either.

As I sit here, the sleet is lashing against the window. As we say in Scotland, it’s a dreich day. The dreich days that seem to be endless this January and I don’t hold out much hope for February getting its act together either.

There are many things I enjoy about winter but dreich days aren’t anywhere on the list. WInter is my least favourite season though. I hate the long dark nights and the continual rain is intolerable. Actually, there are rainy days I love in Scotland. With the right light the colours and moods of Scotland are beautiful but in winter it’s just wet and miserable. And it drags my mood and spirit into the gloomy depths of despondency. Some people call it the ‘Winter Blues’, more clinically it is known as SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Recently I find I am barely able to function during the few daylight hours, mostly because insomnia has robbed my sleep during the night. Light therapy helps and I really value my Human Charger* at this time of year but, for the next month, expect to find me reclining on a couch like a Victorian lady with melancholia. Roll on March.

*https://humancharger.com

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year to all, but how did it get to be the year 2026?

I grew up in a small farming community. I loved the freedom of playing outdoors, walking along the nearby beach, skimming stones in the water and watching the animals in the fields, especially the lambs playfully leaping in springtime. It was a carefree country childhood that I cherished.

I have a vivid memory of being about 9 years old, so in the late 60s, of the peripetetic art teacher coming to our primary school and explaining that by the year 2000 we would all be living under the sea as land would be depleted and unusable (global warming was known about even back then). We were to paint a picture of our future underwater living places.

I was devastated that I would no longer be able to watch lambs in springtime, collect mushrooms as they grew, look for treasure on the beach as the waves washed it up. And, good grief, I worked out I would be 40 years old in 2000! Unimaginable!

The turn of the century stuck with me through the next 30 years as a benchmark of the future. I would be 40 years old! A new way of life awaited. In the intervening years I grew up got married, had children of my own, the eldest of whom recently confessed he thought acid rain would play a bigger role in his life due to a similar school lesson conversation! Teachers, be aware that the strangest things stick with your pupils!

After I turned 40 I did begin a new life, not underwater but at university. It was an exciting time but I somehow forgot that the years kept passing. It has come as a shock that we are now more that quarter of a century past that benchmark future! How did that happen? The eldest Bomber is now over 40 himself. Another conundrum as I, myself, remain resolutely 28. At least in my head.

A Love of Portraiture

I am very fond of a good portrait, especially female portraiture (as artist or subject), as I have mentioned in previous posts. Therefore, on my wee escape from real life, I made a point of visiting the Scottish Portrait Gallery, which has several exhibitions on currently. I started at the top of the building and really enjoyed The Scots in Italy exhibition where I discovered the Swiss artist, Angelica Kauffman. I will be investigating her and her work more carefully.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angelica_Kauffman

The Heroes and Heroines: The Victorian Age was, however, disappointing in the most part, not least as it began with a bust of Victoria and centralised, in a very grand velvet-curtained booth, a portrait of the young Victoria . I was very taken with a portrait entitled The Lullaby though. It reminded me of a similar portrayal of motherhood I saw at the Musee D’Orsay earlier this year. Motherhood and the stay at home mum were Victorian ideals but this portrait shows a mother that, to me at least, seems ever so slightly disenchanted with the role. I think there is a need for a thorough study of portraits of mothers and motherhood!

The Lullaby by Sir Joseph Noel Paton

The galleries with The Modern Portrait exhibition I had seen before but enjoyed another walk through. However, the highlight of my tour was the Alfred Buckham: Daredevil Photographer exhibition. From the first photograph, entitled The Loop, and especially the corresponding label, I was hooked! The label stated, “Despite the obvious danger, Buckham [1879-1956] had a laid back approach to safety. ‘It is not easy to tumble out of an aeroplane, unless you really want to’ he said ‘and on considerably more than a thousand flights I have used a safety belt only once, and then it was thrust upon me. I always stand up to make an exposure and, taking the precaution to tie my right leg to the seat, I am free to move rapidly, and easily, in any desired direction; and loop-the-loop; and indulge in other such delights, with perfect safety.'” Alfred was basically the Biggles of the photography world! I was completely unaware of the photographer and his work and while the photographs themselves are stunning I found the explanations of how he created his photos fascinating, The process involved layering various negatives of planes, clouds and landscapes together and subjecting certain parts of the image to different degrees of exposure. Finally he used watercolour paints to highlight areas of the final photograph. The results were truly works of art!

Get along to see the exhibition in Edinburgh if you can but if you cannot then feast your eyes here:

https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/artists/alfred-buckham

The most surprising find in the galleries was a portrait entitled The Cromartie Fool by Richard Waitt (1684-1733). It depicts the Earl of Cromarty’s Fool or jester holding a kail (cabbage) stock which has a burning candle on top. This object, according to the label ‘played an important role’ in Halloween festivities. Apparently Robert Burns, in his poem Halloween (1785) (one I have not read or previously known about) describes ‘the tradition of unmarried men and women uprooting kail stocks at this time of year, the shape of which revealed the character of their future partner.’

I leave the interpretation of ‘character’ to your own imaginations…

Running Away From Home

It has been a busy year. Trips to Paris and Manchester, illness, hospitalised family members and the recent birth of twin grandsons have meant an almost non-stop year. I have dreamed of time to myself-what parent/partner/grandparent doesn’t- but now I have snatched it. And so I have run away from home for a few days completely to myself with a pile of books and a pile of knitting.

My intention is to spend most of the time in bed enjoying catching up on reading and finishing yarn projects with occasional sojourns out into the world for cultural and dining indulgences. Tiny Bomber has suggested I can do this at home but The Wing Commander has an unappealing tendency of making sure I am out of bed by a certain time and, as he is also opposed to the day time wearing of pyjamas, I have had no option but to wave him adieu.

Therefore I have taken a train to a secret location. I am well aware that this escape is an indulgence and a privilege not everyone can choose but I intend to enjoy every minute, most of them in a very large, very cosy hotel bed

Labour. One Year On.

Last year many of us went to the polls hoping that there would be some kind of change in UK politics. One year on and I read my diary entry of the day after the election – “Labour win but will it mean change? Feel despondent.”

The Slough of Despond continues and deepens as I watch a supposedly left leaning party embrace right wing policies, a media that is, for the most part, unable or unwilling to present facts and a populace overcome by the seeming unalterable state of both.

I do have hope but, damn, it is hard to see its spark some days.