antisoppist: (Default)
On Radio 4 Extra the other week, I heard a repeat of an edition of Good Reads in which Harriet Gilbert made Patrick Grant read Penelope Lively. Patrick Grant said his mother's book group read a lot of Penelope Lively but he hadn't ever read any and now he would go and read lots more* (Listen to your mother!). Then I saw a Penelope Lively book in a charity shop and thought I should read it. It turned out that the book in the programme was Heatwave (which I haven't read) and the one I got was Consequences. Consequences is always an ominous title but fortunately this one does not live up to the trauma of E M Delafield. The blurb and the cover make it sound terrible "privileged misfit Lorna meets the love of her life", "a penniless and bohemian artist" but "the coming war takes Matt - and with him Lorna's dreams - away" but it is lovely - and goes on through 2 more generations and then it comes full circle and made me cry.

Here I admit that much of its appeal for me came from it being set near where I live. This is understandable because Penelope Lively spent a lot of her childhood with her grandparents at Golonscott House in West Somerset. Here is a piece about Penelope Lively's aunt the artist Rachel Reckitt with a picture of the house at the end. I now need to go on a Rachel Reckitt local tour.* But the book is also about odd families of choice and people making their own decisions and being a bit out of step with their times. Though it is a pity characters have to keep suddenly dying. But it is also a book that loves West Somerset.

The cottage stood beside a lane. At the front, it looked out over the high hedge bank of its garden, across the lane and the sloping field beyond to a wooded valley that reached up into the Brendon Hills. Behind, fields and copses rolled away down to the Bristol Channel coastline; there was a long, thin slice of pewter sea and, on a clear day, the distant shore of Wales. Square and squat, cob and thatch, dug solid into the red Somerset earth, the small building had seen out generations of farm labourers. People had been born here, died here, had heard rumours of wars, had achieved the vote, had sweated over the same patch of landscape and stared at the same sky. Now, the place stood empty, bar the mice and the black beetles and the spiders. Empty and two pounds a month.


And here is Ruth, Lorna's granddaughter:

"The M4. The M5. Comfort stops at teeming motorway service stations through which flowed the August crowds. The nation was on the move and the west country was the place to which it moved.

[...]

And now the directions sent her off sharply into the hinterland. You burrowed into this landscape, she saw. The motorways rushed through it, and the A this and the B that, but as soon as you abandoned those dictatorial highways you had slipped off into another sphere. You were in the lanes, you were in narrow tunnels between high hedge banks, routes that also knew quite well what they were about and where they were going but that was their own immemorial business, and you were now in their domain. You went where they went, and that was that."


Shortly after this she has to reverse for a tractor and scrapes the side of her car on a raised rock. It is the way of things. Then she gets very lost in the lanes and "horror of horrors" ends up back on the A39 again before being able to turn round. That is also the way of things. My favourite quote though in the narrow, high-hedged lanes is "here and there a glimpse through a gate of blue and green distances like the jewelled vistas in medieval painting". Something so familiar here, put into words that make you see it differently.

Otherwise, the album of the current Broadway production of Chess is out. Obviously I am not going to New York to see Chess but I would really like to know what the production did with it this time. Youngest and I have been listening to the album and going "why did they put that song there" and "why is Florence singing Someone Else's Story and why is it at the end?" and Eldest keeps saying "I don't know, take it up with Jonathan from Buffy the Vampire Slayer" because Danny Strong wrote the book. He has in fact done a YouTube video about how he fixed the problems with Chess but it doesn't actually tell me what he did other than that it was very difficult to create scenes that used the existing narrative in the song lyrics to join them all up presumably in a different way? Nor does he mention the Swedish production, which did solve the problems with Chess and I would like to know if he knew about it and what he decided to do differently. This production includes "He is a Man, He is a Child" (sung by Svetlana which is presumably why Florence gets Someone Else's Story) and that originated in the first Swedish production so you would have thought so? The new overture is very good though. I liked that. I assume it hasn't had one before because often people put The Story of Chess at the start instead because it doesn't fit anywhere else unless you are trying to give the audience something to listen to while people play chess.

*He also said reading it had given him an insight into what it must be like to worry about things and be introspective, which is something people close to him have struggled with. I feel probably Patrick Grant should listen to the people he knows rather than what, not believe them until someone puts it in a book? I like Patrick Grant on Sewing Bee but the inside of his head must be so different from practically everyone I know.

**I would also have liked to have seen the exhibition at the museum had I known it was on and had my daughter who works for the heritage trust happened to mention it.
antisoppist: (Default)
Peter Grimes (Opera North)

Read more... )


Operation Mincemeat (Touring Cast, Bath Theatre Royal)

Read more... )

Meme

Jan. 5th, 2026 12:09 pm
antisoppist: (Reading)
via [personal profile] sanguinity 

1 Grab the nearest book.
2 Turn to page 126
3 The 6th full sentence is your life in 2026.

There are 2 books on my desk. The first is Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit which eldest borrowed from my father and brought me yesterday to take back to him at some point:

"I was, in short, in buoyant mood and practically saying 'Tra la' when I observed Jeeves shimmering up in the manner of one desiring an audience."

Hmm, generally positive though slightly ominous.

The other is The Truants by Kate Weinberg which I gave eldest for Christmas and she has now lent to me:

"And then came Georgie's languorous and decadent voice, asking if I wanted to come and 'knock about the house' with her for a couple of days while her parents were in Mustique."

I mean it would be better if I was being invited to Mustique and it depends how the invitation turns out (also possibly ominous) but both offer Openings for Potential, and indeed Decadence. 

antisoppist: (Goat)
Unexpected bonus Christmas extract from Son who doesn't really do fiction.

After an hour's rest, they struggled on until noon. The tents were pitched and supper was issued: cold seal steak and tea - nothing more.

On the same night exactly one year before, after a festive dinner on board the Endurance, Greenstreet had written in his diary: 'Here endeth another Christmas Day. I wonder how and under what circumstances our next one will be spent.' That night he failed to even mention what day it was. And Shackleton recorded briefly all that really needed to be said: 'Curions Christmas. Thoughts of home.'


Wishing you all a happier time than being stuck in Antarctica, whether or not you celebrate Christmas.
antisoppist: (Christmas)
Will saw there only a gap in the crowd, with beyond it the group of musicians. As he stood there, they struck up once more 'Good King Wenceslas', the carol they had been playing when first he entered the room, through the Doors. Merrily the whole gathering joined in singing, and then the next verse came and Merriman's deep voice was ringing out across the room, and Will realised, blinking, that the verse to come was his.

He drew breath, and raised his head.

Sire he lives a good league hence,
Underneath the mountain ...

And there was no moment of farewell, no moment in which he saw the nineteenth century vanish away, but suddenly with no awareness of change, as he sang he knew that Time had somehow blinked, and another young voice was singing with him, the two of them so nearly simultaneous that anyone who could not see the lips moving would have sworn that it was one boy's voice alone . . .

[...]

On Christmas night, Will always slept with James. Both twin beds were still in James's room from the time before Will had moved up to Stephen's attic. The only difference now was that James kept Will's old bed piled with op art cushions, and referred to it as 'my chaise longue'. There was something about Christmas Eve, they both felt, that demanded company; one needed somebody to whisper to, during the warm beautiful dream-taut moments between hanging the empty stocking at the end of the bed, and dropping into the cosy oblivion that would flower into the marvel of Christmas morning.

And it was the same as it always was, as he lay curled up happily in his snug wrappings, promising himself that he would stay awake, until, until...

... until he woke, in the dim morning room with a glimmer of light creeping round the dark square of the curtained window, and saw and heard nothing for an enchanted expectant space, because all his senses were concentrated on the weighty feel, over and around his blanketed feet, of strange bumps and corners and shapes that had not been there when he fell asleep. And it was Christmas Day.
antisoppist: (Christmas)
Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo lying on the rug.

[...]

"Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in chorus.

"Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are huddgled into one bed to keep from freezingm for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and they oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?"
antisoppist: (Christmas)
That night Mr Muller brought home a Christmas tree. Even though the Mullers were to spend Christmas Eve at Grosspapa Muller's and Christmas Day at Grosspapa Hornik's there had to be a tree in their own home. Unlike Santa Claus, Christmas trees seemed to be very important in Milwaukee. The older people were as excited as the children when Mr Muller carried in his huge fragrant bundle.

The next afternoon, which was Christmas Eve day, all of them trimmed it. They put on candles and carved wooden toys and cookies hung on ribbons, and little socks with candles in them, as well as the usual bright balls. They draped the strings of cranberries around the spiraling branches and placed a star angel on the top.

Tib and Fred were very artistic and it was a beautiful tree. They had fun trimming it too, but it seemed strange to Betsy to be hanging the Mullers' balls and angels and to think that at home a tree was being trimmed with the dear familiar ornaments... some that she and Tacy had bough on their Christmas shopping trips.
antisoppist: (Default)
I missed the first ten minutes of this film, which I discovered on telly last night on some far-down-the-remote-control channel after Strictly had finished. I don't think it would have helped. I like trains and I like people trying to sort their lives out by time travel and I was transfixed but truly this is a terrible film and I don't know what Michael Sheen was thinking, other than that it had Anna Lundberg in it and loads of opportunities to wear terrible wigs.

Why??? )

A Guardian review says "Props are also due to the production design team, who sourced all the different moquette upholstery fabrics for the train seats that mark the different eras as the story develops." I heartily agree. That bit was great.

The other thing I loved was that when he tried to phone his girlfriend (twice) her phone number was 01 811 8055. This was the phone number to the children's TV programme Multicoloured Swap Shop and the number was repeated numerous times every Saturday morning from 1976 to 1982. I greatly appreciated that.
antisoppist: (Christmas)
And now, with everyone safely in position, the household of Herr Doktor Fischer could march forward to the great climax of Christmas Eve. A frenzied last-minute clean-up began, the maids gliding silently up and down the already gleaming parquet with huge brushes strapped to their feet. Carpets were thumped, feather-beds beaten, and in the kitchen… But there are no words to describe what went on in a good Viennese kitchen just before Christmas in those far-off days before the First World War.

Bedtime prayers, for the children, became a laborious and time-consuming business. Vicky, obsessed by her angel, devised long entreaties for his safe conduct through the skies. The twins, on the other hand, produced an inventory which would not have disgraced the mail order catalogue of a good department store. And each and every night their mother got them out of bed again, all three, because they had forgotten to say. ‘And God bless Cousin Poldi.’

Five days before Christmas, the thing happened which meant most of all to Vicky. The tree arrived. A huge tree, all but touching the ceiling of the enormous drawing room, and: ‘It’s the best tree we’ve ever had, the most beautiful,’ said Vicky, as she had said last year and the year before and was to go on saying all her life.

She wanted presents, she wanted presents very much, but this transformation of the still, dark tree - beautiful, but just any tree - into the glittering, beckoning candlelit vision that they saw when one by one (but always children first) they filed into the room on Christmas Eve… That to her, was the wonder of wonders, the magic that Christmas was all about.

And though no one could accuse the Christ Child of having favourites or anything like that, it did seem to Vicky that when He came down to earth He did the Fischers especially proud. There never did seem to be a tree as wonderful as theirs. The things that were on it, such unbelievably delicate things, could only have been made in Heaven: tiny shimmering angels, dolls as big as a thumb, golden-petalled flowers, sweets of course -oh, every kind of sweet. And candles - perhaps a thousand candles, thought Vicky. Candles which caused her father every year to say, ‘You’ll see if the house doesn’t catch fire, you’ll see!’, and which produced also a light whose softness and radiance had no equal in the world.

The twins grew less seraphic, less placid as the tension grew. ‘Will the angel come tonight?’ demanded Tilda at her prayers.

‘No,’ said Vicky. ‘You’ve got to go to sleep for two more nights.’
antisoppist: (Christmas)
The tailor lay ill for three days and nights; and then it was Christmas Eve, and very late at night. The moon climbed up over the roofs and chimneys, and looked down over the gateway into College Court. There were no lights in the windows, nor any sound in the houses; all the city of Gloucester was fast asleep under the snow. And still Simpkin wanted his mice, and he mewed as he stood beside the four-post bed. But it is in the old story that all the beasts can talk, in the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning (though there are very few folk that can hear them, or know what it is that they say). When the Cathedral clock struck twelve there was an answer - like an echo of the chimes - and Simpkin heard it, and came out of the tailor's door, and wandered about in the snow. From all the roofs and gables and old wooden houses in Gloucester came a thousand merry voices singing the old Christmas rhymes - all the old songs that I ever heard of and som that I don't know, like Whittington's bells. First and loudest the cocks cried out: "Dame, get up, and bake your pies!"
antisoppist: (Christmas)
At bedtime that night no one spoke of hanging up stockings. Grace was too young to know about hanging stockings on Christmas Eve and no one else expected a present. But they had never been so eager for Christmas Day because the tracks were clear now and the train would come tomorrow.

[...]

She slid out of bed without waking Mary and quickly pulled on her dress in the cold. She opened the box where she kept her own things. She took out the roll of knitted lace, already wrapped carefully in tissue paper. Then she found the prettiest card she had ever been given in Sunday school and she took the little embroidered picture frame and the cardboard hair receiver. With these in her hands she hurried tiptoe downstairs.

Ma looked up in surprise. The table was set and Ma was putting on each plate a little package wrapped in red-and-white striped paper.

"Merry Christmas, Ma!" Laura whispered. "Oh, what are they?"

"Christmas presents," Ma whispered. "Whatever have you got there?"
antisoppist: (Christmas)
Everyone sat down, except the Junior Side infants, already packed into choir stalls and sanctuary, who now stood ready to open the proceedings with Good King Wenceslaus.

This successfully delivered, the infants stampeded quietly up to the surrounding galleries to listen to the rest of the carols, and II.B. took their place. At one moment there was a marked difference of opinion concerning the order in which their carols were to be sung, but this was overcome by the less numerous supporters of We Three Kings of Orient Are singing more loudly and determinedly than the confused majority who favoured The Cherry-Tree Carol. II.A.'s performance was enlivened by no such excitements: and III.B. unexpectedly distinguished themselves by singing one unfamiliar carol, one which began Go in Adoration, go to Bethlehem.

III.A., Lower IV.B., Lower IV.A., Upper IV.B.—there was still ages before their own turn came, thought Esther, calming a little: until, with a tremor of alarm, she realized that no other form, so far, had done it the way Upper IV.A. were going to. No one else had had an orchestra, Miss Ussher had accompanied them on the organ: no one else had announced the titles of their carols: above all, no one else had had soloists.... How awful, thought Esther, if it were only Upper IV.A. who had such things: and she wondered anxiously if, when Tim realized this, she'd decide to alter everything, even though it was the last possible moment. Even if it made a bit of a muddle, it'd be better than being so different....
antisoppist: (Christmas)
This Christmas Day, the sixth of Sophie's life, started in the usual way. As soon as the grandmother clock in the hall struck seven, the twins ran, and Sophie plodded, into their parents' bedroom, and they all climbed onto the big bed to show what Father Christmas had brought them.

Then, after breakfast, came the ceremony of giving presents.

This was always done in the same way. Everybody sat down, in the living room, of course—at least the two grown-ups sat down with their cups of coffee, while Matthew and Mark danced around with excitement, and their sister stood stolidly beside the Christmas tree, beneath which all the presents were arranged, and waited for the others to sing "Happy Birthday, dear Sophie, Happy Birthday to you!"

Then the opening of the presents began, one at a time, youngest first, oldest last— Christmas present for Sophie, then one for Mark, then Matthew (ten minutes older), then Mummy, then Dad, and finally a birthday present for Sophie, before she began again on her next Christmas one.

This year, to Sophie's surprise and delight, word of her intention to be a lady farmer had somehow got around the entire family, and both her Christmas and her birthday presents reflected this.
antisoppist: (Christmas)
Rose made Phebe promise that she would bring her stocking into the 'Bower' as she called her pretty room, on Christmas morning, because that first delicious rummage loses half its charm if two little night-caps at least do not meet over the treasures, and two happy voices Oh and Ah together.

So when Rose opened her eyes that day they fell upon faithful Phebe, rolled up in a shawl, sitting on the rug before a blazing fire, with her untouched stocking laid beside her.

"Merry Christmas!" cried the little mistress, smiling gayly.

"Merry Christmas!" answered the little maid, so heartily that it did one good to hear her.
antisoppist: (Christmas)
Davy met them at Bright River with a big two-seated sleigh full of furry robes … and a bear hug for Anne. The two girls snuggled down in the back seat. The drive from the station to Green Gables had always been a very pleasant part of Anne’s weekends home. She always recalled her first drive home from Bright River with Matthew. That had been in spring and this was December, but everything along the road kept saying to her, “Do you remember?” The snow crisped under the runners; the music of the bells tinkled through the ranks of tall pointed firs, snow-laden. The White Way of Delight had little festoons of stars tangled in the trees. And on the last hill but one they saw the great gulf, white and mystical under the moon but not yet ice-bound.

[...]

They opened the parlor and distributed the gifts before breakfast because the twins, even Dora, couldn’t have eaten anything if they hadn’t. Katherine, who had not expected anything except, perhaps, a duty gift from Anne, found herself getting presents from every one. A gay, crocheted afghan from Mrs. Lynde … a sachet of orris root from Dora … a paper-knife from Davy … a basketful of tiny jars of jam and jelly from Marilla … even a little bronze chessy cat for a paper-weight from Gilbert.

And, tied under the tree, curled up on a bit of warm and woolly blanket, a dear little brown-eyed puppy, with alert, silken ears and an ingratiating tail. A card tied to his neck bore the legend, “From Anne, who dares, after all, to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
antisoppist: (Christmas)
Didn't I tell you," answered Mr Beaver, "that she'd made it always winter and never Christmas? Didn't I tell you? Well come and see!"

And then they were all at the top and did see. It was a sledge and it was reindeer with bells on their harness. But they were far bigger than the Witch's reindeer and they were not white but brown. And on the sledege sat a person whom everyone knew the moment they set eyes on him. He was a huge man in a bright red robe (bright as hollyberries) with a hood that had fur inside it and a great white beard that fell like a foamy waterfall over his chest. Everyone knew him because, though you see people of his sort only in Narnia, you see pictures of them and hear them talked about even in our world - the world on this side of the wardrobe door. But when you really see them in Narnia it's rather different. Some of the pictures of Father Christmas in our world make him look only funny and jolly. But now that the children actually stood looking at him they didn't find it quite like that. He was so big and so glad and so real, that they all became quite still. They felt glad but also solemn.
antisoppist: (Christmas)
It was when they went into Doctor Smith's room for the Christmas tree they had the big surprise of the day. Sylvia always had a Christmas tree for them; but this was not like any tree they had seen before. It was the usual fir tree; but every branch was covered with glittering frost, which made the tree as though it were magic.

"Was that what you were doing when you were both locked in yesterday?" Pauline asked the doctors.

They agreed it was, and seemed very pleased that everyone thought it so beautiful. Cook said it was as pretty as a picture, and Clara that it put her in mind of something off a Christmas card, and Nana that it was very nice indeed but she was glad nobody was expecting her to stick all that stuff on the branches. Mrs Simpson said that she and Mr Simpson were very lucky that it was so lovely a tree on the Christmas day that they were home as they didn't have a Christmas tree in Kuala Lumpur. Sylvia told the two doctors if that was how Christmas trees ought to look, they would always have to stay in the house because she knew she couldn't decorate them like that. The three children thought is so perfectly beautiful that they could not say anything at all, but just walked round and round it admiring.
antisoppist: (Christmas)
It was the last afternoon and the Christmas party was in full swing. Lemonade glasses were empty, paper hats askew, and the children's faces flushed with excitement. They sat at their disordered tables, which were their workaday desks, pushed up together in fours and camouflaged with Christmas tablecloths. Their eyes were fixed on the Christmas tree in the centre of the room, glittering and sparkling with frosted baubles and tinsel.

Miss Clare had insisted on dressing it on her own, and had spent all the previous evening in the shadowy schoolroom alone with the tree and her thoughts. The pink and blue parcels dangled temptingly and a cheer went up as the vicar advanced with the school cutting-out scissors.
antisoppist: (Christmas)
ARTHUR (singing): ♪ Get dressed you merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay! ♪

DOUGLAS: Yes, perhaps save the full rendition for tomorrow morning.

ARTHUR: Thank you, Douglas! Best present ever! Oh – and actually that’s great, because I got an extra present for everyone. The other thing you left off my list, Skip.

MARTIN: Hmm?

ARTHUR: This!

MARTIN: Mulled wine!
(Arthur pours out glasses of the mulled wine.)

MARTIN: How lovely!

DOUGLAS (murderously): You ... took my Petrus ’05 ... and you ... mulled it?

ARTHUR: Well, not properly. I don’t have the stuff. But, you know, I whacked in some fruit juice and some sugar and the rest of the orange Tic Tacs, and then I just blitzed it in the microwave! It’ll be close enough!

DOUGLAS (murderously): You ...

MARTIN (interrupting): Of course it will be close enough! And it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it, Douglas?

DOUGLAS (murderously): Absolutely. Thank you, Arthur.

ARTHUR: Oh, you’re welcome! Merry Christmas!
(They clink glasses, drink, and then all choke and cough.)

CAROLYN: ... That’s actually rather good!
antisoppist: (Christmas)
Billy Blunt blew a little note on the mouth organ, and they started on their carol.

By the end of the first verse the Blacksmith was bringing his hammer down in time to the music, and it sounded just like a big bell chiming; and then he began joining in, in a big humming sort of voice. And when they finished he shouted out, 'Come on in and give us some more!'

So Milly-Molly-Mandy and Billy Blunt and little-friend-Susan came in out of the dark.

It was lovely in the forge, so warm and full of strange shadows and burnt-leathery sort of smells. They had a warm-up by the fire, and then began another song. And the Blacksmith sang and hammered all to time; and it sounded - as Mr Jakes the Postman popped his head in to say - 'real nice and Christmassy!'.

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