next monday (that's 27 september) i'm doing a 5x15 event at union chapel in islington along with louise doughty, andrew parker, ruby wax and kate daudy, each person talking for 15 minutes, some using music and pictures, though i'll be flying by means of the human voice alone. the lucinda belle orchestra will be providing halftime entertainment, rather, i hope, like val doonican used to do in the middle of the two ronnies. doors open at 6:30. more info via links below.
i stumbled on this the other day and i can think of no good reason for sticking it here except that i read it when i was a child, that i read very few picture books as a child which gives it a particular resonance, because it's still rather wonderful and therefore seemed to demand some small celebration. you're supposed to say that this kind of thing brings back all kinds of memories. but this doesn't bring back any memories at all. it just resurfaces, still shining, still gloriously itself.
to my shame i'd never actually read it before, despite my love of middlemarch. i don't think any other writer manages a tone which achieves this effortless balance of mockery, empathy, humour, seriousness, insight and sheer delight in language. and i really don't think it's worth writing fiction unless you make some small attempt to write prose with this density and this grace:
stay tuned, 2010
super 16, 2010
misfits / mill on the floss / firefly / the mawddach estuary
photo of mawddach estuary by benefit of hindsight under creative commons on flickr
we don't it so much now, but once upon a time, i.e. a year or so ago, when alfie and i were sitting in cafes and he'd finished his apple juice and millionaire's shortbread we'd sometimes do what we called together pictures where we both had to draw simultaneously from either side of the notebook.
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