Welcome to the Billingsgate Book Club

The Sisters Brothers – a Coen-esque fraternalistic tale of Western proportions

2012-01-30T10:53:00.002+11:00

Partrick deWittsBooker Prize nominated genre-bending novel is a darkly funny, offbeat westernabout a reluctant assassin and his murderous brother. Set against the backdropof Oregon, 1851, Eli and Charlie Sisters are notorious gun toting killers onroute to California to carry out the orders of the Commodore and kill a mannamed Hermann Kermit Warm. On their way, the brothers have a series ofunsettling and violent experiences in the Darwinian landscape of Gold RushAmerica. Charlie makes money and kills anyone who stands in his way; Eli doubtshis vocation and falls in love. They bicker a lot. Then they get to California,and discover that Warm is an inventor who has come up with a magical formula,which could make all of them very rich. What happens next is utterly gripping,strange, sad and circular. The Sisters Brothers is the type of western the CoenBrothers might write – stark, unsettling and with a keen eye for the perversityof human motivation with a narrative that follows the travails of the humaneyet morally ambiguous protagonist in a hostile, lawless and unpredictableuniverse.

In a series of vignettes evocative of Alice in Wonderland, Eli and Charlieencounter one bizarre situation after another – a perpetually weeping man, ayoung girl intent on poisoning a dog, a a young boy looking for his father, adentist and whores and hoodlums along the way. Narrated in a gritty vernacularin a 19th-century Western dialect, The Sisters Brothers was gritty, deadpan andoften very comic. But did it meet its mark from cover to cover for the BBC?

Mark didn’t think so- the first five pages were enough to cause him toreach for grits elsewhere. Leanne loved the scenes of San Francisco, the richand yet debauched framework of Goldrush days. Andy loved the language butultimately the book left him dissatisfied- a few wrong notes transformed a concertoto a simple tune. Alena liked the presentation of the book- the layout of thebook, the font size and the deadpan picture of the author at the talesconclusion. Kevin thought the book a turn pager and was surprised to find he likeda book with a western theme. And Dennis, who chose the book ,noted theconsistent themes of flame and fire uncovering the subtlety of imagery usedthroughout on the second reading. We all agreed that this was a book of family,a fraternalistic tale about the struggles of life. And were “mostly satisfied”with the brotherly tale.

Scores:

Dennis- 7/1/2

Andy-8

Kevin-8/1/2

Leanne-8

Alena-8/1/2

The Psychopath Test By Jon Ronson

2011-11-30T10:50:00.001+11:00

“There are journalists and novelists and he is not the latter…..”

From the author of “The Men Who Stare At Goats” comes a journey into the world of the mind, madness and self possession. “The Pyschopath Test” begins with an investigation into “Being or Nothingness”, a handmade work which has been circulated worldwide through academic communities. Through sleuthing its origins, Ronson makes two important connections: with Bob Hare, the creator of the definitive questionnaire for diagnosing psychopaths and with Brian Daniels, a Scientologist who is interested in using him to help debunk psychiatry. From these experiences, Ronson becomes a psychopath spotter and his sleuthing across the globe results in encounters with a bunch of eccentrics; Petter Nordlund, the enigmatic author of the mysterious text, Hare, former LSD fuelled patients of Canadian Criminally Insane establishments, and "Tony", a “faking” psychopath housed in Broadmoor. Ronson’s pursuit of pyschopaths leads him to explore whether psychopaths dominate corporate hierarchies, through his encounter with Al Dunlap, the Gordon Gekko Sunbeam, who toasted many employees of that corporation and consider the worlds of espionage through the life of David Shayler, spy-cum-activist- transvestite-and quasi messiah, and clinical psychology, through the eyes of Paul Britton, the criminal profiler who wrongfully attributed the murder of a woman on an innocent man.

Through his tale Ronson’s objective is to demonstrate how imperfect and imprecise psychiatry and psychology has been at mapped the shifting sands of sanity (coined by one reviewer) –but his methodology, which is to take his own neurotic persona and use its self-examination as a yardstick against which to judge the psychoses and personality disorders of the seriously disturbed, didn’t really fit the purpose. The BBC agreed with this assessment. Dennis, believed that the book was written to produce a bestseller, not a book that explored the issues in depth and with meaning, “there are journalists and novelists, and he (Ronson) is not the latter..’’ We agreed that many interesting and salient points were raised, but felt that the book did not go anywhere. Andy disliked the book and felt that it was merely a bundle of threads, which failed miserably in its attempts to be woven into a rich tapestry. Kevin, who had chosen the book from seeing interviews with the author (namely QI), found the book accessible and easy to read, but at times alarming. Mark, thought it merely pop psychology and more suited to airport reading. Raj disputed the claims of corporate psychopathy, as emotional intelligence is the recognized ticket to corporate hierarchical success and found it ultimately unsatisfying. Leanne, based her assessment from other Ronson works, and found the author’s style shallow and self possessed. And Alena liked the pizza.

Scores for this month’s venture on Victoria Street:
Andy 3
Kevin 7.5
Mark 5
Dennis: 4.5
Raj: 4
Alena: 7
Average: 5 (neither here nor there).

Thanks to the delectable hosting K and R and woof from Rex.

The Sense of an Ending - by Julian Barnes

2011-11-08T10:57:00.000+11:00

The BBC collective usually produces robust discussionsregarding the words we read each month. But rarely does a book, whether we havedeveloped a relationship with the characters or not, leave such an indeliblemark. One such story which leaves a stain and truly gets under the skin is “TheSense of an Ending”, the 2011 Booker prize winner by Julian Barnes. Memory accountsfor who we are and what we become, particularly early memories of facts which becomesmothered and distorted by an individual’s “chinese whispers”. This concise butcompelling novella tracks the origin and distortion of one individuals memorythrough an apparently long, ordinary and uneventful life to a climax, where theunraveling of that memory to its factual core is fully realised withdevastating consequences, leaving this particular reader completely unnerved.

The story is split into two parts. Part one begins at school. Three friends,of whom the narrator, Tony Webster is one, are joined by a fourth, Adrian Finn,whose life seems exotic when contrasted withthe others - he comes from "a broken home" and is an intellectual:"If Alex had read Russell and Wittgenstein, Adrian had read Camus andNietzsche." Adrian's tastes are continental, and so is his spiritual allegiance:"I hate the way the English have of not being serious about being serious.I really hate it." In contrast to everyone else, he has a life that is"novel-worthy". The group bathes in the glare of this bright star. Adrian brings a sparkto their middle-class, suburban lives, at a time where the 60’s sexualrevolution had yet to erupt “behind the herbaceous borders and double glazing."

Tony's narrative chronicles events, but these prove to be unreliablememoirs. Tony leaves for university and experiences his first true romance–Veronica. Sexual frustration, class conflict and youthful insecurity ensue,especially when Veronica shifts her affections to Adrian. Tony's subsequentyears form a dreary check-list: dull administrative job, dull marriage, even adull divorce. Only four decades later does his story get a jolt, when aninheritance casts a new light on the past. Like an onion, his memories are peeled back toreality’s core.
Raj and Alena had previously loved Julian Barnes work and the lucidity ofhis latest work reinforced their opinions of the skill of this eminent Englishauthor. Andy, new to the Barnes stable of work, had taken time to immerse himself in the wordsof the book, and had become enveloped by the narrative. Dennis, despite being moved, could notsympathise with the main protagonists other than Margaret. In particular,vehemence was held for Veronica, whom others felt was the ultimate victim ofthe tale. The discussion generated by the book caused Kevin to reconsider hisfinal score and deepen his regard for the book. And everyone enjoyed gettingunder the skin of Barnes words to a sticky date dessert.

Despite its brevity, The Sense of an Ending, and the discussion generatedfrom beneath its cover, left the BBC thirsty for more of Barnes’ work and foronce, in agreement with Booker Prize judges.

Collective Score: 8 3/4

“When Broken Glass Floats” by Chanrithy Him

2011-10-08T13:52:00.001+11:00

“When Broken Glass Floats” by Chanrithy Him

The October longweekend saw Billingsgate journey to the nation’s capital Canberra for a sojournat the delightful Nathalie’s abode in Red Hill.

Spring in NSW it wouldappear brings a plethora of colourful blooms – and a whole LOT of rain, and wewere lucky that our trip to Floriade brought more of the former than the latteras we tiptoed through the muddy wasteland surrounding the tulip beds by night!

But prior to that chillyevening frolic we shared a delicious S.E Asian lunch prepared by Nathalie in themewith this month’s selection “çThe October longweekend saw Billingsgate journey to the nation’s capital Canberra for a sojournat the delightful Nathalie’s abode in Red Hill. Spring in NSW it wouldappear brings a plethora of colourful blooms – and a whole LOT of rain, and wewere lucky that our trip to Floriade brought more of the former than the latteras we tiptoed through the muddy wasteland surrounding the tulip beds by night!

But prior to that chillyevening frolic we shared a delicious S.E Asian lunch prepared by Nathalie in themewith this month’s selection “When Broken Glass Floats” by Chanrithy Him. Aconfronting yet uplifting work giving a window into life under the Khmer Rouge,the work provoked a great debate on the nature of the human spirit.

Nathalie has lived inCambodia (lucky enough to journey to Angkor Watt on a motor bike before itbecame a tourist wasteland!) and selected this book, in part because she lovedthe people, but also to reveal that even in recent history, terrible crueltycan still pervade the world. She first completed it in 1996 but believes it tohave a fresh relevance in this climate of worldwide civil unrest and harshimmigration policy.

Leanne commented thatthe child’s voice made the horrors more palatable to read, but all were shockedat the actual un- believability of the events. Few can imagine that people canactually behave like this towards other humans, and the question was why? Theanswer came – because they can. Human competitive spirit bubbles to the surfacewhen constraints are removed. Then the next question – are people intrinsicallybad and it is only society that keeps chaos in check? From schoolyard cruelty,to Nazi or Polpott atrocities, are we all only a hairsbreadth from viciousanimals? The jury was out on this – sadly.

People allow tyrantsto be possible. Pettiness and mean spirit is triggered by opportunity.Playground bullies turn to torturers when power is added to the mix. Figuresshow that 1 in 20 of us has a psychopathic tendencies.

Generally the book waswell received as a way to glimpse the everyday social history occurringunderneath the more widely reported umbrella of political events. But it becamerepetitive – the horrors just kept repeating. It became dull, but perhaps thatjust accurately reflected the reality of everyday life and why the events couldcontinue.

We were left with thethought that we need to work harder to ensure our leaders can actually lead. Inthese poll-driven political climes governments stand less for their beliefsthan for their popularity.

We all have a CHOICE.We choose how we live our lives and know the ramifications of our decisions.Let us all make better choices, and not justify the evil of others with oursilence.

Scores:
Nathalie 7.5
Kevin 6
Leanne 7
Andrew 6
Alena 7

Dennis chose to reportrather than read. He felt he was not up to delving into human atrocities thismonth.

Next book: The Senseof an Ending by Julian Barnes.

The Yacoubian Building - by Alaa-Al-Aswany

2011-09-13T16:19:00.003+10:00

Over Dukkah in Darlinghurst, the BBC debated the merits of the Yacoubian Building, a neighbourhood novel set in downtown Cairo. Published in Egypt in 2002 as Imarat Yaqubyan, the novel has been a bestseller in Arabic and is now in its 9th edition.

The Guardian (2007) gives us a review and background of the book. The Yacoubian Building unfolds in the former European quarter downtown at the time of the 1990 Gulf war. The Yacoubian building itself is a once-handsome art deco block on the boulevard known now as Talaat Harb, but here called by its old name of Suleiman Basha Street. Built in 1934 for an Armenian millionaire, its fall from grace is for this author just one aspect of Egypt's general dilapidation. The pashas, cotton millionaires and foreigners who occupied the apartments were all chased out at the coup d'état of 1952 and replaced by military officers and their country wives.

With the opening of the country to foreign capital in the 1970s, the downtown district became outmoded, and apartments in the building were let out as offices (including the clinic where Alaa al Aswany first practised as a dentist). Whether in fact, or merely in fiction, old store-rooms on the roof of the building are rented in the novel to poor immigrants from the villages, so that Aswany manages to have both a middle-class apartment block and a teeming Mahfouzian alley in the air.

The characters are a sort of compendium. There is Zaki Bey, an elderly roué with his pre-revolutionary manners and liking for dope and women; Hatim Rashid, a newspaper editor who pursues rough young men from the sticks; and Hagg Muhammad Azzam, a self-made millionaire with a shady past and political ambitions. On the roof, the shirtmaker Malak is working out a deep-laid plan to capture an apartment downstairs.

The heterosexual romantic interest is supplied by Taha, the bright and pious doorman's son, and his girlfriend Buhayna. When Taha proves too honest for the Police Academy, he drifts towards Muslim militancy and away from Buhayna, who is meanwhile finding that there are ways of making money out of men without ruining herself for the marriage market.

If the characters, good and bad, educated or not, have a quality in common, it is a sort of big-city sophistication. The plotting is neat, the episodes are funny and sad, and there are deaths and weddings aplenty. For all the Mahfouzian decor - prostitution, hashish, homosexuality - there is none of the oddity, even clownishness, of character or the intensity of savour and texture of Midaq Alley. Aswany's is an altogether more worldly Egypt, and one that is in a hurry to get somewhere or other.

For all its risqué material, and its parade of sodomy and scripture, The Yacoubian Building is restrained in its portrayal of the actual relations of power and wealth in Hosni Mubarak's Egypt.

Kevin thought the book was a page turner, akin to Tales of the City. The best book this year by far.Mark loved the postulations of power and greed and thought the pace was excellent.Leanne found the oppression of women a dominant theme, but found the characters strong, despite a somewhat colonised voice arising from the translation from arabic to english.And Andrew wondered if the book created controversy in the muslim world with its strong characterisation.

Overall the BBC loved the book almost as much as Mark's magnificent hospitality.

Scores:

Mark: 81/2

Kevin 8 ½

Leanne 7 ½

Overall Score: 8

... and a big thanks to Alena, for her scribing!

My Golden Trades by Ivan Klima

2011-08-09T11:31:00.003+10:00

What a book, what a meal, what company! My memory of the talk that flowed around the table is already a little dim ... but I do know it was a wonderful evening with a book that gave us so much to talk about from within its own covers and branching out to government spending on health and defence and how crazy the big banks make us all. If only I hadn’t had that second martini and stopped caring about taking the notes I could have parlayed some of what was said back again in this review!

Mary chose Klima because she sees him as a true artist and creator. His writing can be melancholic but it’s not depressing, there’s humour in the bleakness. She selected My Golden Trades in particular because of its short story format … something BBC’ers could all finish, in part if not completely, in the short time between our two July get togethers. Or so she thought!

Mark managed five pages before realising that this Eastern European gunk wasn’t his cup of tea. Kevin read two of the stories – The Smuggler and The Artist – and just couldn’t get drawn into the book. He didn’t feel affected by the writing, and even declared feeling annoyed by the Artist when he wouldn’t draw the picture of the girl for the mother.

But those two aside, the rest of us at table reveled in the writing. (Except Nathalie, who hadn’t had a chance to read the book but did manage to bring fresh Leonadis chocolates back from Belgium for us to feast on).

Raj regretted not being able to read the book in Czech because he was tantalized by the sparseness of Klima’s descriptions, the injection of stream of consciousness writing. He wanted to be able to savour the language of the book without the mistakes that came through in the translation.

For Dennis the book was exquisite. So much beauty and deep philosophical ponderings expressed so simply. He quoted some wonderful stuff from the book … and by that time I had moved from martinis to red wine and couldn’t possibly relate anything about Dennis’s quotes. Page 61 and raging demons ring a faint bell.

This reviewer loved My Golden Trades! And apart from recommending the book can also recommend this interview with Klima

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/aug/02/ivan-klima-interview

Scores for the book:

Mary 8.5
Leanne 8.5
Kevin 6
Mark 6
Raj 8
Dennis 8

I also recommend Mary’s sticky pork, anything that Nathalie brings back from

Belgium

, and getting together with wonderful company on a regular basis too.

The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson

2011-07-06T15:17:00.003+10:00

The Jewish Question

Over pies and polenta, the BBC posed the question of whether The Finkler Question was worth finishing. None of us had reached the destination of the last page; were we hooked enough to continue the journey past 5pm on Sunday the 2nd of July?

Exploring themes of what it means to be Jewish, and whether Jewish identity is robust enough to allow dissent, the book, which won the Booker Prize of 2010, is the story of Julian Treslove, a good looking but unspectacular middle aged Englishman who since moving on from the BBC, now makes a living as a non-descript celebrity lookalike. A mugging by a woman leads Treslove to question his whole sense of self and changes him inexorably forever.

Treslove is not Jewish but, in simple terms, the narrative details his love affair with and besotted inquiry into what Jewishness means – politically, socially, economically, romantically, intellectually, emotionally, culturally, sexually, musically etc. Bland and banal, but with a penchant for fantasy, Treslove becomes obsessed with his female mugger’s obscure and cryptic curse, “You Ju”. In his quest to discover the meaning of her curse he embraces Judaism and Jewishness.

His story parallels that of his longtime friend and enemy, Sam Finkler, a recently widowed “pop” philosopher who has become everything Treslove isn’t; popular and rich. He’s even made it onto Desert Island Discs. Finkler is Jewish and Treslove uses the word "Finkler" to mean "Jew" – hence the book’s title comes to mean "The Jewish Question". However, Finkler is essentially English, and along his journey becomes anti-zionist, embracing a group of celebrity Jews called ASHamed.

Then there's the Czechoslovakian Libor Sevcik, an elderly ex-Hollywood reporter and former tutor to Treslove and Finkler, who is in mourning for his beautiful, Ava Gardiner lookalike dead wife and grappling the question of why he has survived her. Despite Finkler and Sevcik identifying themselves as Jewish they are at loggerheads; he's pro-Israel.

Finally there is Tyler, the wife of Finkler; who dies. So committed to the Jewish faith, during a love tryst Treslove is shocked and dismayed to learn that she is a Gentile in disguise.

Reviews of the Jacobson’s novel are divisive in their opinion. The New Yorker, felt that the Finkler Question paled into comparison to Wodehouse and Waugh. In contrast, the Guardian urged the reader to buy as many copies as one could. Whereas the SMH has sought the middle ground. However, thoughts of the BBC were almost unanimous.

Andy advised that the reader should not be fooled into thinking that the book was that deep, but at times was captivated by its prose and language. Dennis felt that the book didn’t speak to the reader at all and Kevin concurred that the book didn’t take you anywhere in particular. Leanne felt that rather unearthing the deeper questions of humanity through satire, the book scratched the surface using racist caricatures. Raj and Scott were not at all encouraged to embark on the journey.

All, except Alena, were uninspired to learn if the Finkler Question was finally answered. Only she thought that the comic prose and satirical pokes in a story of exclusion and belonging was worth continuing the journey to the end. We’ll see if she reaches the destination at the next BBC.

Scores:

Andy 6

Kevin 5

Dennis 5

Leanne 5

Alena 7

Average 5.5

Thanks to Alena for writing the blog

Captains Courageous by Rudyard Kipling

2011-06-14T11:56:00.002+10:00

Around the turn of the 19th century Rudyard Kipling was most popular writer in the English speaking world and the first Englishman to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. An author, who appealed to readers from all social classes and cultures, he is known for classics such as Kim and the Jungle Books. But as the BBC gathered to enjoy some Darlington Delights, we all were unaware of his 1896 work, Captains Courageous.

Taken from the ballad, “Mary Ambree” which starts, “when captains courageous, whom death could not daunt”, Captains Courageous is a story of redemption and of a boy maturing into manhood. Like that of the earlier Jungle Books, the book is the tale of a boy who is propelled into new environment and is moulded and forever changed by the experience. Harvey Cheyne, the protagonist, is a 15 year old heir to fortune founded from New World Industrialism- steel, mining and railroads. Destined for a European Education, his mother has accompanied him in embarking on an ocean liner to cross the Atlantic. Spoiled on a 200 pound a month allowance, Harvey has acquired many bad habits from his over indulged way of life. When he falls overboard, he is rescued by a Portuguese fisherman Manuel and taken back to the We’re Here, a Massachusetts Schooner under the captainship of Disco Troop. An unwilling crew member, he is licked into shape by Troop and remains a member of the crew throughout the summer fishing season of the North Atlantic. When the schooner finally docks in Massachusetts, Harvey is reunited with his parents, with a maturity and education that steers his destiny to take control of his father’s maritime investments.

The book bridges two worlds- the end of old ways; the traditional fishermen and their dying skills and the birth of a new industrialised age. As the book ends, Dan, Harvey’s companion on the We’re Here, becomes a mate on board of one of Cheyne’s liners. The American twentieth century has arrived. Kipling voraciously researched the book , reading as much material he could find on New England fishing fleets, seeking out old sea farers to share “deep sea yarns” with him, studying numerous ports, instruments and sea charts. The book left such an indelible mark on him, that he even attended Massachusetts Memorial Services to men drowned or lost in the cod-fishing schooners fleets.

Andy had chosen the book for two reasons: The New Yorker had profiled Kipling which prompted his interest in some of Kipling’s less well known works and he hadn’t come across the book before; and secondly, Captains Courageous was available via new technology, so Andy was keen to give the iPhone electronic version a go.

We all agreed that the book opened us to a world of old, the moods of the seas, colour of water. Mark through the pages could smell and taste the salt and fish. It was a very masculine book, typical of the time and genre which embraces Kipling’s recurring theme of the boy becoming a man. The We’re Here displays female characteristics, and is disciplined by Disco and his crew to ensure she is kept steady, under control and is prevented from being overwhelmed by the lure of the true force of the sea. The women characters play minor largely stereotypic roles, with Mrs Cheyne held responsible for Harvey’s overindulged ways. There is no mention of Mr Cheyne’s neglect as being the true cause of Harvey’s wayward ways and it is to him, that the mature, redeemed Harvey turns to when he returns. We all agreed this book was a product of its time, and definitely not for faint hearted feminists..

Kevin had trawled his way through about half the book but found the vernacular too challenging to continue. Dennis felt empathy for the unheard women of the book, whose lives were harder than their men who were aboard the boat. Alena loved the descriptions of a world long gone. Allegories of the American future, gave glimpses of one of Kipling’s favoured author’s Mark Twain. Parallels between Melville’s Captain Ahab and Disco Troop were also uncovered. But alas, however, on the whole, most were dissatisfied and unconnected with his trawling tale.

Scores:

Andy:7

Leanne: abstained

Mark:8

Dennis: 5

Kevin: 4

Alena: 5 ½

Average score: 6- a dog, a sea-dog, but a dog nevertheless..

The next book is "The Finkler Question" by Howard Jacobson

The Wind up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami

2011-05-30T18:29:00.003+10:00

Caramelizing the wind up bird chronicle.

From the outset of chronicle Haruki Murakami’s “The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, you're initial impression is that this isn’t a Japanese book: his characters read Turgenev and Jack London, listen to Rossini and eat spaghetti. His protagonist is a soft, irresolute man, a homebody going through a period of inertia while his breadwinning wife is dynamic with a dynamic breadwinning wife; a picture which constrasts the frenetic, male-dominated ethos of modern Japan.

''The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle,'' which first published in 1994 deals with a wide spectrum of heavy subjects: the transitory nature of romantic love, the evil vacuity of contemporary politics and, most provocative of all, the legacy of Japan's violent aggression in World War II.

The story of ''The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle'' (the title refers to a weird, unseen bird, whose cry is a recurring harbinger of evil) is a hallucinatory vortex revolving around several loosely connected searches carried out in suburban Tokyo by the protagonist-narrator, Toru Okada, a lost man-boy in his early 30's who has no job, no ambition and a failing marriage. When his cat disappears, he consults a whimsical pair of psychics, sisters named Malta and Creta Kano, who visit him in his dreams as often as in reality. Then his wife leaves him, suddenly and with no explanation, and he spends his days hanging out with an adolescent girl named May Kasahara, a high-school dropout obsessed with death, who works for a wig factory. At one point, seeking solitude, Toru descends to the bottom of a dry well in the neighborhood, and while he's down there, he has a bizarre experience, which might or might not be another dream: he passes through the subterranean stone wall into a dark hotel room, where a woman seduces him. This experience leaves a blue-black mark on his cheek that gives him miraculous healing powers. Eventually, he's rescued by Creta Kano, who reveals to him that she has been defiled in some hideous, unnatural way by Toru's brother-in-law, a politician , and as the plot thickens it becomes harder to decifer what is real and what is fantasy..

Dennis chose the book and was memorized and recognised Kafkaesque chord. He loved it; but didn’t know why. He recognised it was not a book for everybody, but pearls of wordsmith followed one after the other;”bents cats tails, well an baseball bats”.

Mark thought that the writer at times tortured the reader- the quality of the writing was high and the sentence construction amazing.

Kevin and Alena loved the book, especially the World war two stories which could have been novellas themselves.

Leanne also loved the book; her brain was exercised with the grappling of thoughts, and ideas of reality and fantasy. The well provided a place of complete sensory deprivation- to let go of everything in the midst of wandering down streets, but getting stuck in a mazes.

Whereas Andy didn’t know what to make of it-the oddness drew him in; but at the same time kept him at a distance. There was a strong framework for ideas for the narrative and the philosophical dissection was wrapped up in spun coffee. The meaningless of the book did enable him to embrace the book at time but he unlike the others who embraced the mace; he felt he was stuck more in a cul de sac.

Scores for April’s BBC

Dennis (hatted chef, bon vivant and stylist of tre chic apartment) 81/2

Andy: 5

Kevin 8 ½

Leanne 8

Mark 8

Alena 8 ½

Average score 7.8

The next book is "The Finkler Question" by Howard Jacobson.

Parrot and Oliver in America by Peter Carey

2011-03-25T17:30:00.001+11:00

The BBC’s first degustation for 2011 consisted of Parrot and Oliver in America, delicious Beef Bourguignon, Gratin Dauphinois and Apple Tarte with custard, washed down with an array of delectable French and New World Reds.

Parrot and Olivier, Peter Carey’s 11th novel, begins in France in the early years of the 19th century and within its 480 pages spans three continents. The story is shared by two characters, a French aristocrat Olivier, and an older English servant with a Dickensian past, John Larrit, known as Parrot because of his skill of mimicry. Each tell their tale in alternate chapters; Parrots voice is strong, earthy, cynical but compassionate whereas the aristocratic Olivier is infuriatingly verbose, moody and aloof. Central to the novel is the evolving relationship between these two men with initial prejudice and loathing mellowing into affection and friendship, despite divisions of class.

Loosely following Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy of America, Olivier, like Tocqueville before him, is accompanied by Parrot (as well as his mistress and her mother) to the new world. Parrot has been sent by his one armed master, Monsieur, to spy on the young lawyer. How America tests Olivier’s assumptions about the world, order and servants is a compelling theme of the novel. For all its vitality and promise, America proves too raw and democratic for the privileged European. In contrast, Parrot finds his second true home on the Hudson River (the first was in New South Wales) with his Parisienne artist lover, Mathilde.

Other reviewers have labelled Carey's novel a tour de force; so what did the BBC think of P &O?

Kevin, who chose the book, liked it but thought it needed more flavour- However, the illustrations of a young America (pigs rooting around Broadway etc) justified a score of 6 ½

Andy didn’t finish the book and didn’t really care. He liked the spices, but didn’t like the main ingredients and the snobbery of Olivier could not allow a score greater than 6;

Dennis, finished the story and liked the book of characters and the Dickensian feel of Parrot’s early childhood, but thought the stream of consciousness required more narrative glue;6.

Alena, thought the narrative leapt around about which left the reader confused and the book lacking structure- but thought the composition in the hands of another author would have been much less palatable; 7

Leanne, thought Peter Carey is a gifted wordsmith and through his attempt to retell Tocqueville’s tale as a novel, provided an education about the times of early America and revolutionary France. Ultimately, the novel was not a page turner, and therefore a 7 was assigned.

Mark, didn’t like the first 10 pages, but loved the apple pie.

So despite, its comic and extravagant tale, Parrot and Olivier’s overall score was a mediocre 6 ½.

April’s instalment will consist of Murakami’s the Wind Up Bird Chronicle perfectly styled by Dennis, the purveyor of fluffy sheets.

Blog post by Alena - you angel you!

Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth

2011-02-13T14:12:00.005+11:00

To masturbate or not to masturbate.....

.....that was the question posed by members of the BBC arising from the December reading of Portnoy’s Complaint; the 1969 seminal work of Jewish guilt edged insecurity manifested by the psycholoanalyst couch monologue of Alexander Portnoy, the 33 year old NY Assistant Commissioner of Human Opportunity.

The main theme of the book was encapsulated in the first page of the novel, which contained a clinical definition, as if taken from a textbook on sexual dysfunction:

"Portnoy's Complaint: A disorder in which strongly felt ethical and altruistic impulses are perpetually warring with extreme sexual longings, often of a perverse nature....."

As we turned the pages we became familiar with a man who desperately wishes to rid himself of the yolk of his adolescence, his overbearing mother and insipid father, his inability to develop meaningful relationships and his overwhelming need for sexual gratification which once indulged, gives way to feelings of guilt , shame and the dread of retribution, particularly in the form of castration.

At times, the book was hilariously funny and thoroughly enjoyable; but not enough for anyone to turn the last page. After all, it was December, and the season festivities prevented time required to commit to a good read. Possibly with the passage of time, Portnoy’s complaint is no longer the controversial Jewish homage which evoked such outrage in the ‘60s. The explicit descriptions of masturbation using props including a sister’s bra and a piece of liver (later served as the evening meal) may not be as shocking in the naughties as 40 years previous. And thus, as the reading was incomplete, the BBC was unable to give Portnoy’s Complaint an objective score.

Happy Hanukkah.

The next gathering, book free, is at Kevin's on Wed 16 Feb.

The next book, selected by Kevin, is: Parrot And Olivier in America by Peter Carey, and we will enjoy the fine hosting of Dennis.

Thanks so much to Alena for the blog text!

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver

2010-11-24T13:03:00.005+11:00

The Lacuna over Lasagna.

For November, the BBC presented The Lacuna for visual digestion on the recommendation of Andy, filled with promise after reading Barbara Kingsolvers previous offering, The Poisonwood Bible. Even an endorsement by Oprah did not dissuade him. So over Tempranillo the group met to discuss The Lacuna and its gaps.

Set in Mexico, the Lacuna follows the fate of Harrison William Shepherd from 1929 to 1951. We first meet him when he is 12 years old, living at a hacienda on Isla Pixol with his self dramatising mother , Salome, who had ditched her American husband and followed her heart and dreams back to Mexico to live with an oilman who turned out to be not quite the romantic romeo she had hoped for. Both are petrified of the howlings from perceived carnivorous demons, which they later learn to be monkeys in the trees above: “You had better write this all in your notebook”, Salome laments to Shepherd, “so when nothing is left of us but bones, someone will know where we went”.

From these roots, Shepherd’s documentary dictations capture his experiences at the incendiary revolutionary household of Diego Rivera , Frida Kahlo and later Leon Trotsky. Upon Trotsy’s assassination, he leaves Mexico for the United States, spooked by the virulent press denouncing his employers and their murdered ward “like the howlers on Isla Pixol”. There, he becomes the reclusive author of swashbuckling Mexican historical novels, until McCarthyism drags him unwillingly into the spotlight...

The tapestry of The Lacuna created many word pictures for the BBC and at times we loved its threads. Denis and Andy’s duelling analogies and anecdotes rivalled the velocity of Wild Bill Hickok, but both agreed there was a lack of narrative, and that, for the Lacuna, the 22 year journey of vignettes was the destination of the book. Leanne loved Kingsolver’s craft, the recurrent motif of the howlers which drew you back, but warned us to mind the gaps! Kevin found the lack of narrative difficult to burrow and settle into the book. Mark suggested that lovers of The Lacuna would read for the texture but not the plot. And Alena, monobrowed, dreamt of what might have been.

Collectively, the BBC conceded that we liked but not loved The Lacuna and found it difficult to recommend.

Scores:

Andy: 7 ½ -as it was hard work and the plot was too diffuse

Leanne: 8 -who would take sips but not gulp when imbibing the novel

Denis: 7 ½- overall (9 for the immediacy, 6 ½ for the narrative or lack thereof)

Kevin: 6-found the mastery of the immediate unsettling and longed for narrative

Mark and Alena: abstained

Overall score 7 ¼

The BBC’s Happy Hanukkah will be held on the 15th of December where the subject of dissection (Kosher style) will by Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth. Muzzletoff!

Post by Alena, image by Kevin

Bowling Pin Fire, a collection of poetry by Andy Quan

2010-11-01T14:12:00.005+11:00

Everything is not illuminated...

Between delicious courses of Pork curry (with pineapple) and Mark’s Carmen Miranda birthday flan, the BBC dissected Bowling Pin Fire by Andy Quan. Nathalie, dissecting Belgian chocolates in Melbourne provided a definition of poetry in these extravagant times:

“A verbal composition designed to convey experiences, ideas, or emotions in a vivid and imaginative way, characterized by the use of language chosen for its sound and suggestive power and by the use of literary techniques such as meter, metaphor, and rhyme.”

Bowling Pin Fire (BPF) was devoid of meter and rhyme. Metaphor predominated with a pretext of recounting firsts: the first listening to a Joni Mitchell song, the first dance, the first loss of a friend leading to a view through a lens of youth experiences of sexuality and substances and ultimately reaching a midlife equilibrium filled with dynamics of family, travel and relationships.

The BBC agreed that BPF burned well - it was a well written book of “reflexions” and served a number of purposes:

A good accompaniment to an evening dose of Pernod (Mary)
A cure for insomnia (Nathalie)
A method to clear the throat but not launch into song (Andy)
A route of escape from perennially late tradesmen (Mark)
A reminder that the most memorable poetry we can recite in our busy lives seems to be come from scenes of good Richard Curtis films (Leanne)
Or mediocre films featuring Robin Williams (Alena)
Provided an accessible vessel for poetry, a good excuse to use an iPAD and gave an insight into a fellow ‘Bee' (Kevin).

But alas, BPF didn’t rhyme and maybe didn’t manage to say everything that the author intended, for the BBC anyway. Was there incongruence between the book’s cover and its contents? And between its three parts? Quite possibly. Regardless, it was good to explore the path of poetry, less travelled in a club for prose.

Scores were:

Kevin 7
Dennis 6
Andrew 5.5
Alena 6
Mark 6
Leannie 6

Average 6

Here are Denis’s thoughts (what’s “less than enthralling code for Dennis!):

Firstly I am more interested in prose than poetry, so confess the prospect of a book of poetry was less than enthralling. I did rather struggle with the early part of the book, and like others thought that his poetic style of line spaced continuous sentences might better be served writing beautiful fiction rather than actual poetry. Yes he can write the stuff, but I actually thought while I was reading that I wished we were delving into his prose works instead. He provides some lovely insights but I enjoyed the very last segment/chapter of the collection a great deal more than the first few.

I warmed up from the Aeroplane Long haul/Short Haul ones onward. Probably because the observations became more prosaic – in a good way- and more accessible to me. Some of the snapshots he provides in poems are exquisite but I wanted to flesh that out into a whole character or situation. That may just be my personal style prejudice, but I would be intrigued to know if he has the skill to expand the observations, or if these snapshots are as far as his skill permits him to go.

6 out of 10. Not bad, just of no great interest to me - nor indeed the material I wish to spend my time reading. Give me a novel next time please Mr Quan.

The next book will be The Lacuna, by Barbara Kingsolver, selected by Andy, who’s already sweating over what to cook.

"Brooklyn" by Colm Tóibín

2010-10-04T16:03:00.005+11:00

Brooklyn follows the life of Eilis Lacey is a young woman who is unable to find work in 1950s Ireland. She emigrates to New York and takes up a job in a department store and undertakes night classes in book-keeping. Her initial experiences in a boring job and living in a repressive boarding house, run by the strict Madge Kehoe, make her have grave doubts about her decision. Eilis meets and falls in love with a young Italian plumber called Tony at the local Friday night dance and this leads to her first sexual encounter and some social consequences as they are overheard by her landlady.

Tony proposes marriage and allows Eilis to meet his family. Her sister Rose dies suddenly in her sleep in Ireland and she returns to Ireland. However she marries Tony secretly before she leaves. In Ireland she falls back into the village society easily and her mother is desperate for her to settle back in Ireland and marry a former beau Jim. Eilis procrastinates about a return to her new life by extending her stay and finding a temporary job. Eventually, local busy body, Miss Kelly, tells Eilis she knows of her secret marriage. At this point Eilis books her return passage, telling her mother and Jim the whole truth.

A bit Mills & Boon at times I think, although the vomit bucket Atlantic crossing scene and erect penile references would certainly not been included by M&B! [MG]

Toibin weaves in the changes in American society during the 1950s, such as Bartocci's acceptance of "coloured" customers, Long Island's suburban boom, and the invention of television.

BBC members mostly enjoyed the book, with someone commenting on “Wanting to stay with characters after it was finished”. It is sparely written and the spaces leave the readers open to imagination - plain glass not stained glass. The characters were thought to be finely drawn enough for you to love them. However the female BBC members didn’t like it as much as the male members. The men found it an authentic female voice, however the women didn’t. What’s that all about I wonder. There was also some discussion about how naïve was Eilis really … all rather deftly handled by Toibin in terms of how different the actions of people in the 50s may have been from what they actually thought.

Spiced up by a bit of hot (oh all right then “warm”) lesbian almost-action.

Scores were:

Raj 8.5
Kevin 8.5
Dennis 8
Andrew 8
Alena 6
Mary 7 .. “average book”! … don’t sugar coat it Mary!
Mark 8.5

Average 8

The next book will be Bowling Pin Fire, a collection of poetry by Andy Quan, selected by Kevin, who knows the author.

'The Boat' by Nam Le

2010-08-30T21:24:00.010+10:00

Well, I didn’t read it, so here goes with general commentary. How divine though, to see you all and sample Raj’s very fine hospitality. A warm welcome to Alena, welcome aboard ... do excuse the sinking ship image!

The Boat, comprises seven short stories which take the reader to such places as Colombia, New York City, Iowa, Tehran, Hiroshima, and small-town Australia. In the opening story, Love and Honor and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice, he writes about a Vietnamese-born character called Nam Le who is attending a writing workshop in Iowa. In a conversation with Michael Williams he said about the practice of using a narrator close to "self" in a story.

Andrew observes that Le “gazes towards the shadow not the sunshine, and therein lies the difficulty – a strong voice but what he says is negative”. This is somewhat at odds with The Independent review which describes it as” A tongue-in-cheek collection of short stories that questions what is authentic and what is assumed, Le's book takes a playful swipe at the good intentions of liberal America”. Having not read the book I was a little nonplussed by this difference, but well, that’s what you get for being so lazy.

The group felt that the teasing out of issues the ethics of Hiroshima and the Nazis were worth exploring, demonstrated by Dennis’ comment (and what BBC blog post be compete without that!), that “the craft of it is breathtaking despite the chill”.

Scores were:

Raj 9
Kevin 7
Dennis 8
Leanne 8
Andrew 7
Alena 8
Mary 8

Average 8

So quite a high scoring book, thanks Raj!

Here is Mary's review, in our borderless world:

I LOVED this book. While some of the material was harrowing, I cannot remember having last read a book that so dripped with poetry and meaning and clarity. I gave up on the audio version, and bought a hard copy from Amazon.com for all of $2.50 second hand. Now I can hold the well ear-marked version in my hands an enjoy it again and again. The previous owner clearly enjoyed it as much as me.... it is well underscored and dog-earred.

The last story, The Boat was especially moving. I sponsored 240 Vietnamese refugees into New Zealand about 18 years ago. I got to know their stories from all sides, their hopes and dreams and griefs and joys. This story was so in tune with the grit that they had, the language, the dignity.

The language in each story was crafted with it's own flavour, like one would craft a Thai meal with lemon-grass, then a Chinese meal with Szechwan pepper .... god, it was amazing . A banquet!

I am scoring it 8.5

The next book is Brooklyn by Colm Toibin, and looking like 20 Sept at this stage.

Here’s a clip from Nam Le.

Mark Gordon from the BBC launches new website

2010-06-28T20:19:00.006+10:00

Ok so it's not book club news ... but I'm gonna post it anyway, see my new baby at:

>> http://www.corporateportraits.net.au

Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys

2010-06-22T15:10:00.005+10:00

The novel acts as a prequel to Charlotte Bronte's famous 1847 novel Jane Eyre. It is the story of the first Mrs. Rochester, Antoinette (Bertha) Mason, a white Creole heiress, from the time of her youth in the Caribbean to her unhappy marriage and relocation to England. Caught in an oppressive patriarchal society in which she belongs neither to the white Europeans nor the black Jamaicans, Rhys' novel re-imagines Brontë's devilish madwoman in the attic. As with many postcolonial works, the novel deals largely with the themes of racial inequality and the harshness of displacement and assimilation. (Wikipedia)

This book was not very well received by the BBC generally and by Dennis in particular!

Dennis describes it thus, “a tawdry charade, and if she wants to write a book she should find her own characters. Rhys takes one of the most amazing scenes in English literature and crucifies it” he’s less than impressed. “It proposes a Walt Disney piccaninny piece, with Rochester coming over as a self serving money grubbing wanker” … end quote!

Leanne, nutshells it well in describing it as “a post colonial narrative about identity and how a place defines us.” Kevin felt that in reading it, there was muslin curtain between him and the book, leaving him drugged and enervated”.

I enjoyed the heady sensuous, if somewhat pungent, atmosphere of the book. I enjoy surreal Latin/Carrabean writing like this as well as those, for example, by Gabriel García Márquez. Nevertheless, with Wide Sargasso Sea, you do wind up checking to see how many pages before the end.

Mark

Scores were:

Mark 8
Leanne 7
Natalie 5
Dennis 0
Kevin 7

Total 5.5

Wide Sargasso Sea has been done as an opera, a film, and a TV series.

The film looks a bit of a dreary costume fantasy, but check it out at:

Leanne: “she never even wanted to be a writer”

Dennis: “well she succeeded”

The next book is “The Gourmet” by Muriel Barbery, chosen by Leanne.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

2010-05-26T12:22:00.004+10:00

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (original title in Swedish: Män som hatar kvinnor – "Men Who Hate Women") is an award-winning crime novel by the late Swedish author and journalist Stieg Larsson, the first in his "Millennium Trilogy."

This is Andrew’s review of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo:

If narrative is the glue of a reading experience, then this is a sticky book. It did keep me turning the pages, I genuinely did have an eagerness to know what happened next. I also like the sense of place which I found strong. Coming from a northern climate myself, I found the setting and its evocation of coldness and seasonality convincing.

However, I did find, overall that this was a sexist book. The three main female characters all leap eagerly into bed with the author. And the girl with the dragon tattoo herself, although the strongest female character, felt more like a man in disguise. I found it interesting, for example, that the author characterises her as a woman suffering from mild autism. (Autism is a condition that some clinicians have gone on record as describing as ‘extreme maleness’ – ie, lack of empathy, extreme rationality rather than emotional approach to interactions).

And I did have a problem with the way the previous victims of the cellar torture room were swept under the narrative carpet with a hefty donation to charity as a thin explanation why.

I also found the missing murder victim’s return at the end of the book, her abandonment of her life in Australia and the family and business she had there, to be completely unconvincing.

Andrew

The scores were

Nat 8.5
Kevin 8.5
Dennis 7
Mark 8
Leanne 7
Andrew 6.5

Total 7.5

Natalie’s comments, from her own experience, about the highly controlling, and very sexist Swedish state shed further light on the overall context of the book. Going to Sweden anytime soon …. not me! Mark

The next book is “Wide Sargasso Sea” by Jean Rhys.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

2010-04-20T16:03:00.006+10:00

Never Let Me Go is set in a parallel contemporary history. The story is of a woman who, as she reflects on her private school years in the English countryside, reunites with her two friends to face the dark secrets buried in their communal past. With minimal contact with the outside world during their years at the boarding school, they discover they are clones, born and raised for the sole purpose of providing organs for transplants.

Never Let Me Go the movie will be directed by Mark Romanek and stars Academy Award nominees Keira Knightley and Carey Mulligan along with Golden Globe winner Sally Hawkins.

The book presents the idea that these people (ie human clones) have souls although the characters themselves behave with soulless passivity. The book raised related issues around abortion, personal organ donation etc as topics for discussion.

While the song title “Never Let Me Go” doesn’t seem to exist by Judy Bridgewater. However such a title does exist, and seems spot on, in terms of the song that Kathy holds dear. It has been performed by various artists, for an example of this haunting piece see:

Scores

Dennis 8.5
Raj 8.5
Leanne 6.5
Kevin 6
Andrew 2
Mary 7.5
Mark 0 (not just a zero, a big zero)

Total 6

Personally I think Kazuo Ishiguro has ice in his veins and an appalling view of humanity. Although the work is fiction and should be appreciated as such, I believe that a fiction involving people is better if the fundamental human behaviours and motivations are still believable. This is not the case here. These characters have had sufficient exposure to the outside world to understand and resist what is happening to them. This is not to mention the resistance that would occur in the outside world to such a situation, despite the notion that people generally would accept this for the sake of their own well being.

The next book is: Stieg Larsson's, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Mark Gordon

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

2010-03-11T17:50:00.013+11:00

Leo McKern as Thomas Cromwell

Wolf Hall (2009) is a Man Booker Prize-winning novel by English author Hilary Mantel. Set in the 1520s and 1530s, the novel is about the rapid rise to power of Thomas Cromwell in the Tudor court of King Henry VIII. Born to a lower-class family of no position or name, Cromwell first became the right-hand of Cardinal Wolsey, and then, after Wolsey's fall from grace, the chief minister to Henry VIII. In that role, he oversaw the break with Rome, the dissolution of the monasteries, and Henry's marriage to Anne Boleyn. He was widely hated in his lifetime, and historical and literary accounts in the subsequent centuries have not been kind to Cromwell; in Robert Bolt's A Man for All Seasons, for example, he is portrayed as the calculating, unprincipled opposite of Thomas More's honour and rectitude.

This book was a winner according to the BBCs exacting, but at the same time erratic, criteria. “I loved the the book” declared Leanne, only to be topped by Raj, who “loved it to bits” no less! Kate feels that the book humanises history, supported by Andrew who felt it was like sitting behind the protagonist’s eyes, dense and beautifully written.

Certainly the setting of the book, at this most important crossroads in human history, provides a punchy context, and Andrew feels that the “tide of modernity is rising throughout”.

True to form Dennis gave it gave it a slap, saying that the research and subject matter were better than the writing, from a literary point of view.

Scores were:

Mary 6
Kate 7.5
Leanne 9
Raj 8
Kevin 7.5
Dennis 7
Andrew 9

Total 8

Sadly the was Mary’s last BBC, for the moment at least. Look out Phoenix Arizona, or look out Mary perhaps! We look forward to a very big, stiff hairdo on her return. Hopefully Kate and Nats' moves won’t deprive us of their company too much!

Worth noting is the play and film “A Man for All Seasons”. The play was written by Robert Bolt, originally for BBC Radio, later performed on stage, and then made into a film.

See some of it on YouTube:

Actually it had a magnificent cast including:

Paul Scofield — Sir Thomas More
Wendy Hiller — Alice More
Leo McKern — Thomas Cromwell
Robert Shaw — Henry VIII
Orson Welles — Cardinal Wolsey
Susannah York — Margaret More
Nigel Davenport — The Duke of Norfolk
John Hurt — Richard Rich
Corin Redgrave — William Roper (the Younger)
Colin Blakely — Matthew
Cyril Luckham - Archbishop Thomas Cranmer
Jack Gwillim - Chief Justice
Vanessa Redgrave - Anne Boleyn

The next book is “Never Let Me Go” by Kazuo Ishiguro, BBC to be held at Dennis’s 14 April.

When you are Engulfed in Flames – David Sedaris

2010-01-14T11:38:00.004+11:00

... or, "the tits that ate my ice cream", as it turns out

As heavy gray clouds filled the sky book clubbers bravely adventured south to the nexus of Rosebery seeking new stimulation centred on the writings of David Sedaris. On this occasion it was his selection of stories entitled “When you are Engulfed in Flames”.

Rain began to fall, a smatter at first then building to a torrent as wine was poured and gossip unleashed. The absence of wind let it fall heavy and straight so the large terrace doors could stay open and we embraced both deluge and the misty view beyond.

The spicy smell of Tacos began to fill the room as the first of spectacular lightning crashed across the sky accompanied by surprisingly subtle thunder. Given that the book was set in Paris and Japan, Dennis’s culinary choice of Tacos was to say the least innovative! But it was a choice the quirky eye of Mr Sedaris would no doubt appreciate and they were nevertheless quite delicious.

Mr Sedaris writes chiefly from personal experience and his observations are sharp and ostensibly cutting. Unlike his earlier works however this collection seemed to portray a softer view of his subjects revealing an underlying respect for them, despite the often uncomfortably accurate snapshot of their foibles. Andrew summed it up best saying he is ‘a sketch artist not a painter’. He draws quick line drawings that capture the essence of a situation or character, often with incomplete or no particular context around them.

No one really expects him to concentrate on one thing long enough to produce a novel.

Those who had read his earlier works (chiefly Andrew) commented that he had mellowed with success and the acerbically funny hatchet he once wrote with was duller but still sharp enough to cut. Andrew recommended the Santa Land Diaries for a glimpse of early Sedaris at his best.

As ice creams of the chocolate variety began to be devoured, and delicious sweet crumbs fell into cleavages and sofas alike, it was generally acknowledged that his strength lay in being able to reveal a secret shame in each of us. The secret personal boils we prefer to keep hidden are lanced - opened up, explored and revealed in all their pustulent glory! Every reader associated with a different story particular to their own darker fears. Perhaps the most curious feature of Mr Sedaris’ work however, is that despite enjoying the read, we all found it difficult to remember many of the stories apart from the one that touched our own deep neurosis! That might either be genius… or not!

It was also noted that he tours a lot reading his work and those who had heard recordings commented that his particular vocals and rhythm leant much to the works. “Once you hear him read you’ll always hear his voice as you read his stories”.

But the storm had now abated and it was time for the literary adventurers to leap forth into the newly cleansed night, insecure in Mr Sedaris’ view that life is basically absurd – but it’s really interesting to note the details along the way!

Scores

Kevin 7
Natalie 7.5
Leanne 7
Dennis 7.5
Andrew 7
Kate 6

Average 7

2009-12-07T13:45:00.001+11:00

The Flounder by Gunter Grass

2009-11-30T13:33:00.007+11:00

Kate provided, not unlike other archetypical tri-titted goddesses throughout history, provided a level of sustenance only to be expected from such a fulsome source. A group of slack and undeserving BBC non readers of “The Flounder” gathered to discuss the Gunter Grass work, and little discussion of any worth about the book took place. We just won’t go there on puns around “flounder”. Still, the work by this Nobel prize winning (1999) ex Nazi SS man certainly demonstrates his ability, even in a translated work, to slap together a sentence … although Leanne did pull me up on this point … still reading a few passages does at least confirm this aspect of the book's worth to me.

We simply struggled, indeed floundered, with the context and story itself, which involves something of a yuk factor.

It is interesting to read the Houston Book Club review.

Scores were

Kate 7
Mary 6
Mark 7.5
Total 6.5

Kevin – disgraced
Leane – disgraced
Dennis – disgraced

oh all right then, Mark, semi disgraced for not reading much of it.

Here is a synopsis from Amazon:

Based loosely on Grimm's The Fisherman and his Wife, this triumphant blend of folk tale and contemporary story takes place over the course of nine months, during which the wife of the narrator becomes pregnant and is regaled with tales of the various cooks the fisherman has met throughout his life. The emerging themes of the novel expose the periods when men made history and women's contributions went largely, in some cases gravely, unrecognized. Inventive, imaginitive and irreverent, this humorous, fundamentally brilliant novel highlights the value of modern-day myth and timeless legend.

Mark

The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown

2009-10-19T13:30:00.005+11:00

The BBC members in attendance found The Lost Symbol both drearily meandering and too inoffensive to the freemasons by half. Mary emerged as the more forthright critic, asserting that she found it to flipping (oh go on Mary, say it “fucking”!) predictable and found herself grinding her teeth to finish it.

The ever kindly Leanne found the good trivial (geez, not even good enough to be “general”) knowledge interesting. Leanne found that the background research of the rituals involved resonated with the common ground of her own experience of growing up in a religious household.

The negativity towards the book became more intense as the reviews ground on, the tone however was substantially raised by Nat’s superb hospitality with a Belgian twist.

Scores were:

Natalie 6.5
Kevin 6
Leanne 7
Mary 4
Dennis 4

Only a couple managed to finish it … I was never going to read this book (Mark!)

The next book will be “The Flounder” by Gunter Grass

Ehrengard by Isak Dinesen (Karen von Blixen-Finecke)

2009-10-04T14:44:00.010+11:00

Ehrengard, chosen by Raj threw up (well not quite literally) a few thought provoking ideas for BBC members. Are we just incapable of plumbing the shallows of this decorative fantasy, or as Andrew points out, lacking in the European sensibilities and sensitivities for which the north of England is so widely admired. Comparisons to Oscar Wilde were also drawing a long (although kindly) bow me suspects.

Dennis wisely described Ehrengard as an exquisite confection, although possibly not quite up to the insanely delicious desert concocted and by Raj and given a rustic twist (ok, ok trashed) by Mary.

A doily of a story, which in its best moments did transport me to a fairy tale world where all is perfumed and beautiful and nobody has bodily functions.

Ehrengard was made into a movie (why not an opera pray tell!) in 1982, see:

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0083873/

Unfortunately this is not available on you tube, but here is a synopsis:

“Could the Danish fabulist Isak Dinesen be one of our Great Unfilmable Authors? This visually ravishing but dramatically turgid film of her posthumous novella suggests that she may well be. The mystery and eroticism of Dinesen's stories stem almost entirely from the subtle textures of her language. Cut one of her stories adrift from its text and you wind up with...well, Ehrengard. A film where almost nothing happens, and characters talk about the non-events at exhaustive length.

Granted, it all fails to happen in grand style. Its period setting - a tiny Mittel European court in the late 18th century - is realised to perfection, and Giuseppe Lanci's camerawork recreates the look and mood of paintings from that era. Jean-Pierre Cassel is both charming and sinister as an aging court painter who's obsessed with an androgynous young maiden. Audrey Matson - who spends one half of the film standing about demurely in period frocks, the other half charging about on horseback dressed as a man - is undeniably lovely, and her 'male' look may well have been copied for Tilda Swinton in Orlando. Yet her acting is not compelling enough to let us believe fully in either persona.

What we need in Ehrengard - and don't get - is a use of the camera thrilling enough to make up for the loss of Dinesen's words. It would take a greater film-maker than Emidio Greco to do that, and perhaps it's churlish to complain about a film that's so much closer to Dinesen than Sydney Pollack's overblown Out of Africa or Gabriel Axel's dreary Babette's Feast. Of that handful of directors who've been bold enough to tackle a Dinesen story, only Orson Welles (in his hour-long French TV film The Immortal Story) has come anywhere near the original magic. But then, Welles was something of a magician himself.” David Melville

Scores were:

Raj 7.5
Mary 5
Kevin 4
Lanne 7.5
Mark 6.5
Dennis 6
Andrew 4
Kate 6

Average 6

Then next book (must we!) is Dan Browns “The Lost Symbol”

Mark

The Book Theif By Markus Zusak

2009-08-24T09:23:00.005+10:00

The Book Thief addresses the core themes of death and dying, literature, guilt friendship, man versus society and the beauty and brutality of humanity. In trying to find beautiful moments in an ugly time in, the thirty year old Zusak wrote this book purely for himself, rather than with a particular audience in mind, see this you tube interview.

Dennis notes Kusak’s “light handed touch”, and the author does allude to that age group that the readership might include, as this spare writing style does give the book a wide age range readership wise. Leanne, although more critical of the book, points out the authors ability to sustain the “voice” of an eleven year old girl.

The book raised discussion about the raising of the value of books, and knowledge in general, when scarcity arises. This juxtaposes interestingly against today’s plethora of information, and the effect that this has.

Scores were:

Mark 8.5
Mary 9
Raj 8.5
Leanne 7
Dennis 7
Kevin 8
Kate 7.5

Average 8

A warm BBC welcome to Kate and we look forward to seeing more of you in the future.

The next book is Raj's choice, and is Isak Dinesen's (actually Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke) "Ehrengard". Isak Dinesen also wrote Out of Africa.

Amazon Info

The meeting will be at Raj's place on Wednesday 23^rdSept

John Steinbeck – Travels with Charley

2009-08-03T15:54:00.006+10:00

In search of America Excerpt from a 1962 review excerpt by Edward Weeks…

“His new book, Travels with Charley, is a one-man, one-dog account of the expedition in which he recaptures his familiarity with America. He set out with some misgiving, not sure his health would stand up to the 10,000-mile journey he envisioned; as he traveled, the years sloughed off him, and the eager, sensuous pages in which he writes about what he found and whom he encountered frame a picture of our human nature in the twentieth century which will not soon be surpassed.”

This book, an ‘important personal friend’ of Mary’s, was a hit, the lamb shanks and crème caramel were a hit, Mary’s paintings were a hit! Unfortunately, the note taker for the night was a bit hit and miss and so here follows what will probably be a very misrepresentative (and short)record of our musings on Steinbeck and his book.

The discussion, like Charley and Steinbeck , roamed freely through political and personal landscapes, lingering on questions of consumerism, privilege and conscience . On the night we came to no new realisations about the schism between haves and have nots, or maybe we did…I forget. Let’s just say that Mary still thought there was opportunity in the land of it because ‘when Americans blossom they really blossom’ and that Steinbeck did the self deprecating America ‘the macrocosm of the microcosm me’ line very well in this journey/book.

What he also did well was write. Kevin selected a few gems from the book – the waitress who drained a room of life, people moving to Flordia who must surely miss changing weather, the room of Southern experience that Northerners could never enter. Steinbeck would only let your attention wonder a little before engulfing you again in his journey. There was no quibbling over Steinbeck’s ability and Charley’s charm. However, Dennis did make the point that in moving from the pastoral North to the political South Steinbeck grew weary and his narrative strained. He started out fighting against a hurricane but succumbed to the inexorable march…of time. Ultimately Dennis felt this should have been a book of short stories. Texas was outside of the journey that Steinbeck and Charley wanted to be on.

The last word belongs to the Spanish, Steinbeck and now Kevin -a beautiful thought on how we can journey - vacilando.

Scores:

Mary 9
Leanne 8
Kevin 8
Dennis 7

Average 8

Kevin

The Rings of Saturn by W. G. Sebald

2009-05-31T14:10:00.005+10:00

The Rings of Saturn is an account of the author’s walking tour of East Anglia. In addition to describing the places he sees and people he encounters Sebald also discusses various episodes of history and literature, including the introduction of silkworm cultivation to Europe and the writings of Thomas Browne, which attach in some way to the larger text.

Ever one to turn an edgy phrase, Dennis referred to the book as “literary molasses”, emphasizing the bleakness of mankind. Readers (not all of the members, you slackers! oops, I’m on of them!) professed ambivalence to the work, noting that the sparks were there, although hard to find. The snippets of history were seen as interesting and educative, although coldly rendered. Leanne noted what she sees as the European sensibility of the book, perhaps somewhat arcane for those antipodeans among us.

Sebald’s aims seem somewhat obscure, and again Dennis came up with a pertinent line in noting that the book could alternatively be titled “The Rings of Uranus”.

Scores were:

Andrew 7
Dennis 2
Leanne 7
Kevin 7

Bringing the score down to 6.

The next book will be Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, chosen by Leanne.

Congratulations to Denis on his Matinee Idol performance with the Ashfield Musical Society on Saturday Night. And good luck to Mark (hey that's me) for my next try with Club Jazz Sydney at the Manhattan Lounge again this coming Wednesday.

Mark

The Handmaids Tale by Margaret Atwood

2009-04-28T13:19:00.008+10:00

The Handmaids Tale by Margaret Atwood was an inspired choice by Dennis, who also hosted the BBC with typical aplomb.

The Handmaid's Tale takes place in the Republic of Gilead, a country formed within the borders of what was originally the United States of America after nuclear, biological, and chemical pollution rendered a large portion of the population sterile and a staged terrorist attack killed the President and Congress. After the attack, a revolution occurred which deposed the United States government and abolished the US Constitution. New theocratic governments, including the Republic of Gilead, were formed under the rule of a military dictatorship.

The story is told from the point of view of a woman called Offred, who is kept by the ruling class as a concubine ("handmaid") for reproductive purposes shortly after the beginning of what is called in the epilogue the Gilead period. The story's narrative is disjointed and out of order and ends abruptly, which is revealed at the end to be caused by its supposedly having been narrated onto a series of unnumbered audio tapes.

BBC members were disturbed by many of the book’s scenes, which although presented in a matter of fact way, presented events such as organized rape, the shredding of imperfect babies. Beyond the scope of imagination, but at the same time with touches of irony, such as in the naming of social groups, including terms such as the “econowives”. An invocation of imagination both spare and highly provocative. Members also noted touches of John Wyndham, and interesting analogies to current events, despite the book having been written over 20 years ago. Members seemed to be able to relate themselves to particular groups within Gilead, such as Al as the fitting comfortably into the Econowife category.

Dennis 8.5
Al 8.5
Andrew 8.5
Kevin 8.5
Mark 9
Mary 8
Score: 8.5

A 1990 film adaptation was directed by Volker Schlöndorff, with the screenplay written by Harold Pinter. It starred Natasha Richardson (Offred), Faye Dunaway (Serena Joy), Robert Duvall (Fred), Aidan Quinn (Nick), and Elizabeth McGovern (Moira).[5] MGM released the film on DVD in 2001.

This can be viewed on YouTube at:

The Handmaid's Tale

There is also an operatic adaptation, written by Poul Ruders, which premièred in Copenhagen on March 6, 2000, and ran at the English National Opera in London in 2003. There is a full-cast dramatization, produced for BBC Radio 4 by the award-winning John Dryden in 2000. A straight stage adaptation by Brendon Burns was toured by the Haymarket Theatre, Basingstoke, UK in 2002

For the next book Andrew, who will also host on 20 May, has chosen “The Rings of Saturn” is by WG Sebald.

My Secret History - by Paul Theroux

2009-03-22T12:16:00.007+11:00

Kevin chose My Secret History by Paul Theroux, and hosted superbly as always on a balmy evening with kickass views of the city and Santa Maria.

We welcomed Mary to the group and she is now enjoying our Hans Fritzel style initiation under the floor of Kevin's Victoria Street terrace. See you in 25 years upon your release Mary. Well, how tasteless! .. welcome to the club Mary and see you next time.

My Secret History

Barbara Hoffert of the Library Journal put it thus:

From an early adolescence torn between a call to the priesthood and the call of the flesh, through late-adolescent sexual initiation and a young adult's escapades as a teacher in Africa, to a grown man's crisis in marriage, Theroux recounts the "secret history" of Andy Parent, a writer suspiciously resembling Theroux himself. That the purpose is to show a man "writing for his life," his fragmented self so healed by making "something new of his experience" that his work is seen metaphorically as "going home," is not apparent until the final pages, and though these pages dazzle they hardly seem novelistic. For the reader, Andy's impulse to write is buried in the unending description of his numerous liaisons--there is enough sexual endeavour here to bore the most prurient among us. Indeed, his comment, "My being inarticulate was probably the reason I had become a writer," serves to highlight Theroux's own failure to articulate the connections between Andy's early life and later self-discovery as a writer. A tantalizing novel whose occasional power suggests how much better it could have been.

It was interesting to hear the views of women members who tended to see the female characters as "issue" characters - while I, in my usual naiveté simply saw them simply as well described individuals, belonging to their times ... so there you go. Nevertheless the women voters ranked the work highly, while the overall score was dragged down by a disdainful (but well argued) assessment by Andrew. Mark

Kevin 8.5

Andrew 4.5

Mary 8

Mark 8

Leanne 9

Score: 7.5

The next book is Margaret Atwood's 'The Handmaids Tale' chosen by Dennis who will host on Wednesday April 15th.

Eat, Pray, Love ............

2009-02-21T20:42:00.007+11:00

The BBC was recently superbly hosted by Helen, who made the choice of "Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia", a memoir by American author and memoirist Elizabeth Gilbert.

At 32, Gilbert was educated, had a home and a husband, and successful career as a writer. However, she was not happy; she was depressed with her marriage, often spending the night crying on her bathroom floor. She divorced her husband and entered into a relationship with another man, but this relationship did not work out either. She decided that she needed a change. She spent the next year travelling the world. She spent four months in Italy, eating and enjoying life (Eat). She spent four months in India, trying to find her spirituality (Pray). She ended the year in Bali, Indonesia, looking for "balance" of the two, and love (Love).

The escapades of a silly and spoiled American? surprisingly not it seems, from the readers, who felt she had great heart, and an intimate and humanistic tone to which they could easily relate.

Five members present had read the book and returned the following scores:

Natalie 8.5
Kevin 7
Leanne 8
Henri 8.5
Helen 8
Score 8

Mark & Andrew were also present but hadn’t read the book (oh the shame of it all), but nevertheless managed to inject gratuitous and irrelevant commentary into the discourse, thereby maintaining BBC’s existing standards of intellectual aridity and tedious self referential allusion.

The next choice is “Secret History” by Paul Theroux chosen by Kevin and also to be hosted at Casa del Kevin in Potts Point on March 11.

We look forward to welcoming Mary to the BBC, and hope that she is able to endure the shock of our secret initiation ceremony (just in case you are reading this Mary).

Chocolate for Xmas 2008

2009-01-01T15:46:00.003+11:00

Thanks to Al for his Mexican Fiesta Christmas. Good food, good stories, good photos and good books. Dennis has read his from cover to cover 8 times already! For those that weren't there Nathalie's story was chosen as the best and Dennis picked all five authors. Marching Powder got a score of 4.8 and was generally thought to be readable but with no great depth, the main character wasn't likeable (and wasn't 100% believed) and nobody expected Rusty to write another! ... for the stories and photos see >> click here

Al 6
Kev 6
Dennis 3
Henri 4
Mark 6
Leanne 4
Nat Abstain!

Helen, has graciously offered to host the next BBC and her book choice is Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

Patrick Gale's “Notes from an Exhibition”

2008-10-30T10:32:00.007+11:00

The BBC received Patrick Gale's “Notes from an Exhibition” with an uncharacteristic chorus of acclaim, and scores were as follows:

Leanne 8.5
kevin 8.5
Mark 9
Nathalie 8.5
Helen 9
Henri 9.5

Total: 9

I checked out some reviews which mainly tended to be dreary little cheezy and groveling pieces (excuse me while I throw up), however this one from Victoria Leigh of Waterstones in Hexham summed it up nicely:

“Okay, so this book may not may not be the most uplifting or happy books but you can't help but be gripped from the beginning through fantastic settings and an air of mystery. I feel that the book deals sensitively with issues of suicide and depression, and how the enigmatic death of Rachel Kelly is dealt with by her grieving family. Beautifully written and undeniably tragic, the reader will conclude that her life parallels her art as her family are left to piece together her abstract life.”

If it’s of any interest our London branch has produced a writing style guide that is easy to read (an hour or so), well worth a look for those interested in English expression. Quite handy for corporate communications too I would think. Click on “open guide” at this address:

>>> BBC London Branch Style Guide

The next book, selected by Al, is “Marching Powder” by Rusty Young, and we look forward to that read and Al’s inaugural hosting!

Mark Gordon

Mark Gordon Launches Corporate Photography Sydney

2008-07-25T15:47:00.002+10:00

Mark Gordon from the BBC has recently lanuched a new site to promote his corporate and product photography offerings, see Corporate Photography Sydney

"Unimagined" by Imran Ahmad

2008-07-02T10:36:00.004+10:00

How strange that such a trite and puerile book that converts, in some cases, relatively minor incidences into life changing traumas, should result in such gushing reviews across a range of respectable British reviewers from the Guardian, Cambridge University and indeed the BBC. Oh I had to eat eggs, instead of fish and chips, boo hoo! This is notwithstanding, of course, the reality of the general scourge of racism describled.

There are billions of people in the world experiencing "unimaginable" hardships at any one time, making this hypocritical twerp's simplistically written tome all the more galling.

There were some minor points of interest in gaining a better understanding of Islam and Muslim values (which is what initially seemed attractive about this book), however Ahmand's shallow objectification of women and grasping middle class pretensions tend to neutralise this positive aspect of the book.

Lets hope that in spite of itself Unimagined does succeed in making a contribution to good relations across religious/cultural boundaries.

Scores were as follows:

Leanne 6
kevin 5
Mark 5
Nathalie 5
Helen 5
Dennis 4
Andrew 4
Al 6
Henri 6

Total: 5

For a more positive review see:

http://books.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,,2066905,00.html

The next book will be: 'Fear and Trembling' by Amelie Nothomb

"The Eyre Affair" by Jasper Forde

2008-06-03T08:58:00.003+10:00

A huge thanks to Raj for his unparalleled warm and hospitality for this BBC!

In "he Eyre Affair" the parallel world, England and Imperial Russia have fought the Crimean War for more than a century. England itself is a police state run by the Goliath Corporation (a powerful weapon-producing company with questionable morals). Wales is a separate, socialist nation. Jane Eyre ends when Jane leaves for India with her cousin St. John rivers to become a missionary. Literary questions (especially the question of Shakespearean authorship) are debated so hotly that they inspire gang wars and murder.

Views were mixed, but generally members enjoyed "The Eyre Affair". An uncommonly high score from Ewan ... is new fatherhood softening up Ewan!

Scores were:

Kevin 7.5
Leanne 8
Helen (Dynes for Helen) 9
Mark 7
Ewan 7.5
Henri 5
Dennis 6
Raj 8
Average 6.8

The next book will be Unimagined by Imran Ahmad. Wishing all BBC members a great month until then. Mark

The Commonwealth of Thieves - By Tom Keneally

2008-04-23T17:32:00.004+10:00

The Commonwealth of Thieves was chosen by Kevin, who also hosted the evening admirably as always ... thanks Kevin!

This book of faction was generally appreciated by BBC members, with all finding something of interest in it, particularly getting a better feel for aboriginal issues. However Dennis did note that it provides "a good potted womens weekly history for the masses" ... could come across as a little elitist Dennis! but we know what you mean. Despite its engendering of a strong sense of the times, particluarly on the ships, it does lack a bit of guts generally, and fails to effectively impart a feeling for the environment here at Warrane.

Scores were:

Kevin 7.5
Leanne 6
Helen (Dynes for Helen) 9
Mark 6.5
Ewan 4.5
Henri 8
Andrew 5.5
Al 6.5
Dennis 6
Raj 5
Average 6.45

I would also like to welcome Al to the BBC, terrifc to meet you and look forward to seeing more of you in the future Al.

The next book will be The Eyre Affair, by, Jasper Fforde - details to follow.

Mark

Watchmen - By Alan Moore - Chosen By Andrew

2008-03-31T21:04:00.004+11:00

Thanks for the wonderful hosting Andrew ... enough lasagne for a dozen was demolished by half as many!

Watchmen is set in 1985, in an alternative history United States where costumed adventurers are real and the country is edging closer to a nuclear war with the Soviet Union (the Doomsday Clock is at five minutes to midnight). It tells the story of a group of past and present superheroes and the events surrounding the mysterious murder of one of their own. Watchmen depicts superheroes as real people who must confront ethical and personal issues, who struggle with neuroses and failings, and who - with one notable exception - lack anything recognizable as super powers. Watchmen's deconstruction of the conventional superhero archetype, combined with its innovative adaptation of cinematic techniques and heavy use of symbolism, multi-layered dialogue, and metafiction, has influenced both comics and film.

Watchmen was generally appreciated for its strengths by BBC members and the scores were as follows:

Andrew 7.5
Kevin 6
Mark -
Leanne 8
Dennis 7
Raj 6.5
Average 7

BCC members like might to try this online quiz:

http://www.angelfire.com/comics/mooreportal/wpi.html

The next book is " The Commonwealth of Thieves" by Tom Keneally and the BBC will meet on 23 April.

"The Road" by Cormac Mcarthy - chosen by Dennis

2008-02-28T20:46:00.011+11:00

The Road, despite, or perhaps because of, its dark theme was very well received by the BBC members. Scores were as follows:

Andrew 7.5
Helen 9
Kevin 8.5
Mark 10
Kevin 7
Leanne 8
Dennis 9
Average 8.5

A film based on the novel was announced to be in development on April 2, 2007. John Hillcoat is set to direct, and the adaptation will be written by Joe Penhall. The lead role of the father will be played by Viggo Mortensen. Guy Pearce may also have a role. Also joining the cast is Charlize Theron.

Viggo Mortensen is perhaps best known for his roles as Aragorn in Peter Jackson's The Lord of the Rings film trilogy, and as Nikolai Luzhin in David Cronenberg's Eastern Promises.

It will be very difficult for the Americans to do this story justice (despite it being an American story), the Canadians would have a much better grasp of it. Still it’s great to see someone of the capability of Charlize Theron in it – pity it can only be a tiny role.

One question was answered for me by Wikipedia (though this may have been known to other members – I thought it was a made up word). ”The father struggles in times of extreme danger with the fear that he will have to euthanize his son to prevent him from enduring a more terrible fate – horrific examples of which include chained catamites kept captive by a marauding band.”

Apparently a catamite is the younger partner in a pederastic relationship between two males and was a popular arrangement in the ancient world, especially ancient Rome.

Here is some more edited text of interest about The Road, and its stern warning to humankind, also thanks to Wikipedia

British environmental campaigner George Monbiot was so impressed by The Road that he declared McCarthy to be one of the "50 people who could save the planet" in an article published in January 2008. Monbiot wrote, "It could be the most important environmental book ever. It is a thought experiment that imagines a world without a biosphere, and shows that everything we value depends on the ecosystem." This nomination echoes the review Monbiot had written some months earlier for the Guardian in which he wrote, "A few weeks ago I read what I believe is the most important environmental book ever written. It is not Silent Spring, Small Is Beautiful or even Walden. It contains no graphs, no tables, no facts, figures, warnings, predictions or even arguments. Nor does it carry a single dreary sentence, which, sadly, distinguishes it from most environmental literature. It is a novel, first published a year ago, and it will change the way you see the world."

The next book is a return to the Graphic Novel genre "Watchman" by Alan Moore. To be held at at Andrew's place in Darlington on Wednesday 26th March at 7.30pm.

The Billingsgate Book Club Blog is managed by Mark Gordon of Hunt Online Marketing Sydney

Billingsgate Beach - A Mystery in Ten Chapters

2007-12-17T18:58:00.000+11:00

A big thanks from all of us at the BCC to Dennis for his fine work in creating this scenario, to showcase the literary talents of our membership ... move over the Boomsbury Group. Thanks also to Kevin as always the host with the most. Look forward to a meet at Ewan's for Stones from the River. Mark

Chapter 1 MAURICE

He sat back, put down the rolled note, pressed his nose and sniffed loudly 2 or 3 times.

How differently things would have turned out, pondered Maurice, if it hadn’t been for Miss Luck.

For the lady luck to even be referred to so quaintly as “Miss Luck” was an indication of the status with which she was conferred by the local population. Miss Luck, a main chancer of the highest order, and as crooked as a three dollar bill. Miss Edith Campbell Luck, a woman of murky origins, had arrived in sleepy Billingsgate Beach some twenty years before.

The town’s most open secret was the enduring relationship between Miss Luck and John, the now deceased husband of Helena. This relationship was grudgingly accepted by the townsfolk, forcing Helena to run the gauntlet and publicly brazen it out, her high status in the community notwithstanding. John’s family in its turn, had a long history leaving thorny wills, impacting on family members for generations to come, and this one was to be no exception. Although the contents of the will had not yet been made public, Miss Luck was considered most likely to be the primary beneficiary, leaving Helena almost destitute. It would be a long way down for Helena.

And what about Anthony, thought Maurice; Anthony, who bears the most striking resemblance to Miss Luck. Both strong jawed and handsome. Anthony, who had been raised by Kelvin as one of his own, lived the carefree life of Huckleberry Finn. Maurice never understood why Kelvin was so keen to watch over the boy. We need to talk about Kelvin thought Maurice.

So far Evan had kept his own counsel, but Maurice could tell that there was information likely to be forthcoming from this quarter, knowing Evan as he did. If only, on that fateful night, he too could have overheard the conversation between Devlin and Miss Luck, that had so affected Evan’s normally inscrutable countenance. Judging by their expressions, Maurice thought, it wasn’t just the pomegranate soup Miss Luck and Devlin were discussing. Since then, Evan had never seemed to treat Miss Luck as much of a lady at all.
2/.

But Maurice suspected Miss Luck’s true origins, were not such grand days, after all. Especially considering Miss Luck’s previous connection with Devlin? Raising an eyebrow at the thought of Devlin’s sudden appearance in Billingsgate Beach at this juncture, Maurice wondered where it was all going to lead, and how much he vehemently he hoped for a final day of atonement for Miss Luck. Would Devlin remain loyal to Miss Luck when it was all over, not very likely thought Maurice, given the obvious effect Lelani’s charms were having on him, let alone the potential for blackmail to which his actions laid him open.

Maybe the moon, expected to be a full one for the Billingsgate Beach carols by candlelight, would finally render the true chain of events clearly to the good folk of Billingsgate Beach. Like a thunderbolt, the end of the vendetta of Miss Luck could return Billingsgate Beach to the bay of contented men it once was …

His head now spinning pleasurably with the effects of Herbert’s last delivery, Maurice realized it was time he saw Ramos. Finishing up his task, he carefully inserted the detonator switch into the tightly packed cluster of explosives.
“I so hate Xmas he mumbled”…..

Chapter 2 RAMOS

( to be read with a sort of bad South American accento, because Ramos is really from Blackpool (with a black father... hence the dark South American looks)... and now believes his own fiction so much he even thinks in "South American"... but sometimes forgets...

So... it's the bloody week before that blooody Kaaarollls thing again .... bloody idiot, that Helena...asks me every year to design the set for their concert knowing that they can't realise it properly.... don't they understand my post-modern/pre-climate-change-cataclysmic artistic soul???? Obviously not!

I hate Christmas anyway, but at least I set my 'eart on trying to create some wonderful statement... last year's fifty foot high "Angelo da Morta" was meant to remind us all that the end is coming even in the midst of this ridiculous recreation of some spurious event that occurred 2000 years ago in the middle east... bloody middle easterners-- even then they were trying to grab all the attention....

Now if it had happened in South America.. it would have been MUCH more stylish... the Madonna, she would have Scccreammed when the angelo told her about being pregnant... to the DEO no less...and the birth ... it would have been on the top of Sugarloaf mountain -- where the statue of Christos stands now--- Then everyone would have really seen it and known WHO had Arrrivved.... no style those Arabs.....

So I try to impart my sense of drama, of style to their paltry Christmas show and what do they do... that stupido Kelvin...macho idiota!!... says we can't really build that angel that big!
"How about we just get 10 small ones and put them on the roof of the stage, that would get the idea over , eh Ram??" ( Oh how I hate it that he calls me Ram... I weeeel keeeel him one day, you wait and see....)... and that bloody Helena, she agrees and says " Oh yes ... that would be lovely"... woman of no imagination, just like that Janette Howard ( good riddance to her)... no style , so vision....and I know she just agrees with everything that Kelvin says because she wants his big fat C... more than anything else!!!

2/.

I know they just want my NAME on their programme as designer... Hah! I know what I am worth to this town... people come here to my gallery to pay homage to me genius... and they, these town people.... do they know anything???

That Natasha... I have asked her, I have begged her to let me use her as model for the Madonna this year... with those tits... she is the mother of them all.... but she says.." I do not do such things". Hah, I say and Hah again .. she did those things when I was younger and more virile and when she knew that the modeling session would end sweet and crisp... like her pastries... hah...

And that Lelani ...oooh her sweet supple thighs.... they should be the thighs of the Madonna... ah, but she will let me mould them from touch, sweet Lelani... I know I will get my way there...

As for that Anthony... pretending that he is too shy to let me use his ass.... artistically and otherwise... I know that Maurice has been there many times before when they were having "tuition"…and he has set the boy against me....hah, say again ... I will show them all... deny my artistic rights... I will expose them all in my design this year... that Evan's cheating with the watered down beer... I will make the innkeeper looook like a crooook too...and Herbert as Joseph.... I will design him a costume to show his true 'eart..... the killer!!!...what he forced me to do I shall never forgive. Now I am forced to live without love.
As for that Devlin.... the devil in disguise.... just wait ... the whole town will know, the whole world will see it all in the genius of Ramos.... no one will stop me this time...
I will show them all the way to make a proper angel!
But,, who is that?? What do you want?..... ( a shrill scream) ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Chapter 3 EVAN

Devlin stood silently, unseen in the corner of the largest room in the Hotel he owned and quietly watched as the fool who ran it inhaled another line off the cold marble surface of the bar. Evans increasing dependence on his own poor quality shit did not disturb Devlin. It served his purpose. Evans once sharp mind had blurred, and was unlikely to discover the true treasure hidden within the Billingsgate Arms hotel. His twisted view of the world could only assist in confounding the plans of those Devlin sought to oppose.

He watched as Evan slumped back, smiling slackly. Devlin waited for moment, eyes sharp and flinty, then slipped quietly out, leaving Evan to his rambling thoughts. It was time to find out if luck was a lady after all...

Finally the workmen have got the stage built. They took their time. Still, they've included my little secret. This weekend is going to be a surprise for quite a few people.

This is the start of the busy period. Hip-hip-hooray. Tourists and their dollars. Fresh blood always makes me happy. Happy and horny.

After this weekend, I can park Lelani until winter. She's hot enough, but you can have too much chili in your diet. And if she comes over looking for another line, I'm in a mind to ask her to pay. That would get up her nose as much as Helena did that time. I still laugh when I think of Helena twisting that poor misbehaving Rozella's neck, all because Polly wanted to do what Polly wanted to do, and not Helena's bidding. Lelani was in a rage and would have lynched Helena if she could. Ha, what's the point of having a parrot show, if the parrot don't wanna be a star? And there ain't no retirement pensions for old parrots.

Lelani lives in her own world with Kelvin picking up the tab. No wonder he's so broke. He's crazy. She'll move on like a gypsy once she realizes his pockets are empty. I might share a line with her as a mutual pleasure, but she don't get no cash outta me. I bet she moves on to Devlin next. Just her type, too. A right royal cunt loaded with other people's money.

2/.

Poor Kel. He was in here last night, looking for a point. He knows the rules: no cash, no sale. What a fright. Scary, when he gets that low and desperate. He'd been out on the water with Ramos, yet again. I can't help him if Ramos don't pay. So what if Kelvin thinks Ramos is his best mate and will leave him his priceless collection. Fat lot of good that is if he's gotta eat now.

And that poof Ramos is only interested in getting into Kel's pants. Any fool can see that. I'll never forget the time Kel got so drunk he agreed to pose for Ramos. Ramos was wet with anticipation. And when Kel backed out, Ramos was a walking time bomb. Anything can trigger the prick. How he went on and on over my wine prices, then all of a sudden, pop, he starts smashing every bottle in the place. The poof gets away with it all by waving his hundred dollar bills. I'm not one to want him talking to the police. He's been a good customer and I've never had any trouble with him buying his supplies, and he does go through a lot.

Ramos is our resident famous artist? Madman more like it. He's another one for keeping Billingsgate in the shade. No development here. That's OK for him, his livelihood don't depend on a good summer season. He doesn't have that cold blooded Devlin looking to knife me if I'm a day late with the rent.

Now that Devlin's a dangerous bastard. You never see his fingerprints on anything, the perfect gentleman in fact, but I know him from before. He wants the quiet life now as there are far too many people in Sydney who would be happy to see him have the short life. He's trouble. Came in here expecting Kings Cross prices for Charlie and gets all iffy about it. He's even waved a gun in my face. He'll get his, one day, no doubt.

Arrh, look, here comes Billingsgate's most unlikely couple. Maurice and his unfaithful dog Antony. I don't know who's blackmailing who, with these two. No doubt the usual order, a Campari and Soda, a VB and half a gram. Maurice always pays. Little does he know that Antony gets top up supplies from yours truly. While Maurice may have failed teaching Ant maths, he trained him in other things all too well.

3/.

I'm not really inclined that way, but sometimes you get into these bizarre situations. Way back when Ant used to do the odd job here after school we were having this slow rainy day.
Ant's a cheeky bugger, up for anything, so I thought I'd introduce him to Charlie. While he was bent over doing his second line, I wondered if the rumors were true. Ant always had this gorgeous smile and cute arse, even as a kid. So I asked Ant if he had ever done it with a man. Ant smiled, standing up close to me, his blue eyes locked on mine, and said he would do anything his boss told him to do. No kid's gonna get the better of me, I thinks, so I order him to go down on me, wondering who would blink first. He didn't blink. It was me that closed my eyes. Over the last couple of years, he's taught me a lot but I'm still not sure what he digs more, Charlie, cock or being ordered around. I treat him like a dog, and he laps it up. Weird. Still, I get this feeling that one day he'll break. There's a deep anger in there, if not with me, then with himself.

I'm not even sure that Ant's gay. He hangs around with Maurice, who has this funny hold over him, models for Ramos all too often, yet still seems to pull the chicks whenever he wants. Who knows who else he's pulling.

It wouldn't even surprise me if Herbie was in the loop. There he is, chatting to them now, like long lost buddies. Hebert is the very definition of weird. Doesn't say much, but there's nothing that he doesn't know or see. I keep on his good side by slipping him the odd free drink or treat. I'm the last one who would want him to turn on me. But with those types, you have no idea what can fire them. He really has this thing for Lelani, who treats him like shit. She's so beautiful and with that acid tongue, him so slow witted and incapacitated. He's an easy target.

Hebert is really buddy-buddy with Natasha. Who knows what that noxious pair could cook up. They say the last meal that Helena fed her husband was Natasha's oyster pie. It was all too convenient when he died. He not only left Helena a bundle, but was the last barrier to Helena's development proposal. He was dead set against her plans and I know the marriage was on the rocks. I also have a feeling Helena did more than kiss babies to get re-elected, adding to the situation.

4/.
All along, that bastard Devlin was working in the background trying to undo all Helena's approvals. He don't like being done, that's for sure, but I don't think he realizes that Helena is no pushover.

Now that Helena is some together bitch. She knows what she wants and gets it. I think Kelvin would be on her Christmas shopping list if Lelani wasn't around. Mind you, I'd wouldn't mind being on her list. She certainly knows how to play me... She's always just out of reach. But one day, I'll get my hands on her and show her a good time. I'm not called Fat Evan for nothing.

As I was saying about Natasha, she's a sneaky threat. What with the liquor licensing laws liberalized, I'm sure she's planning on setting-up in competition with me. This town ain't big enough for two bars. If it wasn't for summer, we'd all be down the gurgler.

Hey, summer. About time too. And this weekend, we're going to be in for a few surprises.

Chapter 4 NATASHA

Natasha woke up at 5 am, same time as she did every morning when the coffee shop was open for business. Usually she had no trouble getting up early, but it was a bit of a late night. Yes he was sweet and not too bad looking, but like most men in the beginning of a relationship he still wanted to prove himself by demonstrating his sexual prowess a couple of times in a row, showing off his knowledge of the positions of the Kama Sutra page 12 to 67. Usually this macho behavior slowed down after a while, but then it also became mostly boring. She loved the power she had over men, even if it was just because of her looks. How many men already had confessed that they were completely under her spell and were ready to give up everything for her. She loved to drive them crazy, and see how far she could go before they would completely break down, and then finally dumping them. The fools!

Unfortunately it got out of hand a couple of months ago with John, the wimp of a husband of Helena, the Mayor in town. Of course he didn’t interest her at all, but just the fact that she could get the husband of the Mayor gave her the satisfaction she wanted. When he told her that he would tell his wife and was ready to give up everything to be with her, Natasha knew it was time to end things. Usually she would wait until after they made their confession to their loving wives but she knew that even if this was a small town, Helena could make her life difficult, and after all, her business was her dearest possession. She did make the best latte and hot chocolate in all of the Billingsgate Beach area (with Belgian chocolate of course), and it had taken her years to build up her business. She would never do anything to jeopardize it.

As expected John didn’t take it well and threatened to kill himself, but it did come as a surprise when she heard he was dead a week later. The local newspaper spoke of food poisoning but she wasn’t sure. And then there was Kelvin who had told her once he would kill anyone she would sleep with -apart from himself of course.

2/.

She didn’t really think Kelvin had killed John, she didn’t think he knew about her and John, but then again Kelvin had a way of knowing things in town, others didn’t. Strange how he could be so jealous while she knew he was playing around as well, and she was for sure not the love of his life. She had seen it when Lelani walked into the shop while he was there, his look had said a 1000 words.

‘Hi darling’ Herbert said when entering the shop. He was one of her daily customers coming in for a cappuccino and a chat - with her when she wasn’t busy, with the other customers when she was. ‘Are you going to the Christmas bash tonight’ he asked her. Sure she was going, she even was going to close the shop early as she had some unfinished business to deal with.

The door opened before she could ring the bell. The 2 women didn’t say much.
‘You’ve got the money?’ Helena asked.
‘Yes’ Natasha answered.
‘I have your word on the deal?’ asked Natasha in turn.
Helena nodded. “It was a pity my husband didn’t serve our cause - despite your best efforts. But we had luck on our side, and there was always Kelvin to fall back on.
But now the wait is over - your son has reached his time Natasha”.

Dressed in her red satin cocktail dress, the one that made her cleavage even more outstanding, Natasha was putting the final touches to her make-up. Her thoughts were with the only man she ever really loved, the one man she knew she could not get. He was perfect to her in every aspect but she knew he would never love her the way she wanted. And she would see him tonight, at the Christmas party…

Chapter 5 HERBERT

The air was still steaming hot and humid. Herbert was using a bunch of house brochures as a fan, trying to cool his sweat pearling face. For some reason, when it was hot like that, his foot was hurting. And every time he was reminded of that very warm day in Paris, when he was walking out of the Opera Garnier after a splendid dance performance.

It had been a great night and the public had adored his languish and elegant moves. He was walking down the stairs and was crossing paths with an elegant gentleman, all dressed in white linen, and then everything went really fast. He heard a shot, and then a second one. The elegant man fell to the ground, wounded, and Herbert felt so sorry to see this stylish handsome man kicking the ground, and his first reaction was that the suit would get dirty. His second reaction was to look at the white patent shoes, he had never seen anything so beautiful. But then he realized that there was a pool of blood around his own feet, and then the pain came. The second bullet had gone through his own foot, just under the ankle, and it had pierced his whole foot. As unbelievable as it sounded, the bullet had ricocheted from the white ceramic wrist watch of the men dressed in linen onto his foot. Immediately he panicked that he would not be able to dance the following night. Only later did he realize that this one single bullet would change his life forever: no more ballet dancing, his career was over. And he had not yet reached his climax, that’s what his teacher Madame Esmeralda had told him that very day. Herbert looked up from his foot and saw through the window of a black jaguar a glimpse of the face that he would never ever forget. The guy was still holding the gun in his hand and their eyes connected a split second. Then the car vanished with an ear jamming sound of the tyres. Herbert memorized every single angle and detail of the face. It took him years to trace down that criminal. The killer of beauty and elegance.

His search brought him all the way to Australia. How could he forget that man… All the suffering he had been through… They had to amputate his foot. It took him a lot of cocaine dealings to finance his search. Many times did he fill that prostatic foot with cocaine and did he gradually empty it from its precious contents every time he did a delivery. And now here he was in Billingsgate Beach. Very close to the man who ruined his life. His revenge was coming soon… He had it all worked out… He found a job at a real estate company, so that he had access to all houses, and he became friends with everybody in this boring beach village.

2/.

But a couple of months ago, his whole plan almost collapsed. The mayor’s husband saw him in the alley way behind the diving school. Kelvin was one of his regular clients. Herbert knew that the man would report him to his wife the mayor: he got caught in the act of dealing. Helena would have arrested Herbert immediately, she was such a sensation hungry woman.

There was no other option. Amazing what a nylon cord can do, provide pleasure, but also take human life… Herbert got away with it, but he had to ask for the help of Ramos to carry the body to the beach. Ramos owed him a big favor anyways. Because Ramos likes little boys, and Herbert had access to many people’s houses in town, and he put Ramos in touch with many little darlings, pretending to offer free babysitting to potential real estate clients. Ramos would never report him, he was too scared to see his art business collapse.

Maurice was another of his “special” clients, he was a double whammy, both after the white powder and the little darlings. Herbert always wondered where he got all the money from. But there were certain things in life that were not to be known, including in his own life, and Herbert respected the discretion that Maurice was claiming. After all, Maurice had allowed him to save a lot of money, and to soon buy his first house in Billingsgate beach, it was a very expensive house. But the price was no concern to Herbert… The location was much more important. The house happened to be right next to the house of the man he met in Paris and who was responsible for his tragic life change.

Tonight he was finally meeting the owners of the house, all the official documents were ready, they just needed to sign them, and then he could finally put his horrendous plan in motion, finally he would be able to taste the sweet taste of revenge. For years he had been dreaming about this moment. He couldn’t believe that it had finally come…The owners of the house ran a patisserie. Herbert despised the patisserie, for they claimed to make French pastry, they claimed to make baguette and croissant and pains au chocolat. But he could not bear the taste of the huge sized dry bakery products. They were totally overpriced and you would not be able to distinguish any of them if you were to eat them blind folded: they all left this boring fatty chewy sensation in the mouth. But tonight he did not care about that, because tonight they were unknowingly helping him to come to terms with his fate, and to reverse all the hatred in his heart.

3/.

The door bell rang, there they were, Natasha and her partner, all smiles, Natasha flashing her huge boobs as usual. Even Herbert was dazzled by them when he went to her coffee shop for his daily coffee. But not tonight, tonight he had no eyes for her décolleté, he only had eyes for the pen that sealed the transaction of the house sale…
Natasha’s face became suddenly sad as she watched Helena witness their signatures. Another sacrifice for the greater good. First John - now this.
“All done then Herbert – congratulations” said Helena. “Now you and Miss Luck will be neighbors.”

Chapter 6 HELENA

Helena drew the crimson silk robe around her as she rose from the bed. Glancing out the bedroom window, she saw Kelvin in the fading evening light as he sauntered away from the house, his t-shirt tight, defining the muscular back it contained.

Glancing back towards the bed she could not suppress the sigh. She wished it was contentment, but could not disguise from herself the resignation of desire born of need. What started as an encounter months ago was now a regular event. Yes event. He had the self absorption required for a perfect tryst, emotionless, undemanding empty sexual passion. Perfect. Not a lover, not a friend, almost a gigolo without any financial exchange. Well at least no cash.

Wandering into the kitchen her bare feet sensitive to the cool tiles beneath them a shudder swept over her body. She reached for a glass, automatically slid it under the dispenser and cringed at the harsh collapse of ice into the glass. She poured the Jack Daniels and felt it cascade over the rocks, pausing for moment to release another sigh, this time despondent. Her hand slipped into her pocket and reached for the delicate gold key, her eyes flicked automatically to scan the open French doors, checking that the patio for signs of life, of unwanted unpleasant observers.

The document box had always been hidden in the pantry. Helena collected it now, dropped it on the kitchen bench, and purposefully inserted the key in the lock. Feeling it twist, a temporary resistance, then the click of release. Retrieving the envelope, she gently slid the paper from its tomb. With a mixture of disgust and pity she read it again, this time the final time…

2/.

My darling
To you I owe so much. The dreams I have had, now fulfilled. Your sumptuous lips, a visual delight, a constant temptation to your delicious hard wet driven passion. I see your tongue teasing as it playfully darts around your mouth, throwing out the lyric sounds of your sweet words, perfectly embraced with your contagious bubbling laugh. The more I taste the more insatiable I become. I want to devour you, and you me. I am insane with desire. Even after all this time. Nobody would understand our passion in this morbidly stupid sleepy hollow. Philistines. Only a few more months and we can escape, our fortune secure, our perfect plan awaiting execution. Hold true my lover. Not long to go. Yours always.

Husband, friend, lover. So many roles but not the one Helena had ever predicted. She pinched the corner of the letter in her left hand, placed a cigarette in her mouth, then flicked the lighter first striking the cigarette, then attacking the diagonal corner of the letter with the flame. The acrid smoke swirling into her nose, resisting the urge the withdraw, she watched as the incriminating words disappeared into a cloak of blackened ash. How neat, to have it all resolved before the party next Saturday. A tortuous journey of discovery over months, planning, scheming, knowing but not revealing. Until the time was right.
A snuffling bark destroyed her reverie. Her eyes automatically darted to the patio, and there he stood, the author of the letter. The partner in her husbands treachery. Their eyes locked, until his diverted to the burning paper in her hand. With defiance she dropped the burning remnant into the sink. He menaced into the doorway, one hand clutching the lead of his dog, the other bracing the doorframe.
“There, it’s gone” she said
“Do you think he or I did not keep other letters, other evidence”
“He was never meticulous - passionate, yes - organized, no, so I doubt it Ramos”
Ramos hesitated for a moment, as if deciding, then with eyes full of hatred turned on his heels fleeing in a thunder of rage. She huffed, a half laugh, and in a move of slow deliberation, stubbed the butt of her cigarette into the collapsing ashen letter.

/3.

The action didn’t really satisfy her as much as she’d hoped, but then neither had Kelvin.
But their misguided plottings amused her. Did Ramos and John really think they could escape? At least that stupid Herbert fell into the trap and did what he was meant to. Pity the fool nearly wrecked it all trying to dump the body. It had been such an inconvenience dragging John back from the beach and leaving him slumped over that rancid seafood pie in the pool cabana. She needed a body and a cause of death. Not the police investigating a missing person. Herbert still hadn’t worked out quite how that happened, but seemed to have no complaints with the swift but unexpected resolution.
She looked toward the trees and noticed how still they were today. The desire to be nearer the water overwhelmed her again. “I really need to see that ocean of mine” she said out loud to the empty room and turned to change for her morning walk along Glass Beach.

Chapter 7 ANTONY

There was a calmness to the dawn, which he would recall later as something he maybe should have paid more attention to. It wasn’t so much the weird lack of wind or breeze, but the utter absence of the usual early morning calls, which he vaguely noticed as he paddled heavily, suffering a slight judder or two at the ocean chill.

Turning to regard the beach and town front he thought how different it looked from out here. It appeared small and far away, it was surprising how quickly the town receded once you left the shore. Maybe you didn’t have to go that far to get out, to get away?

And on the eight day, God surfed. That was how the saying went and Antony believed it? He could never express why he loved being in the ocean in general and surfing in particular. There was the shock of immersion, the ice cream grip of cold around the sinuses, the momentary scuba headache and the physiological tremor as the body made its adjustments to the aquatic medium. Then there was the glorious freedom, of movement in three dimensions not just the usual two. The suspension was liberating and the board allowed him to tap into the muscular force of the perpetually shivering ocean. He loved to swim in and surf on the ocean, it was an almost sexual joy. He liked the ocean like he loved sex. Both involved surrender to something bigger and older than he was.

Speaking of surrendering to something bigger and older, he saw Helena wandering down the beach. She was always having her morning walk around the time he was winding up his morning sunrise surf session. ‘Take it as a compliment’ Devlin had said. But it just didn’t feel like one. She could get fucked, and not with him. He wasn’t putting out. Where was the woman’s self esteem?

2/.

Scanning the heaving surface he spotted a likely swell and began to turn his board and move. Building up enough speed, he caught the wave’s pregnant rise and having jumped up on the board he bent and leaned in, letting the rapidly building wave gather both he and the board in it’s flexing arms and sweep them forward in the glorious rush.
He let forth a cry of exuberant joy as he slid into the embryonic tube of rolling glass and barely registered the huge, swift shadow suddenly underneath the board.

“Helena, Helena.”
Her eyes fluttered and then opened fully.
“What happened?”
“You fainted.”
“Fainted, but: Oh my God Antony, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. You’re bleeding.”
“And you’re obvious.”
“What?”
“Look, can you stop pointing out things I already know and help me?”
“But I thought you were…”
“So did I, for a minute. Help me woman!”
“Are you… is it serious?” She seemed fixated and spellbound by his bleeding thigh.
“A graze, maybe a stitch at the most.” He was angry more than anything, a cold calm fury at the centre of him, the primal resentment of a toddler thrown bodily and unfairly out of his sand box.
She allowed him to lean on her and helped support him by putting a hand on his torso. Her hands began to shake slightly as soon as she did.
He suddenly wondered when she’d last touched a man’s body, he was sure she hadn’t gone near that lump of a husband of hers for a long time before he died? She sounded tremulous. He was shaking himself, it had all been so fast. His poor board, this was going to cost him thousands to replace. Devlin wouldn’t believe the size of the fucker’s bite. This was some serious shit.
3/.
Helena was twittering in his ear.
“When I saw that shape come out and then bite. That horrible snout.” She shuddered.
“Yeah, thanks for helping me not to dwell on it.”
“Thank god you managed to swim back so quickly. Then when I saw the blood on your leg.” Helena stopped suddenly. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“Do you have any idea how much revenue the Christmas tourists are; no, of course you don’t. All you care about is that stupid board.”
“Hey!”
“You can’t say anything.”
She had totally transformed. The wheedling superficial niceness was gone and there was a new note of steel in her voice. She was almost glaring at him, eye to eye. It was an abrupt and unexpected transformation.
“Helena...”
She practically shook him, which, considering a second a go she’d been helping to support him, was quite a feat. The woman was schitzophrenic.
“You can’t say anything. If word gets out, we need this Christmas. This tourist season is going to put us on the map, not to mention my…”
She stopped talking.
“What are you talking about?”
“You just can’t say anything!”
They had both stopped walking now, she turned to look back out to sea.
“What’s it going to do next? Do they hang around? How do these creatures behave?”
He’d been lucky, no more, the shark was a good size, a serious threat. But he felt ashamed at his fear, angry at what had happened. He looked out at the deceptive beauty of the ocean, the place where, up to now he had always felt at home and had loved, and had felt, in his own way, loved in return.
“What’s it worth to you?”
She regarded him with a raised eyebrow, quizzical. He clarified his meaning.
“To get rid of it? What’s it worth?”

4/.

The morning negotiations emboldened him. That evening found him at the bar, finally determined to clean up a loose end that had been bothering him for awhile.
“Evan.”
The bartender gave a curt nod and then moved away from his previous position at the bar, suddenly busy.
Given what had not happened the last few times he’d tried to sort this shit out, Antony decided on the direct approach.
“I want my money. A week’s worth of wages, enough’s enough.”
“Don’t stress.”
“You said that last week and the week before that. Fair bloody dinkum mate.”
“Son…”
“Due respect Evan, I’ve got a dad and you’re not him. Don’t call me son. Look, you’ve been avoiding me whenever I come in here:”
Evan’s face was reddening.
“Don’t bloody flatter yourself.”
“Whenever I come in here.”
Evan refused to look him in the eye, people around the bar were not talking, the silence was becoming embarrassing. Good, the man should be embarrassed. But this was a tactic of last resort. He’d cost the bartender some serious face doing this. But Antony was angry, angry enough to force the issue.
“Don’t bloody well come in here and tell me what to do in my own pub boy.”
“And don’t you ever ask me to work for you again.”
“You call that work son? You spent most of the night talking to the Shielas, or that ‘artist’ bloke who was making cow eyes at yer.”
“Fuck you Evan.”
This was turning into one hell of a day. He thought about the harpoon gun Devlin had leant him earlier and postponed his satisfaction to the morning.

5/.

Oh great - Lelani was all he flaming needed.
“What’s that!”
It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t. How had she known he was doing this, Helena wouldn’t have said anything surely? She had wanted to keep their arrangement quiet.
“You know what it is Lelani.”
“You’re the one trespassing. That shark was only doing what comes naturally. Leave it alone.”
He released the safety catch on the harpoon gun and then slung it, inside its holster, over his shoulder.
“If it leaves me alone, I’ll return the favour and as for doing naturally, so am I baby.”
“I’m not your baby.”
“Haven’t you got a crystal to polish or something?”
“I’ll report you, that animal’s probably on an endangered list.”
“It is now, report away.”

He pushed off and into the surf, the harpoon gun slung over his back.
There was the same calmness as yesterday. But he could pinpoint it now, there was a total lack of gulls. None flew over the waves, or loitered on the sea out past the breakers where there was usually a few, but not this morning. Could they sense the presence of the predator somewhere in the water or was he being fanciful?
“All things are Buddha things” Lelani was shouting, the receding sound of her impotent rage confined to the sands.
If all things were Buddha things then so was the technological innovation of his harpoon gun, just as much as the evolutionary innovation that resulted in the shark that he knew was lurking somewhere near. Game on, he told himself.
But was it a game? Why had he agreed to this, not for Helena, she was more catalyst than cause? This was his beach, his daily sacred ritual. This was personal. His masculinity was at stake, he would not be denied by a big fish with attitude.
Game on, he said grimly to himself as he paddled and scanned.

6/.

Three hours later, sunburnt and exhausted, he trudged up the sand with nothing to show for his efforts. The town Christmas decorations glinted, looking vulgar and cheap and tinny coloured in the glare of the early morning sun. Bloody Christmas, he hated it. He dropped the board and everything else he had taken out and began to pull himself out of his wet suit and lie in the sun for awhile to recover.
There was the sound of the surf, the sea breeze and the sun playing over him. He waited for his breathing to steady and while the exhaustion flowed from slowly easing and tense muscles. He could have slept there then. But almost reluctantly, he dragged himself up from the threshold of drowsiness, grabbed his board and began to move.

It was almost an hour later before he remembered, incredulous at his own idiocy, that he’d left the harpoon half buried where it hit the sand.
Worried and angry with himself for being so unbelievably careless, he hurried back.
Of course, it was no longer there.

Chapter 8 KELVIN

Kelvin tossed the Billingsgate Bugle on the sand, drained the last of his beer and surveyed his tummy. OK – maybe not the town stud that he had been 30 years ago but still not too bad for a 49 year old. He was reassured by the fact that his rugged, good looks combined with dimples still got looks of admiration from visitors to the town and being a dive instructor didn’t hurt in the admiration/power stakes. He had virtually had women on tap since he was 17. That’s probably why he had never married, in fact his longest relationship had been 9 years - and that was with his border collie Nipper.

The business meant early starts but also ensured early finishes which nearly compensated for dragging his arse out of bed at 5.30am for the past 30 odd years. He would head home after the last dive and leave the kiddies (as he called them) to clean the gear, fill the tanks and get the Pacific Dream ready for the following morning’s dive. In order to save on wages, he no longer employed any locals but relied instead on mainly English & American back packers working for him in return for free PADI dive certification and bed & board in the small apartment above the shop. He only lived 5 minutes drive away and kept an eye on things, sometimes hoping to catch one of the girls on their own and provide him with an opportunity to weave his magic charms – hopefully all the way to the bedroom.

As at this time on most days, he was laying on the sunbed outside of his house with the sea lapping gently 30 metres away against Billingsgate’s famous Glass Beach. He had lived in the same place – practically a shack - for nearly 20 years and in that time the price had gone from $4,500 to over $200,000. Conversely two years ago his business was worth over $500,000 but now he’d be lucky to get $100,000. Hardly enough to retire on.

As the sun started to sink into the Pacific his thoughts turned to the business - as they always seemed to these days. He used to be the envy of everyone in town and had the luxury of being able to turn customers away.

2/.

But what with the unsettled weather and proliferation of other activities in the area it seemed that diving was not as popular as it used to be. Not by a long mark. Also the nature of the town had changed. They were beginning to get more townies from Sydney and even Brisbane buying holiday houses and these people rarely went scuba diving but always had a daughter called Sara.
Then of course there was the ‘Martin’s Mystery’. Billingsgate’s maiden performance on the world stage occurred just a few months ago when a couple of American tourists had disappeared. Seeing the familiar town sites on CNN as well as a couple of the local faces was both thrilling and somewhat ominous. Naturally Ramos made an appearance and duly hammed it up and even managed to show his latest work ‘Lost in a strange country’ which he claimed was inspired by the mystery. Strange then that the picture was up for all to see, weeks before the couple had even arrived in town. In fact Kelvin was sure that he had seen it in Natasha’s Spot when Ramos held his wanky annual retrospective last year. He only agreed to go so that he could ogle Natasha’s tits close up – one of the few women that he had wanted but never got to want him back- well not for long anyway. If his memory served him correctly the picture was then entitled ‘Two Parrots Talking’. Rumour had it that Ramos sold the picture to a Florida woman for over $1000 just two days after it appeared on TV. This just confirmed Kelvin’s view that both Ramos and ‘art’ in general was a load of old bollocks.

Rumours persisted that Kelvin had something to do with the couple’s disappearance, spread no doubt by the town gossips Ramos & Herbert. If everyone could just mind their own business life would be so much simpler for all. He knew how to hold his tongue – if he didn’t half the town would be in jail. Helena for a start, not quite as clean as most people thought and he was sure that young Antony was up to some sort of mischief, lots of comings and goings at the place he had moved out to. And where was he getting his money from?

3/.

The beer and the sun started to weave their magic and Kelvin felt himself drifting off for his usual alcohol induced siesta. As he entered the delicious in between world of waking and sleeping events jostled in his mind like old message bottles bobbing in the sea and faces that had been bothering him for a while bubbled to the surface.

The American couple were annoying. Wayne and Andrea Martin. Both in their 30s, both vegans, both so fucking earnest and both were trying to wheedle their way into the fabric of the town. He had only talked to them once - at The Billingsgate Arms - but took an instant dislike to them. They loved the town ‘so, so much’ and were looking at selling up in California and moving here to set up a jet ski business & boutique vegan cafe. Vegan café – no worries go ahead it’s your own money to throw away but the jet ski shop would have wiped Billingsgate Dive School off the map.

Kelvin forced his mind on to other matters, more basic matters like survival. He needed to reassert himself in the town and turn his business around. He needed something to redress the balance back towards both the diving school and himself.

Later he would remember clearly the moment when the idea caught hold and slumber gave way to pure exhilarating alertness. An alertness he had not enjoyed for years. Like returning to the surface after a really good dive or the moment he knew he was about to screw a particularly young woman - he savored the journey towards its ultimate destination : a fully fledged plan.

He sat up eyes wide open with a grin forming on his face. The Bugle had carried a story about the HMAS Conundrum which was about to be decommissioned after 40 years of service. They were calling for suitable ways to dispose of the venerated vessel which first saw service during the Vietnam War and latterly became an escort vehicle in the ‘Pacific Solution’. The reason The Bugle carried the story was that there was a link to Billingsgate. Its first Captain was none other then George Pomfret, Helena’s Pomfret’s father.

4/.

Suppose Kelvin could lobby to have the vessel skuppered off the coast of Billingsgate? There would be an instant reef teeming with fish and all manner of wildlife. It would be a diver’s dream and they would flock from all corners of the earth to dive it. Kelvin started to get excited, it could turn his business around and really put Billingsgate on the map. His dive school would treble in price overnight even the shack may get another few thousand.

He immediately started to plan how he could get the right peoples support for the idea. Maybe pull in a few favours here and there although a few threats wouldn’t go astray and would be more in keeping with Kelvin’s normal modus operandi. Perhaps hinting at some of the goings on in Billingsgate over the past 20 years that many would prefer to remain secret. A vague reference thrown into conversations, nothing too overt, just a reminder to all and sundry that he knew secrets and deserved to be respected and supported.

Usually the Annual Billingsgate Carols held less then zero interest for him, unless he thought it might help him bed one of the backpackers. This year though might be a little different, this year he might just make an appearance, this year he might just chat to a few people, this year he might just start to put his plan into action.

Kelvin went inside, opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. The first gulp tasted so much sweeter then the tinny he had had just a few minutes ago…. so, so much sweeter.

Chapter 9 LELANI

Lelani was fair game in this town. That was what made Billingsgate so special. These people were her penance, her act of indulgent self-flagellation. Lelani survived on their combination of beauty and cruelty. Antony, like all the men and most of the women, was a bully. He was tantalisingly on the verge of becoming a predator. Except for his age, he was ideal.

It was Monday – only five more days until the Christmas party. Lelani was in charge of the vegan dishes for the event. She needed to go to the Billingsgate Arms for a committee meeting. The amount of courage it took to get out of the house and into the day was what she was most proud of about her life here. She threw on some shorts and a bikini top.

‘Even though I continue to needlessly take up space on this planet I completely love and accept myself.’ Lelani lightly tapped the acupressure point beside her eyebrows as she spoke. ‘I love and accept myself even though I am from a family of murderers and am no better than them,’ her voice and her two fingered tapping were a little sharper on the second eyebrow.

‘Even though I still live off my parent’s money I deeply and completely accept myself.’ Lelani realised that she’d swapped tapping for ‘slicing’ on her right wrist’s pressure point. She sighed and started again at the top of her head. Antony’s actions from the day before still clung to her. How stupid could Helena be!

‘I am a capable being and I love and accept myself even though I have become what I despise.’ Tap tap tap.
She needed to regulate her breathing a little more.

2/.

Her family dealt in hides – trading skin from anything that walked the planet. Not being able to walk away from their money as easily as she had walked away from them kept her tied to this daily routine of morning affirmations and midday lorazepams. Living in Billingsgate was her chance to ‘walk a mile’ in a hunted animal’s ‘shoes’. She had almost become accustomed to this life. But she was beginning to understand her family’s loathing for this pitiful town.

‘I love and accept myself even though I am not worthy of anyone else’s love’. Her index and middle fingers caressed her temples. For three years she had been playing the quarry – maybe it would all end this Saturday. She wasn’t sure. She tapped her collarbone where it met the sternum.

Leilani prepared to meet this day.

Chapter 10 DEVLIN . . . the denouement

The angels adorning the front of the stage whirred into life and started to blow wafts of cooling spray mist into the gathering crowds through their heraldic trumpets. The crowd was delighted by this refreshing touch on a warm evening and clapped enthusiastically. Evan stood grinning on one side then placed his hand over his nose and mouth, and crossed over underneath where Maurice and Ramos were arguing quietly but intensely on the hotels upper verandah.

“You shouldn’t have surprised me -turning up like that!” Ramos whined. “I didn’t know you wanted to wear it. And in that Santa suit - it makes you look a teeny bit fat you know”. Maurice’s eyes were wild and excited, his pupils like saucers. “That’s the whole point you hysterical queen” Maurice hissed. “Now get it together. You promised to help me!” Ramos looked rather uncertain now that Maurice’s plan was fully revealed.

As the angel misters cooled the evening, the mood in the lower levels of the garden amphitheatre became decidedly festive, decidedly fast. Xmas cheer abounded as the assembled crowd anticipated the appearance of Miss Edith Luck and what she would offer in this years Xmas extravaganza. Those old “Les Girls” Drag queens really know how to put on a show they whispered excitedly.

Dusk was only moments off when the deep boom followed by a bright flash of lightning, caused Devlin to lower his reed flute and pause momentarily. It took a moment before he realized what was wrong about the thunder – it should come after the lightning not before. Devlin waited for a moment and began to run. Cursing the foolishness of these Billingsgate men he galloped towards the main lawn area which remained full of curiously stunned looking picnickers.

The top floor of the Billingsgate arms was a smoking mess, and the angelic canopy at the front of the adjacent stage was blown off, the misting frame twisted and broken amid glass from the lights.

2/.

Pieces of Maurice still in his Santa suit hung broken and barbequed in the nearby trees, and what remained of Ramos had finally achieved the immortality he so craved.

Devlin roared with frustration when he saw the wound in his precious hotel. This was not part of his plan. Those petty bickering fools would destroy all his hard work and tear apart his meticulous creation. Soon there would be nothing he could do to guard these foolish mortals. He had used the music of his pipes to weave the strongest defenses he could into these bricks and mortar and it had worked until now. Until Maurice’s need for a rather dramatic last word had broken the protections and left his work crumbling.
And so near the waters edge…

Two figures emerged through the smoke on the upper floors. It looked at first as if one was holding the other up. But no – they were fighting desperately – a man appeared to be hitting a bald woman in evening wear with a shoe – but no it was actually a foot. “It should have been me” screamed Herbert. Not realizing the hotel balcony was now half gone they pitched against the place where the rail had once been and plummeted still screaming to the ground. The sequins and feathers made it appear an ostrich had been shot from the sky. A flash of red satin shimmered through the smoke as the arm that had tried to hold them safe withdrew into the billowing grey.
Neither Herbert or Eddy Luck moved in the awful silence that followed.

Then the laughing began.
Picnicking families closest to the now wrecked misting apparatus pointed and giggled. Some hooted with outright pleasure. Great show! Better than Julie Anthony at the Domain. This was real professional family entertainment.

A figure in a WW2 gas mask ran towards the still figures. No mistaking Evans shape despite the somewhat Steven King attire. As he reached the couple his body bent forward in a sharp right angle then jerked suddenly backwards. A short spike stuck out from his ample navel and the curious silence returned. People were really watching.
“So much better than last years show…”

3/.

Anyone not previously seated within 200m of the stage was running towards it. All except Devlin who stayed where he was on high ground at the top of the amphitheatre, protected by a ring of Alder trees. Strangely a low rumble seemed to be continuing after the sound of the blast should have died away.

Antony arrived first, barely panting. Fit bugger.

Lelani walked towards him the spent harpoon gun dangling by her side. “At last I have served my penance” she said. “Living amongst men’s cruelty I understand why my father had little pity for creatures of the land. But you passed our test Antony.
Helena gave you a weapon but you could not kill. I am now free to release your true self and return to my home”.
He stared at her “What are you talking about you crazy herbal freak? You killed him!”

The rumble increased in volume and all of a sudden there was water everywhere. Now that the protective power of the Billingsgate Arms had been shattered the tsunami surged up and into the park taking all before it. The angels that had adorned Ramos’s final glorious stage set floated attractively like surreal messengers of doom, knocking unconscious any who happened to be in their path amid the swirling muddied waters.

The crowd had, by now, rather lost interest in the show as they struggled to find ways to keep breathing. Those that managed to escape Ramos’s avenging angels could not withstand the tide for long.

Walking apparently untouched through the surge Helena and Natasha appeared behind Antony and he became immobile held by the power of the 3 seemingly transformed women.

Natasha embraced her son. “You are a lover of water my boy- fluid and ever changing. I am proud that you have been chosen to become its prince.”

4/.

There were several quite distinct emotions running through Antony’s features as he struggled to break the women’s spell. Confusion, terror and finally a kind of joy as his flawless skin stripped of its clothing by the oceans force began to glow blue-grey. He gaped uncomprehending at first, then a smile of perfect peace crossed his face. Released he leapt forward. The dolphin fin was already forming on his spine and he flipped effortlessly beneath the surface.

Devlin watched in horror as Kelvin who he thought had been fighting his way to rescue Antony, instead clutched pathetically at Helena. “But I did all you asked” he begged
“-kept all the other divers away, got rid of the nosy Americans, kept you all happy - I’ve even got a plan to hide you better! You promised if I watched over the boy it would be me who was chosen!

“You old man?” Helena sneered “the sea is ancient and seeks to replenish itself. You have already been sucked too dry.” He let out a single agonized cry before the surge swept him away. Devlin tapped his hoof in salute and blew a mournful note on his pipe.

Helena turned and smiled triumphantly across the tumult at Devlin standing amidst his beloved trees. “Your petty twigs and rocks can never withstand the power of my domain” she sneered. “And why do you bother with these greedy selfish mortals. Are penises that damn interesting? They will kill each other soon enough.”

“Think more carefully Helena”. He warned “If we do not guide them they will destroy the planet as they die, and your home will vanish as well as mine.”

“Look around you fool.” Her smile vanished “We won’t give them time.”
continued…

5/.

EPILOGUE

The shimmering pathway left by the full moon on the slowly moving ocean silhouetted the three naked figures waist deep in the shallows.

Lelani smiled at Natasha, then at a signal from Helena raised a uniquely shaped conch shell to her lips. Her hair, unbound and free, floated lazily in the air around her shoulders although the evening was quite still. She blew a single exquisitely harmonic note from its glittering depths, which hung majestically in the air and did not seem to fade.

The water bubbled before her then span into an ever increasing whirlpool. The young princess glanced back toward the town. Her smile appeared cruel but at last calm in the cold moonlight although the swirling waters remained warm. The two others joined her at the centre of the vortex and taking their cue from the conches note, began to sing a wild and unfettered melody that continued as they eased sinuously below the surface of the water. Throwing the conch before her, Lelani leapt high and dived into the centre of the maelstrom after them. Moonlight reflected blue/green off the scales of her shimmering tail, and the perfectly formed fins that had until quite recently been size 7½ feet, were the last anyone saw of the keepers of the immortal secret beneath the waters off Billingsgate Beach.

The Bay Of Contented Men – by Robert Drewe

2007-11-28T13:45:00.000+11:00

More like the bay of self satisfied men I’d say – however I stand corrected by all reviews I’ve seen, as well as the response from the BBC members. The Bay of Contented Men was generally accepted at face value, as an insight into the world of a contemporary upper middle class Australian man. The ordinary male perspective is surprisingly unrepresented in Australian literature, so Drewe does provide an unusual insight, with little competition.

Thanks so much to Dennis for hosting, and it was a pleasure to help christen the new abode (in one respect at least!)

Scores were as follows

Ewan 5
Raj 7
Mark 5
Kevin 7
Leanne 7
Dennis 5

Average: 6

Here is a little commentary from bookworm.com.au

Witty and seductive, inventive and disturbing, The Bay of Contented Men ranges in location from east to west coast Australia, to the United States, Japan, and Hong Kong. This is the neighbourhood of edgy suburbanite Australians whose desires and misadventures are conjured here into intriguing fictions. Robert Drewe's characters face the confrontation of gender, race and generation with an ironic desperation born of love, lust and wistful memory.

http://www.bookworm.com.au/shop/scditem.asp?ProdID=35772

The next book is:

'Stones from the River' by Ursula Hegi.

Mark Gordon

Atonement by Ian McEwan

2007-11-06T17:42:00.000+11:00

This work generated most stimulating discussion on the psychological front. While generally positive, readers saw the book from surprisingly different angles, mirroring the structure of the book itself.

Even the word atonement itself was of interest. Generally defined in religious terms, such as from Wiki:

“In Christian theology the atonement refers to the forgiving or pardoning of sin through the crucifixion of Jesus Christ which made possible the reconciliation between God and creation.”

Or by dictionary definition:

1. compensation for a wrong
2. expiation: the act of atoning for sin or wrongdoing (especially appeasing a deity)

Scores were as follows (a little surprisingly low I feel)

Dennis 8
Mark 9.5
Kevin 7
Leanne 9
Ewan 7
Helen 8.5
Andrew 8
Raj 9
Natalie 8.5

Average: 8.3

This potted information from Wikipedia is of interest, particularly the accusation of plagiarism! Note McEwan’s response in The Guardian (see link below).

“Atonement (2001) is a novel by British writer Ian McEwan. It is widely regarded as one of McEwan's best works and was shortlisted for the 2001 Booker Prize for fiction, an award he had already won for his previous novel Amsterdam. In addition, Time magazine named it the best fiction novel of the year and included it in its All-TIME 100 Greatest Novels.

McEwan utilises several stylistic techniques in the novel including metafiction and psychological realism.

Atonement contains intertextual references to a number of other literary works including Henry James' The Golden Bowl, Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey, and Shakespeare's The Tempest and Twelfth Night.

In late 2006 Lucilla Andrews' autobiography No Time for Romance became the focus of a posthumous controversy when it was alleged that McEwan plagiarised from this work while writing his novel Atonement. McEwan professed his innocence.

A film adaptation directed by Joe Wright from a screenplay by Christopher Hampton was released in September 2007 by Working Title Films.”

McEwan’s response:

http://books.guardian.co.uk/comment/story/0,,1957845,00.html

All in all a terrific book and a great BBC evening.

The next book is Bay of Contented Men by Robert Drewe and the club will be held at Dennis’s new abode and we look forward to that christening.

Grand Days - By Frank Moorhouse

2007-09-29T20:11:00.000+10:00

The BBC was wonderfully hosted by Andrew at his new abode. An intimate gathering of six (sorry about the long book everyone ... hope that wasn't too offputting!), and scored an average of 7. Members were intersted in the history Grand Days contained and generally found it a satsifying read. However its length, and as some would have it, padding, seemed to be its downfall. Here are the scores:

Dennis 8
Mark 8.5
Kevin 6.5
Leanne 8
Ewan 8
Helen 7.5
Andrew 7

Average: 7

These for and against comments from the My Favorite Book site on the ABC website reflected some of the comments put forward by BBC members:

For

Grand Days is simultaneously a delightful and delightfully strange exploration of the erotic possibilities of the self, or at least of Moorhouse's fictional alter-ego, Edith Campbell Berry. Edith is thrillingly alive and her journey is hilarious. It's something of a truism that Australian novels seldom deal with politics, even less often with international affairs, but Grand Days does both, evoking not just the times but allowing the reader new ways to think about the ambiguities of our place in the world, and the freedoms that they might allow us."

James Bradley"

Against

Frank Moorhouse is a master when it comes to short fiction or the kind of discontinuous narrative on which he built his reputation as one of Australia's finer authors. In Grand Days, however, he self-consciously attempts to write a "great novel" on an even greater canvas and it soon becomes clear that this is precisely the opposite of where his talent really lies. The book is a bottomless souffle. It starts with a certain frisson. But frissons, by definition, do not last for 700 pages. Most of Grand Days is effete and extraordinarily repetitious. Moorhouse's froth machine never runs dry, but only at the cost of recapitulating the same banal phrases, sometimes thrice on one page. Of course, there's nothing wrong with repetition per se, as long as the device is trained on some aesthetic purpose. But Moorhouse is so infatuated with his subject he can't even begin to tell when he's writing badly and there's too much bad writing in Grand Days to avoid the suspicion that all the padding is a sop to the author's vanity. Moorhouse wanted to write a fat novel. He did. Reading it, you can't help but crave the thin novel inside it."

Cameron Woodhead

See: http://www.abc.net.au/myfavouritebook/for_against/default.htm

Maybe the Moon - by Armistead Maupin

2007-08-29T11:53:00.000+10:00

Thanks for coming everybody, it was great to have you here. These are the scores for Maybe the Moon. Rather dammed with faint praise I'd say, although it scored reasonably well and was a good read.

Raj 7
Dennis 7
Mark 7
Kevin 7
Natalie 8
Helen 7
Henri 6

Average: 7

This snippet from a review at:

http://www.ciao.co.uk/Maybe_the_Moon_Armistead_Maupin__Review_5414512

succinctly summarises the BBC's general feeling about Maybe the Moon"

"Overall the book is character rather than plot based. Don’t expect action. It’s very bitter-sweet, but also has a good portion of humour. It gives a great portrait of Hollywood pretensions and hypocrisy. The central characters are flawed yet sympathetic. It’s slower than The Tales, but ultimately I think more moving. An excellent book with a lot to savour and learn from. I’ve found it’s one that stays in your memory."

"Maybe the Moon" by Armistead Maupin

2007-07-25T13:21:00.000+10:00

Maybe the Moon from 1993 has been chosen by Natalie and was well reviewed on publication, so we look forward to a good read there.

To accommodate members avialability the venue will be at Mark's place on Saturday 25 August at 3.00 ... so note the divergence from the norm here. A high tea as well as an appropriate afternoon cocktail will be served.

Pomegranate Soup Triumph

2007-07-25T13:08:00.000+10:00

Thanks so much to Natalie for her sterling effort in producing the real Pomegranate soup, a unique and surprisingly tasty dish that left my garm and sard uncustomarily well balanced!

Raj's choice of Pomegranate Soup was warmly recived and scored a respectable 7.22. The main critisisms were to do with some rather light plot and character devices and some stylisic weakenss. However the book was generally held to be a good, culturally interesting read and with readers being left with warm feelings toward it generally.

Raj 9
Leanne 7
Dennis 7
Mark 6
Kevin 6.5
Natalie 7
Helen 7
Henri 7

Average: 7.22

The Next Book is Pomegranate Soup by Marsha Mehran

2007-06-26T16:52:00.000+10:00

Huckleberry Finn - By Mark Twain

2007-06-26T16:33:00.000+10:00

A big thanks to Raj from all of us for his sublime hospitality on the eve of 25 June, mighty fine vittels, tasted bett'n anything befo or after, dats for sho!

Ewan 7
Raj 5.5
Leanne 5
Dennis 4
Mark 7
Kevin 2
Natalie 3
Andrew 7

Average: 5.1

The American Publice Broadcasting Service website notes the following regarding the significance of, and controversy surrounding, Huckleberry Finn:

Samuel Clemens, whose pen name is Mark Twain, publishes Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in 1885 in America. He has been at work for eight years on the story of an outcast white boy, Huck, and his adult friend Jim, a runaway slave, who together flee Missouri on a raft down the Mississippi River in the 1840s. The book's free-spirited and not always truthful hero as well as its lack of respect for religion or adult authority draw immediate fire from newspaper critics. The ungrammatical vernacular voice in which Huck narrates the book is also attacked as coarse and inappropriate. Some readers find the colorful stories Huck tells immoral, sacrilegious, and innapropriate for children. The Concord, MA, library bans Adventures of Huckleberry Finn a month after its publication, calling it "trash and suitable only for the slums." Other libraries follow suit.

In the decades after Twain's death in 1910, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn gains the status of a masterpiece. Novelist Ernest Hemingway remarks that "All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn," and other writers as diverse as American poet T.S. Eliot and African American novelist Ralph Ellison add their acclaim. It is increasingly studied at both the high school and college level, where its literary merit and the insights it offers into American society are praised. In particular, some consider Twain's satire to be a powerful attack on racism.

Others see Adventures of Huckleberry Finn not as an attack on racism, but as inherently racist itself. African Americans and others, led by the NAACP, begin to challenge the book in the 1950s, appalled by the novel's portrayal of the slave Jim and its repeated use of the word "nigger." The book is removed from some schools in the New York City school system, and its place on required reading lists is threatened in other cities.

Debates about Adventures of Huckleberry Finn continue to the present day. The crux of the controversy remains race, although some, notably Pulitzer Prize-winning author Jane Smiley, also assert that the book's reputation as a literary classic is exaggerated. In 1998, Kathy Monteiro, parent of a student in a Tempe, AZ, high school, sues the school district, claiming that an already tense racial environment was exacerbated by the assignment of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as required reading. Although the judges decline to ban the book, they do state that a school district has a legal duty to take reasonable steps to eliminate a racially hostile environment and can be held liable for damages if they fail to make this effort. While Monteiro and her supporters hail this as a victory, the questions of whether Adventures of Huckleberry Finn contributes to a racially hostile environment and whether it should be assigned in high school remain unresolved.

We Need To Talk About Kevin - By Lionel Shriver

2007-05-31T10:40:00.000+10:00

The BBC Meeting Mon 28 May was brilliantly hosted by our newest member Ewan, so a big thanks to Ewan for this sterling effort and for the knockout views.

Here are the scores for the We Need to Talk About Kevin:

Scott 9
Ewan 3
Andrew 9.5
Raj 7.5
Leanne 8
Dennis 4
Pauline 7
Mark 7
Kevin 9
Helen 9

Average 7.3

Clearly We Need to Talk About Kevin was a winner (although with a striking variance in scores) so thanks Scotty for that choice.

Of great interest, and mixed views, to BBC members were the nature vs nurture argument on human development. Our guest Pauline, who unlike most of us, is a parent, waivered strongly towards the nurture side, an interesting perspective for us ghetto dwellers. As is often the case on this issue there was great variance generally on the nature vs nurture issue on human nature generally.

A Synopsis from Wikipedia

“We Need to Talk About Kevin is a 2003 novel by Lionel Shriver, concerning a fictional school massacre. It is written from the perspective of the killer's mother, Eva Khatchadourian, and documents her attempt to come to terms with her son Kevin and the murders he committed. Although told in the first person as a series of letters from Eva to her husband, the novel's structure also strongly resembles that of a thriller. The novel, Shriver's seventh, won the 2005 Orange Prize, a UK-based prize for female authors of any nationality (although Shriver is American).

Shriver deliberately avoids arguments about media violence and gun control, to enable her to focus on the relative importance of innate characteristics and personal experiences in determining character and behaviour. (Kevin does not, in fact, use a gun to commit the killings.) The book is particularly concerned with the possibility that Eva's ambivalence toward maternity may have influenced Kevin's development.”

The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid - by Bill Bryson

2007-04-26T09:12:00.000+10:00

The BBC Meeting Mon 23 April was beautifully hosted by Helen, so a big thanks so much Helen. Pie never tasted as good as that in 50s America!

Here are the scores for the Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid:

Henri 7
Mark 7.5
Leanne 6
Raj 5.5
Dennis 5
Nathalie 5.5
Ewan 4
Kevin 6
Andrew 6
Helen TBA
Scott 7

Average: 5.95

The next BBC will be held at Ewan's, on 28 May, and the book is "We need to Talk about Kevin" by Lionel Shriver.

A Long Way Down” by Nick Hornby

2007-03-28T13:02:00.000+10:00

The BBC Meeting Mon 26 March was beautifully hosted by Scott, thanks so much Scott from the BBC members. Hope the red wine came out alright!

This month’s read was the funny, sad, and humane “A Long Way Down” by Nick Hornby. This novel asks some of the big questions about life, death and strangers. A Long Way Down is written in a highly accessible and contemporary way. Despite its serious theme, the mixing of suicide with comedy results in a struggle by the reader to engage in the characters’ internal lives or to hear their real voices, which relegates this novel to the populist genre. However its intergenerational mix, humor, and fairly accurate reflection of contemporary mores, does make it a satisfying read that makes a genuine contribution, which is likely to continue to be read and enjoyed.

Leanne 8
Mark 6.5
Dennis 9
Scott 6
Kevin 7
Henri 7
Nat 7
Helen 7.5
Andrew 8

Average 7.33

The next BBC will be held at Helen's, on 23 April, and the book is "The Thunderbolt Kid" by Bill Bryson

A Scathing Review - Enrique's Journey

2007-02-28T20:27:00.000+11:00

Nazario’s patronizing tome unintentionally highlights the problem of the Americas in general, seemingly portraying a world where a mother will sacrifice anything to ensure her children have access to Barbies and Nikes, let alone to food. Nevertheless her contribution to the debate surrounding the on-going suffering in Central America, juxtaposed with the rasping soulessness of contemporary American society, will probably ultimately assist in improving circumstances at least in some measure. In that sense Nazario achieves her journalistic objective, reliant though it may be on creating gory mental images.

What will they achieve though in a region where rotten governments swing from left to right in a macabre dance over the decades, always with the same extreme level of corruption leading to many of the population living in filth and degradation without access to basic necessities we take for granted. It was very interesting though to learn of the lengths the Central American mothers would go though to provide education for their offspring. Humbling as ever were the efforts made by some individuals to help others, however this condition of the Americas in general is the United States on crack …

In South America, below the Panama, there is a stronger connection with European sensibilities and firmer identity stemming from the various nations of origin and local cultures. With any luck in the longer term this part of Latin America, for all of its challenges, may emerge in better human shape than Central America, which might ultimately do better to look southward for its future than to the US.

Undoubtably Nazario’s observations, but lack of real empathy and ability to articulate what those in Enrique’s circumstances may experience, will provide her with a lifetime meal ticket. Her website demonstrates a classic cheesy American attitude toward her subject matter. She shows her American lack of internal life by assuming that her characters suffer the same fate. You’ve read the book, now see the mini series, It’ll be bigger than Roots but not half as soulful I suspect.

…. Maybe I’m wrong, am I too spoiled … maybe those who are uneducated and in dire need can't afford have complex or interesting feelings … what do you think? Check out the plethora of slobbering reviews and book sale sites across the internet. Is there no-one not making money out of Enrique!

Mark

Enrique's Journey Scores & Wrap

2007-02-28T20:16:00.000+11:00

The average score was a tad under 5 with Scott reserving his right to alter hisscore when he has read more of the book.

Andrew 7
Leanne 6.5
Mark 7
Dennis 1
Scott 5(TBC)
Kevin 5
Henri 2

Anyone who did not come along and has a score/comments please circulate. Dennis choice for the next book is 'A Long Way Down' by Nick Hornby (PenguinBooks). I believe the April book will be chosen by Henri. If anyone has theemail with the full year's listing that I sent out - please send it back to me!Next get together is on Monday March 26th at 7.30 at either Scott's place or aplace of his choosing - either way it will be in the Cleveland Street SurryHills area.T oodlepip for now. Kevin

The Kite Runner BBC review scores & video

2007-01-24T10:51:00.000+11:00

On Mon 22 Jan the BBC met, with fine hospitality by Henri, to discuss The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. The Kite Runner met with very mixed reviews ... see a little video & scores below. Members welcome to post their own comments about this book.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZibnXUHVSo

Scores for 'The Kite Runner'

Kevin - 9
Mark - 7.5
Helen - 6
Nathalie - 8.5
Henri - 8
Scott - 8
Ewan - 4
Dennis - 3
Andrew - 2
Liane - 7
Stewert - 7.5

Ewan

2007-01-22T10:22:00.000+11:00

Marocs

It was good. Back in Jessie's bed, we made love like the first time.

It's strange how being apart makes reunions so passionate. Like strangers we learnt how to make love again. New surprises, a caress that was just slightly different than past routines, has me in shivers of excitement. It was though I was with a new lover.

Jessie surprised me whenever I got back from work assignments. Each time she would be more uninhibited, more willing to please me, almost shocking me with her own desires. And this time, there was a new dimension to her lust. All the small things that would normally annoy, the sand on the sheets, just added to the exoticness of our reunion.

Afterwards, as we rested in the afternoon heat, Jessie's sticky body next to mine, I decided it was the sensuality of the beach that had so aroused her. Beaches do it to me, too. I love the indulgence, the naked flesh, the warm water, couples frolicking. Everywhere, the mating ritual. Everyone feels young and lazy in the afternoon heat. Pheromones rule.

It was going to be a great fortnight. We had the place to ourselves. Jessie's kids had been packed-off to their father for Christmas. I would see them for a week afterwards, which was enough. Jessie had already spent the best part of a week with them anyway. Now it was our time. We could make love anytime we wanted and anywhere in our little beach shack.

I'd been working in Borneo. While there was ocean everywhere, the beaches were too hot and humid, the locals too inhibited, the water murky and the sand too covered in coral debris to elicit the same desires. No beach sensuality there, not where I was working. The only sensuality to be found in this oil area was in the dark, smoky, over air-conditioned bars, frequented by foreign workmen and the very young, beautiful girls who would entertain us. These girls, with their delicate, strong hands, working our shoulders and serving us beer, removed stress and loneliness. Management payed a commission for every drink we bought. We bought lots.

Of course they were available. The older girls were there for the cash, the younger ones were there in the distant hope that they would be taken away from their poverty by some handsome westerner. The young girls were the easiest to tease, to woo, but you might have to wait a week or two before they would shyly accept an invitation back to your room. The older girls were more practical. They weren't really old. They were still very young and beautiful, no more than twenty most of them. It's hard to tell with some of these girls, but you knew which ones were past the naive stage. These girls knew what the going rates were and they had no pretensions about love and romance. They might even have families for all we knew.

And none of these girls were virgins or lacking skills in bed. I can vouch for that.

And now I was lying in bed with Jessie, wondering where the hell she got the skill of a whore from Borneo.

It was the beach. It must be the summer beach.

Jessie and I had a sort of open relationship. We’ve been going together for just over two years. We had no pledge of fidelity. We both lived busy lives, with busy careers. Jessie had custody of her two children, which kept her busy enough. I travelled frequently. Our rule was when we were together, we were lovers. When we were apart, we were best friends. Always sending each other emails or calling each other most days. It fitted us. I never asked about any other relationships she might have, she never asked me. We left it like that.

I'd been looking forward to this holiday together. Just the two of us. I'd booked and paid for this house right on the beach at Avoca. It was expensive, but I wanted it to be just right. Jessie had it for the first week with the kids, which was my Chrissy prezzie to them before they went back to Sydney. Jessie had a couple of days by herself before I could get here.

After our afternoon reunion, we went down to the surf to wash off, playing like two children. What a joy it was to be with the one you love. We wandered down to the village and bought a bottle of chardonnay and some fish and chips, sat on the beach as the sun set and had our feast, drinking straight from the bottle. We barely made it inside before we made love again. And again, Jessie had the ferocity of a Borneo whore. The world could not be better.

At breakfast the next morning, we caught up with each others lives. We hadn't had a chance to call each other since the week before. I wanted to know how my present went with the kids and how she coped by herself. She admitted she was a bit lost, left to herself. It's not often she's alone. What am I saying, she's never alone. I couldn't get much detail from her on this point, other than for her to say, she missed me so much.

We walked, we read, we played on the beach, then went back to the house to make love. I tried not to think how she had acquired these new lovemaking skills. That was her business. I was just thankful that I was her object of desire at this very moment.

I woke in the early evening to an empty bed. I stole naked to the bathroom, showered, and dressed in a sarong went looking for Jessie. She was not to be seen. I went looking for my sandals lost somewhere in the bedroom. I didn't immediately find them, but I found a Maroc box with a couple of cigarettes intact, just on the floor on the window side of the bed. How unusual to find a cigarette packet in Jessie's bedroom. She didn't smoke. She never smoked.

And such an unusual brand. I'd never seen these before. I examined the box. It had an elaborate design of Arabic and English characters, highly decorated in red and gold. It was similar to an elaborate small cigar box, but far more decorated than any I'd ever seen. The cigarettes were surely not available locally, been made in Morocco. Someone must have bought them from overseas.

I wondered what story they must silently be hiding to end up besides Jessie's bed.

I knew it was none of my business. I slipped the empty packet into my bag. Distractedly, I went down to the beach, and there was no Jessie to be seen. I sat on the sand, and just waited, wondering. The passing parade of people kept me amused.

Finally, Jessie called me back to the house. She had slipped out to the shops while I was sleeping. We breakfasted, and afterwards went down to the sand and huddled together, talking about nothing in particular. It was good.

That night we retired early. Jessie quickly went to sleep, but I couldn't for quite some time. Jet-lag. I listened to the thunderous roar of the surf. It's so much louder at night, just like my heartbeat. I watched the soft light from the moon flood the room. I couldn't stop thinking about the Marocs.

Days passed. Each day, the Marocs would eat a little deeper into me. I didn't mind Jessie having lovers. But why did she need to have some cheap fling at a house that I'd paid for? Couldn't she wait just a couple of days for me to arrive? Each time I saw some guy smoking, I would look carefully to see if I could recognise anything distinctive about the cigarettes.

And each day, her ardent sexual vitality would make me just a little more uncomfortable. Slightly repulsed. I became increasingly withdrawn. Engaging less and less, I was happier for us to go to the local movie theatre, or just hang out at the bar, than to have to endure an evening together. I went for long solitary walks, surfed far longer than normal. All so I could avoid the senseless talk we would otherwise have had. I knew I had no right to be jealous and refused to give into it. I savagely repressed the green monster deep within my chest. And each day it grew stronger.

I picked at loose threads. I slowly worked out that when Alan came for the kids on the Thursday, it was too late for him to go straight back to Sydney. He stayed over. He slept on the couch. Sure. He had an early swim with the kids and then they left.

While I'd only met Alan briefly in the past, I was sure he didn't smoke. And if he did, he certainly wouldn't smoke something so exotic. It couldn't be Alan.

By the time Alan returned with the kids, I was very down. Jessie had started to complain about my behaviour. I had ruined our little romantic holiday. I could barely wait to return to Borneo.

With the kids back, Jessie was at least occupied. I would wander along the beach, read the paper at the beachside café, and avoid the house. Jessie determinedly had her holiday, a little revived with the attentions of her young ones.

Finally, I found him. The cigarettes put off a strong scent of spices that could not be ignored. He was at the café. The cigarette box, too distinctive to miss lying on the table. His sun burnt skin, thin weak arms and lined face, crowned with soft wispy grey hair. Almost effeminate, he wore white linen pants, a soft apricot polo top and ridiculously large dark sunglasses.

I was disgusted that Jessie could have bothered with such a creature. I would have understood if it was one of the many bronze beach gods but not this pompous faded relic. And how could she have learnt the things she did from him.

I had to leave. I went back to the house, declared I was leaving, and started packing my bag. Jessie was taken aback and a little angry, her little toddlers looking on confused. She wanted to know what had got into me. I refused to say. She demanded to know. I thought what the hell, you whore, you've ruined our little sojourn, you may as well have the reason shoved into your face. It was over, anyway.

I pulled the Moroccan cigarette box from my bag and threw it on the bed, like a trump card, declaring I guess you know who owned these. Jessica was completely blank. Before she could declare me totally insane, little Luke ran over and grabbed them, crying they're mine, I found them first, where did you find them?

Scotty

2007-01-16T19:47:00.000+11:00

The Mixed Business of Babylon

Oh Mohammed! Jesus Christ! You can’t call it that. No, no, no.

Blissfully unaware he was blaspheming two prophets in the same sentence, Mr Tan Singh called up from the foot of the borrowed ladder to another Mohammed, who was precariously balancing a large, red, plastic O.

Whyever not Mr Singh?

Tan held up his hands in mock disgust looking left and then right to an imaginary audience, flashing a big smile under his handlebar moustache.

Because you simply cannot have a store called that.

A white man with a dog stopped to look up. He squinted in the bright sunshine at the figure up the ladder, the Indian immediately welcoming him into his argument.

Can you Sir? I mean not here. Not in Australia. It’s not even Australian.
The white man stared blankly at the wide figure of Mr Singh, then back up at Mohammed who levered the ‘O’ back off the wall and balanced it between his sandals on top of the ladder. The dog sat down. Mohammed thought for a moment.

Mr Singh. Forgive me, but your shop is called ‘Flavour of India’ is it not?

Tan sighed and fixed his turban. Yes Mohammed. But it is a restaurant. A food place that sells twelve types of Southern Indian food from mild butter chicken to very hot Vindaloo. Poppadoms. Sag Allo. Samosa. The Lot. To eat in or take away.

Yes, yes. I know what a restaurant is. What I don’t know is the point you are trying to make. He stepped down twice to get a batter balance and held the big O with one hand. The fat man’s dog was sniffing around as if to pee. Tan rolled his eyes and sighed rather over-dramatically, Mohammed thought, and entirely for the benefit of his other six-legged audience.

“Mohammed. Although presently called simply FLAV you wish to hang these various plastic letters”, Tan gestured with his hand, “to call your shop ‘FLAVOUR OF AFGHANISTAN’ right?”
Mohammed nodded, curious as to what was coming next.
But you sell everything in your shop from bread and newspapers to plastic combs for the hair.
And…what?
Well, does golden Pide bread – Turkish bread – have a flavour of Afghanistan?

No.

Do any of your daily newspapers come in Afghani? Or Pakistani? Or Iranian even?

Mohammed shook his head. “No. All English.”

Singh nodded slowly, pondering theatrically and rocking gently back and forward like a Bollywood barrister.

Tell me, does a plastic comb have a Flavour of Afghanistan?

No. You are being silly. Of course not!

Tan’s eyes lit up, he snapped his finger in the air and blurted out. “That’s right! NO Mohammed. I think you’ll find it has a flavour of Made in China.” The big Indian gestured towards his shop just three doors away. “There is the real Flavour if India. The customers, they will be confused if they see a Flavour of Afghanistan next door. Especially when nothing inside your store has a flavour of such a country.

He had a point, thought Mohammed, who had struggled for some days to find a new name for his Uncle’s business. I am still learning to speak English Mr Singh.

Come now Mohammed – you speak better English than some white Australians. Tan almost laughed and waived his finger piously. That is no excuse my friend. And please, you have been here for 3 years in this beautiful country. The fact is that your Uncle’s shop is a mixed business and should have a name that reflects it’s status.

It was true. The little shop had changed little over the years. You could still spot the old Christmas decorations in the corners from some years ago and the shop was as old and tired as Mohammed’s Uncle Mustaf, the owner. It was tough to keep going, and business was slowing. The shop was slowly being surrounded by encroaching chrome and coffee filled bistros and in truth, it needed far more than a simple change of name. But Mohammed couldn’t think about such things right now. Perched high on the ladder and still clutching his big red O, Mohammed was just about to ask aloud if ‘Fruits of Paradise’ might be a suitable alternative when the white man with the dog interrupted him to ask if he sold ladies stockings.

Mohammed said he didn’t. The man tutted and mumbled something nobody could hear, shrugged and pulled his dog away.

Descending from above, then carefully leaning the red O beside the shop doorway, Mohammed looked at Mr Singh, who was beaming a smile back at the younger man.

“What you need to call it,” he said proudly with all the confidence of a man who could offer 12 choices of hot main course, “is The Mixed Business of Babylon.”

“The Mixed Business of Babylon. Yes. Yes, I like it Mr Singh”. Mohammed stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Very much.” Not wanting to dampen the enthusiasm of the Indian, Mohammed stared at the ground. Tan pulled out a small Moroccan cigarette box and offered the younger man a smoke, seemingly immensely pleased with himself. “Well?”

Mohammed shifted uncomfortably. “No thank you Mr Singh. I don’t smoke. Good Muslims don’t”. Tan spluttered on his first puff. "Good Muslims don’t smoke? They bloody smoke alright when they blow themselves up, no?” Even Mohammed laughed.

Ah Mr Singh…always the funniest…anyway, while the name is good and certainly unique enough, and I am most grateful to you for your creative blessing, Babylon is not in Afghanistan. Nor has it ever been.”

“So what? It is a good name, and most Australians wouldn’t care because they think we’re all darkies anyway, so it really doesn’t matter. It’s a good name!”

“That may be so. But, it would be like calling your own restaurant, ‘Flavour of Pakistan’ or ‘Flavour of Norway instead of Flavour of India as it is rightfully called. Anything else would be wrong.”

But Tan had waved him away. “The Mixed Business of Babylon is a good name, and unique! People will love it, it sounds exotic and full of promise. And nobody will ever get confused or accuse of you of trying to steal a flavour that rightly belongs to another country.”

“But Babylon is not in Afghansitan! It was in Iraq, thousands of Kilometres away.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t exist anymore Mohammed. So how can people possibly get confused about a place if it no longer exists!? Tell me that, eh? And one more thing, said Tan, If I were you, I’d hide the fact that I was from Afghanistan at all. You’ll be thought of as a terrorist, straight out of a Bin Laden training camp. No more selling plastic combs for you my friend. Off to the concentration camps at again.”

Mohammed smiled at Tan’s good natured reference to the immigration detention centre – a place in the outback where he had spent an uncomfortable three months. Well, perhaps your suggestion might not be so bad after all Mr Singh.

And you can still use your ‘O’. said Tan, pointing at the letter while walking away, puffing on his cigareete as he went. He pointed. Although I wouldn’t paint it red. Yellow will attract more customers.

And at this, Mohammed turned away and resigned himself to get on with his day and arrange some new letters for the sign above his Uncles’ shop. All of which were going to be large, bright and definitely red.

Mi Buenos Aires

2007-01-16T13:08:00.000+11:00

Hi Billingsgaters. I tried a moviette, continuing on this black & white nostagia theme, from a digital camera footage I took in Argentina. It's meant to be grainy and all that ... but not this grainy!! - when I converted it for youtube it went really rough. Still ... a first attempt, and what fun it was to try it out, Mark

at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWCgLbSU_VU

Natalie

2006-12-31T13:48:00.000+11:00

3 Shades of Blue

I’m floating in one of those fancy swimming pools, where it seems that the water of the pool overflows into the ocean. I look up to the cobalt blue sky, yeah, there are definitely worse places to relax, especially after what happened the day before.

It was one of those days when everything seems to go wrong and Murphy’s Law is invented just for you. Leaving early in the morning I preordered a taxi, just to make sure one would be available at 7AM. At 7:02 AM I call the taxi service, 3min 22 seconds later I get a person on the line. Not too bad, that’s quicker than average. I sometimes wonder all the niceties people say to these automated machines. I feel like cursing most of the time, and sometimes I do; but mostly I try to outwit the machine. ‘Please state your destination now’ the machine would ask, and I would say something like heaven. ‘I repeat, your destination is Craven’. If I say to the loo, the machine would answer Waterloo; and when I tried top of the world, I learned that it’s actually an existing place. It had become a bit of a game to try to fool the automated answering machines and I would time how long it would take the machine to finally give up on giving me more and more options (none of which usually apply to me) and I would get a real person at the other end of the fiber optic line. Anyway, I scolded the operator for my taxi not showing up. ‘I’m afraid we have no booking for you at this moment, but we have one for 7PM. You want a taxi now?’ Of course I do, otherwise I’ll miss my plane!

I’m squeezed between a fat ugly woman who smells a bit rancid and a Chinese guy picking his nose. Nice! Where are the cute guys when you want them!
‘Dear passengers, please do not panic, we are going to make an emergency landing’. I open my eyes, close them again, did I just hear what I think I heard? Am I having a bad dream? I open my eyes again and the look on the other passenger’s faces is telling enough. If the pilot wished for undivided attention, he got it. ‘We have some technical problems and need to have them checked. We will fly to the nearest possible airport where we are authorized to land. We thank you for your cooperation and ask you to remain seated with your seatbelt fastened’.
It takes a couple of seconds for things to sink in. Surely this must be a joke, are we being X-ed or something? I think about all the corny books I’ve read where it states that in the last moments of life you see your life flashing by. Not me. The only thing I can think of is: A. why did I never pay attention to the safety instruction and B. who should I pick for a last hug when we go crashing down: the fat lady or the nose picking Chinese? Where are the cute guys when you need them!
I start to look frantically for the plasticized safety instructions but my brain does not want to register what I’m trying to read. Should I ask the crew to repeat their safety routine? None of the crew is in sight and I wonder if that’s a good sign or a bad one. Did they hide themselves in the back of the plane, the place with the highest survival rate when planes go crashing down? Or was it the front? Why else would they put business & first in the head of the plane? Does the crew have somewhere a secret stash of parachutes and are they preparing themselves to open the door at a lower altitude and jump out of the plane while the rest of us is sucked out of the plane?
I try to calm myself by looking out of the window. Somewhere between the triple chin and the bosom of the fat lady I see that we are flying over the ocean. So where are we? We left Sydney 5 hours ago, so we must be somewhere flying over the Pacific Ocean. But where are we going to land? I try to find the TV channel with the real time flying path but it seems they closed the entertainment system. Oho, that’s definitely not a good sign! I take the flight magazine out of the seat pocket and look on the map to guess where we should be. I trace a line with my finger from Sydney up to Hong Kong. West Papua, could that be it? West Papua where regularly violent clashes occur between the military and the independence fighters? No, not where I want to land. I trace with my finger a bit higher. Southern Philippines. Even worse, that’s where the JI has a stronghold and they target specifically Westerners. I remember the many kidnappings of relief workers and even tourists some time ago in the region. I look around on the map for a save haven, but it seems all the places on the map are involved in some kind of conflict. I feel the airplane making a left turn. The voice of the captain comes on again.

We land safely in Kota Kinabalu, the capital of Sabah in Malaysian Borneo. Later it turned out that some moron was smoking a joint in the toilets, the alarm malfunctioned and the smoke was sucked trough the ventilating system right into the cockpit, causing the necessary alarm there. After some hassle with the local bureaucrats about paperwork and probably some bribes to be paid, the doors of the aircraft are finally opened and we are released on the tarmac. Never felt so good to have bitumen under my feet. I feel like the pope and want to kiss the ground but hearing my Chinese co-passenger snort and spit, I reconsider.

We are transferred in small groups to hotels in the vicinity of the airport. We pass small markets on the way and when the van stops at the red light, vendors come up to the car selling everything from banana’s, dried fish & red bull to Moroccan cigarette boxes. I wonder if I should get one to give as a Christmas present to my friend as she likes this kind of stuff but the van is moving already.

My mobile buzzes and a text message says: your requested taxi for 7 PM is on its way.

... Kevin, more about the BBC

2006-12-22T15:23:00.000+11:00

As you can imagine there can be huge variances in the score. The setting for the get together so far has always been somebody's house. A great meal, washed down by excellent wines and lively discussions. As they used to say in school newsletters " a good time was had by all." The book is chosen by one of the group with no restrictions being placed - new, an old classic, something they've already read, poetry, fiction - we even had a graphic novel. Books in 2006 have included Small Island, V for Vendetta, Jane Eyre, Running with Scissors, Life of Pi, Regeneration & The Kite Runner to name but a few.

Why Billingsgate? No other reason then I thought it sounded good.
Billingsgate is an area of London (the city where I grew up) and is famous for its Fish Markets. Billingsgate was originally a general market for corn, coal, iron, wine, salt, pottery, fish and miscellaneous goods but became associated exclusively with the fish trade until the sixteenth century. In 1699 an Act of Parliament was passed making it 'a free and open market for all sorts of fish whatsoever'. The only exception to this was the sale of eels which was restricted to Dutch fishermen because they had helped feed the people of London during the Great Fire.

I digress. For Christmas we decided to have a special get together and it would be our turn to write. We each wrote a piece with the stipulation it had to contain the phrase 'Moroccan Cigarette Case', have something to do with Christmas and be around 1500 words. The stories were then given to other group members to read and we each had to guess who wrote what (a bit like the board game Balderdash) and also vote on which story we thought was the best. Henri's won the most favourite category and Leanne guessed 7 of the 11 authors! Overall the consensus was that the quality of stories was nothing short of fantastic. Most of us hadn't written since school.

Peruse & enjoy!

Kevin
Secretary General - BBC

Leanne

2006-12-22T15:07:00.000+11:00

Off Time

“Isabella!” came in loudly from the front door.
“I’m up here in bed”, she called back.

She could hear Tom taking the stairs two at a time and suddenly it seemed like he’d come home too soon, instead of three days later than she’d expected. Isabella rhythmically tapped the screen to smooth the covers. She needed to compose herself. She didn’t want him to be angry at her for having had such a stupid accident.

“It’s the middle of the day. What are you doing in bed?” asked Tom as he leant over to airbrush her forehead with a kiss. Seeing his well bred wife gave him such intense satisfaction. She was a reflection of his talent as much as of her own.

“What’s happened to you?” he asked again as he straightened up and sat down on the bed. “Stop tapping the screen,” he chided.
“I’m just straightening the covers. Don’t mess them up and don’t laugh at me either”, she said in reply.
“Why are you? What have you done…? asked Tom

“I’m fine”, she said.

“That’s not what I asked my love” he said. “Just tell me what I’m not supposed to laugh at. And stop it – the covers are perfect!”

It was never easy finding the right grafts for a woman as beautiful as Isabella, but that was the joy of it for Tom. When Isabella got sick of wearing glasses he’d pored over downloads for 17 months to find a pair of non modified almond shaped cornflower blue eyes. The colour was predetermined by Isabella’s own natural colour. The shape had revealed itself to him slowly as he traveled across the globe scrutinising cultivated offsprings’ eyes. Tom realised over that time that he needed matching eyelids if the transplant was going to be worth it. Isabella had been lucky that way. Tom was an aesthete with enough money to indulge both of their tastes. They were a great match. And they were in love – such an old world outmoded luxury.

Three years ago as a surprise for Christmas Tom had bid in a twelve hour frenzy for the hands of 19 year old virtuoso Nadya Lim, simply because Isabella had said in passing that she wished she could play the piano. Poor Nadya had died in a head on collision and no amount of fame or money could keep you off the donor register if you were born in a Grow zone. Isabella’s wedding ring hadn’t needed resizing, and if she ever decided to take up piano she could span an octave no problem at all. She loved it how her life always seemed to work out now.

“I’m fine darling. I was just waiting for you to get home before I went into Off Time so I could tell you why I was resting.” Pointing at the release tube she said “So pass me my drip n trip ….”

“Hold on, hold on”, Tom interrupted. “You haven’t told me what happened yet.” Tom pulled back the covers to check that everything looked alright.

“Cover Up”, she said waspishly to the screen.

“Look just tell me what happened”, said Tom. “And if you tap that screen one more time I’ll break your hand and get you an arthritic three fingered one instead.”

“Empty threats from a man like you”, countered Isabella. “But anyway – I fell over at tennis on Tuesday. The court was all slippery from the rain and I was running forward to return the serve and badaboombadabam! Landed really badly. Bruised my arse, hurt my wrist, but my hands are ok. And I wrecked my ankle. Dr Lowe came straight over. The x-ray’s on the dresser.” Isabella pointed past the drip ‘n trip kit to a large envelope beneath her mirror.

Reaching over Tom shook his head. “Babe, I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but you know the court wasn’t wet. It’s all in your head when you and H play tennis. He’s not real. The rain’s not real. You can’t fall over if you’re not even standing up to play the game.”

“Look – how ever it happened, it happened Mr No Imagination. I fell, I broke my ankle, I need a new foot. One foot, two feet, a matching pair – I don’t care – you decide. I only need it for mobility – you’re the one with the foot fetish and the eye fetish and the flawless wife fetish. I just need a body that works. And I really need some rest. There’s no point being conscious if all I’ve got to do is worry about the pas de deuxs I won’t be executing anymore is there? Pass the d&t please my love. And promise you won’t wake me until you’ve found the perfect fit.”

“Of course not Belle”, said Tom. He leant in to approximate a kiss on the lips and made a mental note to check them later for lines. Pursing them around words like ‘unimaginative’ and ‘fetid foot’ was cause for concern.

Three months later and Tom knew he’d hit the jackpot. Here in front of him was a perfect size 37, unblemished, delicate looking left foot. It was still intact – owner and all. The skin was milky white, with no darkening of veins bulging to the surface. No patches of hard skin on or under the foot. Tom couldn’t believe how many vendors were oblivious to details like elongated or stubby digits, hair in places it shouldn’t be, split nails, cracked heels, scars from warts and other injuries. The foot in front of him was the very first flawless sample he’d been shown. Isabella would be as happy with this foot as he was. It was just a shame that the owner didn’t want to sell the pair.

Tom reached into his breast coat pocket for his Morrocan cigarette case holder. The case had been in his family for 12 generations and it was a constant reminder of how precious rare olden times possessions and notions were. He tapped out a cigarette ready to start negotiations. He started to lean back with the confidence of the rich and free born but froze mid extension as he was suddenly struck by the beauty of the owner/occupier.

Nadia was an amazing looking Muscovite with the limbs of a thoroughbred. Green eyes, long hair, 182 cm tall and the beauty of youth. A visage so perfect that now that Tom was looking at her he forgot momentarily which part he wanted for his wife. Nadia’s lips were perfect, maybe he could have those too? Her hair was amazing and her expression so innocent. He knew he couldn’t buy that for Isabella. He was falling headlong for the second time ever.

It was funny – Isabella’s name had been Nadia too. It was the most popular name on the farmer’s children register. Well – for daughters at least. Tom had nearly erased that part of Belle’s life out of his memory. He’d almost forgotten that he’d come to a meeting similar to this one about twelve years ago with the object of procuring a nose for his wife Jane. He’d looked at Isabella’s nostrils, tapped the cartilage for density, inspected the nasal hair on the inside and the condition of the skin on the outside. When he was satisfied that this was the nose Jane had to have he’d pulled his gaze back from the centre of Isabella’s face to look her in the eye and start negotiations. He was as startled then as he was now with the beauty absolute that sat before him.

Isabella didn’t need mobility in Off Time and Tom could see her there any time he liked. Maya would be the perfect name for a goddess like Nadia.

Dennis

2006-12-22T15:01:00.000+11:00

A Gift

All her fault. Even after all this time that thought came unbidden to Lauren’s mind. Her doctor had taught her that this was a self defeating thought, and he was right rather more often than not. Pity about the name though. Dr Love. You’d really want to change that wouldn’t you? I mean he was a shrink for heavens sake, and the moniker was just a little too Bris-Vegas for her tastes. A little too eighties. Still he was highly regarded – and undeniably good for her. And just quietly, his somewhat dazzling green eyes and honey tan didn’t make it too hard to keep appointments either. She smiled to herself briefly, and abruptly shook off the distraction and strode forward.

The noise as she walked seemed inordinate. Why did she wear these shoes? Why on this morning when invisibility was all she craved did these ridiculously deafening Ferragamo sandals leap on to her feet? Why did these vulgar places insist on such polished terrazzo nightmares underfoot anyway. Why pay tribute to mobility carts and vomit reparation? Why was she enduring this? These sandals should be whispering over warm soft sand she thought, A memory of softly waving date palms, and bright bright stars surfaced again as she wistfully recalled another kind of palm clasped warmly within her own. But that was another younger time before the reality of sweat and middle aged embarrassment robbed the delight from impulsive action. Grown women don’t do that sort of thing, no matter who makes their shoes.

It had taken her a year to make that first appointment. December. Everything always seemed to start and finish at Xmas. A year later she first told him of the gift. Another year and his insights had brought her here. Some things cannot be destroyed - but they can be passed on.

A sharp squeal shattered her brief reverie, bringing reality into sharp focus rather too closely in front of her. A small dark haired girl was mercilessly beating a somewhat larger boy with all the concentration of a prize fighter. Evidently she thought the pram in which he was seated was rightfully hers. And too be perfectly honest it did appear rather too small for his troll like girth. But the shrill wail emanating from his chocolate crusted mouth could have flayed flesh from bone. A precious talent highly sought after by certain Korean dictators no doubt, but apparently unnoticed by his mother who stood impervious to the weapon of mass destruction she had spawned and the pummeling he endured.

Lauren reacted with pity. Motherhood was a road she could never even contemplate walking – even in exquisite sandals. The responsibility of another psyche in her care? God knows it had taken enough time and cash in therapy to navigate her own way out of the minefield of parental trauma, without laying a fresh field for the next generation.

p.2

Her eyes flicked to the grubby pink sneakers. With an involuntary shudder, she saw the woman she might have been. There but for the grace of Prada, clutching a slightly rusted shopping trolley and dreaming of exotic warmth -just like her. Difference was the troll mother would never stroll across warm African sands at midnight, even in grubby sneakers, and the two sweaty palms she regularly clutched were smaller than the one Lauren’s fantasy evoked. Even in the midst of warm memories, the turning points in your life sometimes hit you with the suddenness of a snowball. Cold and hard and there all along if you only thought to scoop it all together yourself first. A rare joy flowed through her, and suddenly -in that moment- enduring this Christmas became easier than before. And that was a change for the better at least.

She had spent her first Christmas in this country sitting next to the scarecrow that had once housed her father’s vibrant energy. Even as he lay on the metal bed and the cancer ate away the remnants of his bowel he still reached for the gift she had given him so thoughtlessly in a colder climate all those years before. An African treasure whose beauty surpassed the status of mere souvenir. Each time she had passed it to him, she discovered how much pain a smile could cover.

Xmas had just never felt right since. She tried blaming the heat. It’s easier to escape in a Winter Season. They have things to drink that will warm you inside when you have nothing left to warm yourself. They call them spirits for a reason. And they help. At least for a while… till you feel better…or warmer at least… more spirited. Next year I’ll go where it’s snowing she decided yet again. It’s a different view. A great concealer - the truth not erased, but completely hidden. Wrapped. Not even Xmas morning can tear its away its cover. Nature is much more sensible than man. But then she’s a woman and they are supposed to understand intrigue. Mother Mata Hari…

In successive years she had discovered this seductively warm land of beer and prawns cloaked a dangerous ennui. Even though the December light has a dazzling clarity, everyone wears shades. You can still see, but everything is greyer, and it had caused her to delay for too long.

The wailing had stopped and Lauren suddenly realized she was still staring at the woman. Unnerved by Laurens intensity, the woman smiled uncertainly and grabbing the two malignant offspring, maneuvered her collection of wheeled accessories with surprising dexterity towards K-mart. Hopefully to shop for shoes. But she had already given Lauren an unintentional gift and so thus bolstered, she ignored the distracting sandals and strode towards her goal with a new sense of purpose.

p.3

She placed the parcel nonchalantly amid the others, hoping no one could detect what it cost her to make that seemingly most simple of gestures. Another piece of the past shed ...or lost. Released perhaps – but never forgotten of course. Still she felt a new hope rising inside. Well it was Christmas wasn’t it? Surely it had been hope that had kept the yearly Christian festive season… well…festive? That and Westfield of course. Here with their echoing floors and massive Charity tree. Nevertheless she couldn’t deny the thrill of discovering a little hope resurfacing even at the beginning of her fourth decade. Surely that counts for something she thought with a smile. Looking up she could see the shiny baubles of hope sparkling amid the pine branches above. Ho ho hope. She noticed the lights seemed to twinkle brighter on the tree. For a brief moment the baubles shone like rhinestones on a Bassey gown.

He stepped dutifully toward the tree - a sacrifice before its pagan lusts. At its foot the blood of a thousand new disappointments lay veiled in the gaudy bondage of good intentions. Looking up he could see the shiny baubles of commercialism clinging precariously to the fake plastic branches. He thought they looked faded - like a theatre costume whose fragile glamour was now rancid with the sweat of too many encores. Never again he had sworn. Never ever again. But here only 12 months later the resolve that seemed carved so deeply into his heart a year ago lay shattered for the 12th time. One month to forget each year-and 12 days of Christmas. Perhaps coincidence was cheaper by the dozen too.

The bright blue bow untied easily as the slim young man pulled at its ends. Underneath the unruly bright red hair his green eyes marveled at the shiny expensive paper beneath. In all his life he could never remember receiving such a beautifully wrapped present. Presents were rare anyway, when you had as few parents as he did. And now a stranger had randomly passed this special beauty to him. To be his own special Christmas gift.

The white paper unfolded by itself. No need of tape here with such meticulous creases at each corner. He paused for a moment then withdrew the slender wooden box within. Confusion creased his forehead then slowly eased as he turned it over, running the tips of his fingers lightly over the intricate inlaid pattern. As he did, a panel slid open to reveal a series of hollow tubes. A bullet case he thought uncertainly. Then as the final realization dawned he smiled and quickly concealed the unexpected contraband. How on earth did this slip through? The perfect excuse. A New Years resolution that now need never be made. And the smiling 12 year old boy headed for the tobacconist to fill the magazine of the darkly beautiful Moroccan cigarette case.

Rajah

2006-12-22T14:58:00.000+11:00

The Moroccan Cigarette Case

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house…….. there was Chaos (with a capital “C”). My dear but irascible niece, Corrine, had for some incomprehensible reason known only to her, decided that she must be married on the 27th of December. She had tried to explain to both her mother and myself but the explanation seemed not to contain much reason. Something about it being such a joyous romantic time of year. I suppose such things make sense when you’re twenty-two and I’ve obviously become a cynical old fool.She had also decided that she absolutely must leave from my house. “Your artwork would make a much better backdrop for the pictures… please Uncle G…”. So there we all were, my sister-in law more than slightly miffed that Corrine would want to reject her mother’s home, and the rest of us thanking God for the innovation of central air conditioning in a globally warmed Sydney summer. I had never really understood Corrine. Her brothers were so much easier to deal with. Boys are so much more straight forward to bring up they used to say, the ubiquitous “they”. I used to think that was faintly insulting point of view, having been a young person capable of extremely intricate emotional intensity…. But perhaps that only applies to gay young persons. The boys are uncompromisingly straight. But Corrine…She’s uncompromisingly complicated. Wilful and forthright or wily and fey in turn, she sails through life with the supreme confidence of one who just knows that everyone adores her. Except for me, or at least that’s how it used to be.It is perhaps the great regret of my life that Peter and I never had children. A simple physical impossibility you might say, but we thought of surrogacy, adoption and many other alternatives before giving up in our late forties, when we decided that we were too old anyway. It has been, then, with great gratitude that I have accepted the generosity of my brother and his wife in sharing their children with me. Oh, I know that it hasn’t been entirely unselfish on their part. When the three were quite young, they could be an exhausting package and I occasionally took one or two of them away for a weekend just to give their parents a rest. Corrine, though wasn’t keen on my company at first. She was the youngest and only daughter and therefore to be adored, or so she instinctively believed, but she became aware quite early on of my disapproving stares at her attempts to stretch her parents’ patience to breaking point. In time, though, we made our peace and as she grew into a sensible young lady so did our mutual respect and liking. I had always loved her as I did her brothers as if they were my own .How could I not, when they all have so much of my only brother in them? And so it came to pass that on this roasting Christmas Eve, while wedding planners and bridesmaids bustled below, I sat my eyrie study and pondered the beautiful cigarette case I had almost decided to give Corrine as a wedding gift. Ridiculous perhaps, as she doesn’t and has never smoked but it is a beautiful thing and she has always admired it. She knows how much I treasure it so I hope she will too.It is inlaid with many coloured woods and most certainly was made in Morocco or thereabouts and so it was unusual that I should find it in the markets of Florence, but there it was one sparkling autumn morning all those years ago. Peter and I had managed to secure a short lease on a charming little house high up in the old walled part of a small village just an hour south of Florence and were in the midst of the most glorious holiday of our lives. He had recently completed his doctoral thesis and this was our long planned for reward.The house, while rustic, had wonderful views across the undulating Umbrian landscape and the weather was unrelentingly beautiful. The village seemed to bumble along just as it would have done for hundreds of years and in fact little had probably changed along the winding, cobbled streets of the old “town”. Every second doorway had a beautiful stone surround and we delighted in the soft and subtle colours and textures as we walked down the hill every few days to the train station and the slow local train into Florence.That morning was particularly soft and shiny,( perhaps I remember it all in soft focus) the sun gentle and the breeze coolly reminding us that summer was slowly slipping away. We woke very early, bought our bread sticks and plodded down to the train. It was exactly on time which always feels so strange in Italy, where nothing else seems to work, but we were grateful to be out of the wind on the platform and on our way. We pulled into Florence much earlier than we usually made it and I particularly sit, what we remember…. We must have headed off to the markets straight after, I suppose. I don’t really remember, but everything happened so early in the day that we must have. I do remember that Peter saw the cigarette case before I did and commented on it, saying how beautiful it was. He wandered off and I did what I had often done before, quickly bought it and secreted it in my bag to give to him later….. to remind of the day… that beautiful day….It all happened so quickly after that, I hardly know even now what actually took place. There was a lot of shouting around the corner. I couldn’t see Peter and hurried along to find him and draw him away from whatever was going on. There was pushing, yelling…. I was yelling… he was on the ground… blood on his head… Then, I don’t know when, my dear sweet brother was with me, sorting out the paperwork. Incessant paperwork. We brought him home. It all seems so long ago.So the children, Corrine in particular, have become so important to me. I needed, still need some other focus..Of course, the painful memories still come to the surface….. but I choose to remember the good times. I choose to remember that glorious morning …. and how I was going to surprise him with the cigarette case.

Henri - Winner of the Inaugural Billingsgate Book Club Writing Award 2006

2006-12-22T12:55:00.000+11:00

Edmund – Uncut

December 6 1965.

It was dark, the house was cold through out except for the dining room, where Edmund was gathered together with his siblings, in a mix of fear and eager expectation… Logs were being consumed and an orange hallow filled the room. Something was about to happen. Edmund was not sure what to expect, but the attitude of his older brother and sister, Rosalie and Julien, dictated his own behaviour. They were nervously talking about his arrival, and got even more nervous about the one accompanying him. It had to do with having behaved well in the past year, and with having been a good child, obedient to your parents. School was also part of it, and Rosalie was pointing the finger at her brother Julien: “You have been getting bad notes in the last couple of months, and your teacher has told mom that you are up to no good in the classroom, always laughing and talking! Surely, He will not bring you anything tonight!” Julien pulled at her hair and grinned: “Stop playing little mother, you are way too bossy, I am sure He knows that and all the goodies will be for me tonight!” They kept nagging at each other. Strangely, dad was not there, he had vanished. Edmund was the only one who noticed. The others were too busy talking. And then there was also Georges, the little one, the cadet. He was still a baby, but so full of life already, sensing the tension in the air, and screaming in excitement, his mouth full of mashed banana. Edmund looked at him in amazement. Georges was getting real more and more. From being a closed eyed doll that always slept, Georges had become a lively creature that was able to draw a lot of attention. Mom was elegant as ever, plucking at her long silky woolen skirt, smiling under her wavy golden locks, overlooking the whole scene. She just had a touch of make-up and little jewelry, but Edmund could stare at her for hours, trying to catch her eye by pointing his eyes towards her. He loved sitting next to her when she was combing her hair, moisturizing her legs, applying all sorts of facial creams, and then the lip stick… Fascinating little tube that made lips look so vibrant and red. He secretly had been able to lay his hands on it, opening it with a sense of forbidden pleasure, turning the bottom part to unfold the secret to mums beauty. She had many different color variations for her lip gloss, but she always used that same one, the one that had a discrete red, with a hint of orange, and that smelled beautifully out of its golden package. It matched her nail varnish that she only used on special occasions. Yet another of mums beauty secrets. Edmund loved the smell of it, and was intrigued at how hard it would become once applied on the nail. He only used very little, in fear that mum would find out, but also because it was very hard to remove when it got into the corner of his little finger nail. He felt so mature when he was able to remove the varnish from his finger with a wipe of polish remover on a bit of cotton. Nobody would notice he had touched it! Nobody would know about his fascination for it, not even mummy. Tonight, she was wearing the nail varnish, so it must have been a special occasion. Edmund vaguely remembered a similar occasion where the whole family was ushered together in the same dining room waiting for the arrival of the same old man with his friend. And he instinctively shuddered at the thought of the old man’s friend. Because he was very dark, and he carried a big rough linnen bag with him. Edmund linked him to the dark space at school in the basement, where his teacher was threatening to lock up naughty children. It was the place where the teacher would collect coals for the heating stove. Edmund believed that the old man’s friend lived in that same dark hole. His name was Black Piet. And it was as if Piet could carry the dark hole with him in the shape of the rough linen bag. And yes, he did make naughty children disappear in his bag, and then they would be eaten by the monster in the bag. So if you had not been a good child, then the monster would eat you! Edmund was contemplating that this horror could possibly happen to him. Had he been a good boy? Was touching mummy’s lip stick and nail varnish a wrong thing to do? He believed it was, because that one very day, his father had harshly disapproved him playing with it on that Sunday morning, when all the kids were up shouting and making noise, and running to the parents bedroom to jump up and down on their bed, telling stories, asking for cuddles, and fighting amongst each other. Suddenly this idea came to Edmunds mind, he would surprise all of them by using mummy’s beauty secrets, and they would all be so impressed that he knew how to apply the lipstick and the nail varnish. And he would be looking so much like mummy, and they would all love him even more! His heart was beating very fast as he applied the wonder secrets on his lips and nails in the parents’bathroom, and he looked approvingly in the multipannelled mirror. He made a discrete entrance to the bedroom, expecting Ooh’s and Aah’s… But no, to his heartbroken despair, dad had uttered the deadly words “Only girls play with lipstick and nail varnish, stop doing that!” Edmund feigned that he was not affected by those words, but deep down he felt humiliated and very hurt. And secretly he started to hate his father from that very moment. And he was upset every time he saw dad all over mummy, kissing her and making her laugh with his poking embraces. But daddy was not here tonight. And nobody seemed to care. Even his Moroccan cigarette box was not on the table. Edmund had mummy all for himself. With his eyes wide open and with his tongue loosely showing between his teeth and his half open mouth, his usual facial expression when he was concentrating on something, he stared at mummy and thought how beautiful she was. And all of a sudden, there was a big bang. The door swung open and an icy breeze swept through the dining room. The old man was there! Did he bring any goodies? Was Piet with him? Everybody gasped in shock at the unexpected noise and movement. And then as by miracle, what seemed like hundreds of sweets and candy were thrown onto the floor. Rosalie and Julien jumped to the pile of goodies and tried to pull as much of it as they possibly could by making big arm movements on the floor and gathering it all in a pile. While all this was happening, Edmund was in shock, unmoved, not knowing if it was better to do the same as his older brother and sister, or whether to stay invisibly quiet. Too late, he decided to make a move to the floor, but most of the candy was already collected, and he could only pick up a handful of it, while they were triumphantly admiring the huge heaps of goodies they managed to appropriate themselves with. Edmund started to cry in disbelief and in disappointment, he had been cheated! They had not told him that this is how you had to behave to get the goodies. Georges was still all smiles, munching on his banana, reaching his arms out with his hands spread out, knowing that this would allow him to get part of the treasure! And that was it, the door had mysteriously closed again, the room was filled with laughter, excitement and cries. Edmund looked at his handful of candy, and then clutched it onto his little belly. At least he had something… Something to fill the long dark nights with a sweet sensation, the nights that he could not sleep, the nights that he was sitting upright in his bed, trying to listen over the snoring of his little brother to the noise that came out of the bedroom of mummy and dad. Was mummy giggling again? Why did they not close the door to their bedroom? Was dad all over her again? Was mummy again becoming this different person, who did not seem to care about her children? Who did not seem to care about him, little Edmund?
Edmund looked up from his little belly and saw in disbelief that dad was standing next to mummy. Where did he come from? Why was he not here when the door swung open? Dad never seemed to be there at crucial moments. Dad was always absent when Edmund was reaching for air at night, when breathing became such a painful action, when his mouth was all dry from desperately trying to fill his blocked lungs, when his forehead was all sweaty from the effort at trying to inhale, and his eyes burning from forgetting to blimp. But mum always came to his bedside, and her sweet words and her soft hands caressing his hair, made him feel very sleepy and allowed his body to redeem its much needed sleep.

Kevin

2006-12-20T19:30:00.000+11:00

Sabah Shopping Spree

It was a simple design - that’s probably why he liked it. In fact looking at some of the overly-ornate items surrounding it he could see that that’s why it caught his eye. The least gaudy – the most elegant. He didn’t even know what it was but made up his mind that he had to have it.

Five minutes later he had made his purchase and had stuck to the 4 rules :
1) Under the price of 5 quarter pounders
2) Purchased in an exotic location
3) A totally non practical item
4) Bought after December 1st

This year had been a tough one – too many demands on his time as the company struggled with growth but in 23 years he had never broken the rules. Rules that were drawn up on a beach in Sabah – early one tropical morning after far too many drinks and as it later transpired, not quite enough talking.

He walked to the station and his mind was already excited about the prospect of the 20 minute ride where his mind could wander back to 1983. In all the years since he had never tired of reliving that night and weaving extrapolations, scenarios and what ifs.

He had been in Paris for 5 nights and was flying home in 4 hours. As he headed towards the entrance to The Metro he took a last glimpse around. Inevitably a view of The Eifel Tower, a couple of tourists had snared a passer by to take a picture of them, he’d good naturedly agreed and was joking with them in a mixture of English and sign language. There was a light dusting of snow but generally the weather had been fine during his stay. Azure blue skies, zero degree nights but most days got up to a high of 5. Heading home to the cold and drab grey skies wasn’t that appealing.

He had just enough time to get to the hotel, pick up his bags and head for Charles de Gaulle. Only one task to do at the Post Office in the airport.

-2-

The train came quickly and in no time he was settled back into his seat …

15th December 1983. He was 16 and had travelled from Sacramento to Borneo to stay and work at an orang-utan orphan sanctuary. It was a wish he’d had since he was about 7 and had been mesmerised by a National Geographic documentary. His parents had given the trip to him as a surprise birthday present, his first overseas since a family holiday to Puerto Rico when he was 11. He’d been a little nervous but was always pretty good with strangers and the airline staff looked after him – being a good looking boy-next-door type always helped. Two stewardesses and one steward had taken a particular liking to him.

There were about fifteen helpers at the sanctuary that month – a mixture of young Americans, Canadians, Brits & Europeans. There was also a retired New Zealand couple who he’d gotten on really well with – in fact they still Christmas carded eachother every year though the respective trips to Sacramento and Christchurch had never eventuated. The usual holiday promises made in a hurry and meant at the time but not quite holding up to the reality of life.

He’d meet Frederique the second night he was there. A quiet 19 year old French Canadian who was studying Environmental Studies at the University of Toronto. At first Ben thought he was a little too serious and standoffish but over the course of the next few weeks he began to understand and enjoy Frederique’s humour more and more and they would have eachother in stiches over the silliest things. Freddy did a mean impersonation of one of the contrary old female Orang-utans – Biowali Manhu - which literally meant “old red hag!’

In the final week they worked together every day building the new nursery and got to find out about each other’s histories, dreams, likes and dislikes. They were both fairly practical and whilst Fred was good with the woodwork side of things, Ben knew all about the electrics (a legacy of his father being an electrician.) They discovered years later that the nursery had been named after them “Bans Sumha Hasnahe Manhu King-Benoir” – it suffered a little in the translation – “The King-Benoir Nursery for sick babies with red hair and pain”.

-3-

On the final night the locals built a huge bonfire on the beach and were barbequing local delicacies and freshly caught fish. There was also a small deer roasting on a spit that smelt both exotic and reassuring at the same time – a reminder for Ben of the lamb roast that would no doubt greet him upon his return home. Everyone gathered for the farewell party, even some of the orphans were bought down to join in the fun. Everybody seemed a little distant, a little sad – it truly had been the magical month that the World Wide Fund for Nature had promised. Tonight was the last chance to laugh together, swap stories and make promises about keeping in touch.

After an impromptu late night volley ball match, which the North Americans and Kiwis had won by 2 games to the Europeans/Brits 1, the party began to fade and people started heading back to their huts at around 11pm - which was late considering they’d all been in bed by about 8pm for the past few weeks.

Frederique and Ben were two of the last and decided to stroll down the beach together. They had talked and laughed for hours and decided that they would keep in touch and not only send each other Christmas cards but they would also buy eachother a present every year. They even went so far as to swear an oath – Frederique on his honour and Ben, never to be outdone, on his families honour.

Towards the end of the night (well morning) conversation started to turn towards more earthly matters, arduous trips home with long stopovers in exotic sounding airports, wondering what family and friends had been up to, plans for Christmas. The weaving conversation and laughter of the past month seemed to be disappearing into a more mundane formality. Ben had wanted to say something but didn’t know what, there was a strange knot in his stomach and that nervous butterfly feeling. It would take him two years before he knew what he had wanted to say and a further 18 month before he finally said it.

- 4 –

The metro stopped at Porte d’Orleans and he hopped off and headed towards the hotel. The snow had picked up and now the streets were covered in a fluffy white layer.

The trip back to Toronto was uneventful and he followed his usual travel routine. Bloody Mary in the airline lounge and a light meal once on board, followed by a stillnox washed down with sparkling mineral water. Morpheus was his companion for the next eight hours.

True to form it was overcast with bulbous grey clouds and just starting to rain when the plane touched down and the drizzle continued until he was deposited by the cab at the foot of the drive way. No lights were on and there was no one to greet him as he fumbled for keys whilst rain drops beaded on his glasses.

He stepped through the front door to the illumination of the blinking Christmas tree lights in the lounge room – set to come on at 6 and turn off at 11. He dropped his bags inside the door, tossed the keys in the dusty glass bowl on the equally dusty hat stand and headed towards the lounge.

Either side of the fire place were large bookcase display stands. He looked to his side, closest to the Christmas tree and scanned the assorted items – his favourites were the brightly coloured marionette, the tin Japanese robot circa 1961 and the intricately carved Moroccan Cigarette Case.

His eyes flicked to the right hand side of the mantelpiece and the array of equally eclectic items that he’d purchased in far flung place. The worn clock-work monkey, the pyramid-in-a globe that had a sand storm when you shook it, the set of chipped lead toy soldiers, the miniature Mexican guitar, the Botswanian leopard tooth necklace – bought in Amsterdam of all places! He could remember in detail when he bought each item. When, where, the look of the shop or stall owner, the smell in the air, what the weather was like – one year at a market, the next year an antique come junk shop, the next a train station. He treasured every memory. He treasured joy of the effort he had put in to finding the perfect gift and the sheer delight with which it was always received – not too mention the laughter.

- 4 -

It had been over seven years since Freddy had died. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A simple trip to the drug store to get Ben’s flu medication, a three hour wait whilst (no doubt bumping into a friend and enjoying a coffee and a gossip) and then a call from his sobbing mother. Ben wasn’t next of kin so wasn’t the first to be contacted by the authorities.

Ben had continued their ‘Sabah Shopping Spree’ as they’d called it. Every year a package would arrive addressed to Monsieur Frederique Benoir. Ben would open it on Christmas Eve evening, knowing the contents already, sometimes he’d smile, sometimes he’d cry, always he would place the item on the right hand side of the fireplace.

He also received a package every year. Sometimes he hated the fact that someone was doing this but lately he would hang out for it, a tangible link to Freddy. He never wanted to know who sent it. A friend? Maybe Freddy’s sister in Montreal?

Every year the same note was inside “To Ben love always, Freddy x”

Mark

2006-12-20T19:23:00.000+11:00

A Moroccan Cigarette Case

November 1915 Australia

Flame against the stones of a hearth, in the ruin of a house, in a paddock of almost ripe wheat, at the edge of a drying lake, the crust like a pie, its salty edges shimmer through the warmth.

A whiff of mallee smoke and a dray in the distance, the driver, the owner of the ruin leaves the kid alone. This scene suits Lawrence’s daydream of a more a more Arcadian, or maybe more urbane, life, sparely imagined from flickering movies or mail order encyclopedias.

Lawrence the cuckoo is lightened, and mildly ashamed, of his fantasies of an ancient, distant world, spawned by boredom and a hunger for experience. He peddles home weaving along a gravel sand track in low scrub by the railroad. Each turn promises something new, but yields only the familiar uninhabited spots where he and his brothers made hammocks in the snotty gobble vines, or tried to derail the train.

After tea he walks and says goodbye to the humbling dazzle of night sky and the rustle of eucalypts. Then in the morning the crow’s call, not like a rooster, starting loud then fading, like it wished it had never started, ah, ah ah.

He leaves the others to work in the clay rusted vehicles, with their smelly tang of agricultural, of oil, gasoline, jute, clay, grain, baked on to metal, cutting through the spotless air.

December 1915 Istanbul

In Istanbul Lawrence spends a night at the Pera Palace Hotel, in respectable Beyoğlu its fading glamour at the crux of hemispheres, a Christmas gift to himself before billeting. French, Germans, Italians and Greeks have not all yet departed and the Armenians, Christian Turks and Jews are still present despite of the purges of the new republic.

He buys chocolate profiteroles from Inci, as the porter recommends, and catches the Istiklâl Caddesi tram, dinging unnecessarily for Taksim square. Wandering down to Galata he watches people hop on and off the ferries, as they come in, bump the doc before reversing their motors and heading back for the brief, low, ride across the Bosphorous. Proudly blasé about this odd act, they try to catch one of the better ferries, the dingy ones wait a little longer, and try a little harder.

Back at Taksim Laurence circles the streets looking for something familiar, somewhere he can enter and take in Istanbul. Avoiding other uniformed men, and in a side street, he spots the Cağaloğlu Hammam, Istanbul’s oldest public bath, also recommended by the hotel porter, perhaps mischievously, and not to all young soldiers.

The Cağaloğlu still answering the need for public bathing, also houses a café and barbershop. Lawrence resists and walks on, but the Cağaloğlu’s magnet of clean masculinity draws him back, and he figures that half an hour in a barbershop, although a strange one to him, could satisfactorily punctuate the day, experiences since leaving Australia having emboldened him.
“Merhaba”
“Merhaba sir”

He indicates a short cut, to satisfy the military and knowingly accepts the foreigner price, which quietly amuses the other patrons. This doesn’t create the camiaderie Lawrence would like, more distain for his lack of guts. Easing into to the chair, he is attended to, unsubmissively, by the most senior barber but with the deference of someone attending to an unknown, and possibly dangerously official, entity.

“Where from?”
“Australia”
“Ah, little America”

Half accepting, but intimidated by the presence of a foreigner, the shop settles into its quiet heat and snip snip snip, a calm glassy pool open to, but an oasis from, the street outside. Along the row Lawrence sees a handsome man, a sheik a Valentino. This confident, agelessly good looking young man, passes for twenty five, but maybe ten years older, snaps a smoke from a Moroccan cigarette case, seeming to take Lawrence in, and flicking his hair, to slightly acknowledge this, and his satisfaction at his own reflection. Occasional exchanges with the barbers suggest that he knows them, or maybe they now know each other against an alien presence. They show deference to the handsome man, but maintain a seniority, or is it? to him that comes with their age. A well-off young man, a smartly dressed gigolo, a poor young man on the way up by virtue of a refined nose, and the appearance of intelligence? Laurence can’t decide.

Encouraged by the relative ease of the barbershop Lawrence decides to try the Hamam.

A church with steam, white marble worn by three hundred years of naked flesh, soft contours and warm, almost flesh itself. A whitewashed dome with blue glass chips drips with audible tinkles into the steamy quietness.

Seasoned with heat, massaged, and as near to a man as he has been, scrubbed to peeling, a final soap and Lawrence dons the robe provided. He makes his way back to the bed cubicle, provided for relaxing, but not for too long, before dressing and returning to the street. In the courtyard, The Valentino sheik, sits, sipping his coffee, seeing him, but not seeing him, as Lawrence makes his way around the upper gallery. Lying down he is restless, and feels watched by the attendant behind the frosted glass, worth keeping an eye on. English speakers don’t usually make their way, here, sticking to the attractions of Santa Sofia and the Arabesque Cabaret. As Lawrence surfaces from the effects of the soaking, he sees the sheik through the glass, walk slowly, seemingly towards him, then gone to the marble steam church.

Dressed, Lawrence steps into the gallery, the attendant not in his seat and the sheik’s cubicle left ajar, Lawrence spies the Moroccan cigarette case, put deliberately? on the sheets of the nun’s bed. He steps in and pockets it, before making his way into the glare and dust of the crowded streets, the hard world, a relief, though demanding, return to life.
August 1920 Australia

The young man Lawrence lies in the grass, fragrant, by the fire, in the two walled stone house with no roof. A warm winter’s day, years away from the old world and death. From his pocket he takes the Moroccan cigarette case, turning it slowly, burnished, in his hand.