Going Viral

You may recall that this time last week, I was up to my eyeballs in self-pity over my trip cancellation and the general state of the world. The balance has shifted somewhat over the intervening days, back and forth like the plates I used to ferry across a busy restaurant during my waitressing days. Turns out my travel insurance was absolutely useless, but with a partial refund of the policy and a printed product disclosure statement to use as toilet paper, things could, I suppose, be worse. I’m reminding myself regularly that I have spent time in hospital in a third world country with a pretty nasty virus, and on balance working from home is considerable step up.

Yes, working from home. I arrived at work on Monday morning, cancelled my annual leave, and began clomping and stomping my foul mood around the library with the view of getting a few hours’ worth of scowls out of my system before fronting up to the public. Turns out I could’ve scowled all I liked for all the difference it would make to the public, since minutes later staff were told we were closed until further notice. The unpleasant expression fell right off my face and was replaced with shocked bemusement. My mum had asked me only days before if I thought the library would close, to which I responded, “Mmm I don’t think so, not unless a confirmed case wanders through. They’ll probably close the branches first and try to keep us running.” Shows what I knew. Things got very real very quickly as I realised how much bigger was this beast than my foiled travel arrangements.

I think it was absolutely the right call. It seems like the rest of the world is shutting up shop, and our closure a week or so earlier than our hands would’ve been forced can presumably have done very limited harm, and instead kept us out of harm’s way. I still went in to Library HQ the next day before being told I’d henceforth be working from home, which gave me enough time to stock up on a few weeks’ worth of books and DVDs, and collect what I thought might be useful in my home office. When I say “home office” I mean dining table, which once belonged to my grandma and is still covered in the detritus of abandoned travel plans. It’s right next to my main bookshelf, which helps me feel like I still have one foot (or at least a toe) in the library, but otherwise bears little resemblance to my usual workspace.

At 8:30am on WFH day 1, I donned my lanyard and sat down at my laptop, thinking how this already differed from my usual school day. Obviously the lanyard was unnecessary. The public would not be sauntering through my apartment wondering who to ask for readers’ advisory or help with printing. Nor would I spend the next half hour tidying up the library and making sure a few shelves of books were in correct DDC order, which is the standard order of the half hour before opening. I won’t bore you with the details of my entire day, suffice to say only that I’m not used to sitting at a desk for so long, and certainly not in a room by myself. I’m quite sure I don’t like it.

I’ve since taken to a brisk walk before sitting down for the day, again during my lunch hour, and once more when the clock strikes 5. On WFH day 3, I phoned a friend at 5:06pm, and she declared what a diligent employee I was to wait until I’d officially clocked off before making personal calls. The way I see it, much as I’d prefer to be running around the library, I’m incredibly fortunate to have a job that will still pay me to do what I can remotely, so the very least I can do is be where I’m expected to be when I’m supposed to be there. A week earlier I had assumed we would be like the band on the Titanic, staffing an emptying library as the public ran for cover. Not because our bosses are unsympathetic or uncaring of our welfare, but because libraries have never been more important for keeping us all connected and informed. Turns out that teachers are the ones playing the violins, but that’s a conversation for another forum. I’ve no doubt that every teacher in the country would dearly love to switch places with me. I’ve caught a very lucky break, and I know it. That’s to say nothing of the other professions who are effectively jobless right now, like my younger brother the Qantas international pilot. My home library is quite the place to be.

All of that said, I never thought I’d miss my usual work environment this much. I know I was hanging out for my holiday, indeed it was what kept me going through all the arguments about overdue book fees, tech mishaps at events, extra desk shifts, general disgruntlement from impolite library members, and all my other regular complaints. I miss them though. I miss the ones who come straight to me for book recommendations, the ones who say a simple “thank you” when I help them with their printing, the ones who go about their business with no personal interaction from me. I miss my colleagues; the way they roll their eyes but chuckle appreciatively at my bad puns. Even if I’m at my desk and we’ve all got our heads down doing our own things, or I’m doing my best to fly under the radar and do my job without being asked any questions. Even if I’m hoping to avoid as many people as possible for the duration of the day, it’s still nice to feel like I’m part of something bigger.

Of course I’m still part of that bigger something, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last week (other than that I seem to really love touching my face) it’s that we’re all in this together. All my colleagues are doing the best they can with what they’ve got from where they are. With the exceptions of toilet paper hoarders, Bondi beachgoers, and Australian border security allowing planeloads of passengers to disembark and go on their merry way without so much as a temperature check, I think we all are. With no real precedent on which to base our next move, it’s hard to know how to best get on with things. But if the library’s group chat is anything to by, we’ve got each other’s backs.

Never has it been more important for us to remember…
We’re all part of something bigger, and we’re all part of it together.

Very very mad world.

I’m pretty cross with the whole wide world just now, Self included. Right now I should be itching with anticipation across my whole body and not just my feet. I should be adding the finishing touches to my Spreadsheet, packing my carry-on in the reverse order of which I’ll use its contents. I’ve already changed some money at the currency exchange at the worst rate it’s been in years, and it wasn’t necessary to begin with but I like to be prepared, and a poor exchange rate is worth the peace of mind of having a few dollars in my pocket. I started taking immunity boosting supplements, which won’t protect me from the Plague but will help against catching a common cold that is far more likely and just as disastrous when you present at a border crossing with a runny nose and mild fever. I should be counting down the hours to setting my out of office message that tells anyone who wants a piece of me they’re on their own until 20 April. This point of the week was going to keep me going for the rest of it, while I argued with library members over non-refundable room bookings and explained to the rest that no we don’t delouse every item that passes through the library’s returns chute. I even polished my boots. This time next week, Lou and I should be in Bangkok at the start of our latest adventure, and I’d be filled with relief that the tail-end of the trip would be spent on a lush Vietnamese beach where I’d surely be safer from germs than if I was at work. I’d even planned how to spend my self-isolation, if it came to that. Was rather looking forward to it, in fact. Not having to see anyone? Perfect. Food deliveries to my doorstep or handed over the balcony? Divine. It was going to be the holiday that kept giving.

Instead, Lou and I are having an emergency meeting to discuss how we go about getting our money back. We were supposed to be going to the Pixies concert, but of course that’s been canned, so we’ll be reading through 64 pages of travel insurance policy instead. The tour we were booked on has been suspended, as has every other tour with this company, and who knows what other bookings will be rescinded over the next week. My conservative estimate is, “just about everything except work.”

I get it; we all need to do our bit to stop the spread of germs and stay out of harm’s way ourselves. The decision has been taken out of our hands, and I just need to suck it up. I’m as fiscally prepared for this moment as possible, having taken out top cover travel insurance the day I booked the flights, and paid extra for the “cancel for any reason” add-on that is no longer available for purchase. There will be forms and bureaucratic nonsense to wade through, hours spent on hold to speak to overworked and stressed-out insurance representatives doing their level best to make silk purses out of sows’ ears. Hours that should’ve been spent playing, “I dare you to eat that deep fried insect,” down some anonymous alley in Cambodia. But thanks to my organisational foresight, that should all come good in the end, and there are worse positions to be in.

Organising this trip has been one international incident after another. Lou and I decided a year and a half ago, sitting by the pool of a hotel in Goa, that our next trip would be to Iran. A new Canadian friend asked if she could come too (obviously we said yes) and within a few months we had paid a $400 deposit. As the months went by and international conflicts progressed, we pulled the pin on that idea. I was terribly disappointed, but the whole thing was starting to sound riskier than it was worth, and as soon as we decided on where we might go instead, my excitement returned. Iran could wait til Trump was a distant nightmarish memory, and we’d have just as much fun in Southeast Asia in the meantime. When DFAT officially declared Iran a “do not travel” zone a few weeks ago, I was aglow with relief at our decision to re-route. I hadn’t considered that a global outbreak of the Plague would be the deal-breaker for ministries across the world, but my trip was safe. Just call me Smart Traveller Dot Gov!

My to-be-read shelf underwent an appropriate transformation, and I put down Persian biographies to pick up Southeast Asian travelogues and accounts of recent history. Every time someone was rude to me at work (about 80% of my customer interactions) I clung to the thought that in the foreseeable future, it would be a colleague’s problem. With so many staff absent the last few weeks, I was doing my dash, and the only thing holding together my sanity was my upcoming exit-strategy. When management added extra things to my perfectly planned calendar then asked why I hadn’t done this, that and the other, instead of yelling, “I’m not made of time!!” I bit my tongue and thought of the two hoots I would not give from Halong Bay. Let someone else figure out how to do my job while I’m off sipping drinks with colourful umbrellas through a long straw.

I realise now how I set myself up. All my eggs, and all my marbles, were being stored in one basket that now no longer exists. I should know better: every time I return from a trip, I unpack my bags then immediately start down an existential spiral that gets tighter and tighter until I start planning another sojourn. Usually by this point I at least have some fond recent reminiscences to look back on and a nice break under my belt. It gets me through the period during which I’m convinced my life has no meaning and nothing at all to look forward to. As I’m writing this, Lou is desperately trying to convince me the fun has not dissipated but is merely postponed. Points to her for trying. There’s not much else to be said really, even though we both know postponing your sanity is about as effective as being completely crackers.

I know I’m writing from a very privileged place. My current position threatens the lives and health of precisely no one, and insurance battles notwithstanding, I shouldn’t end up very much out of pocket. My health is just fine, I’m not stuck somewhere far from home with an awful virus. Indeed I’ve been in that position before, and must say that where I’m at right now is preferable. I’ll get over it, it’s the only thing to be done, and throw myself into planning the next trip once this worldwide calamity settles. I’ll plan fun things to do over the next month, small treats to look forward to week by week. I already know that every time I have to deal with something unpleasant at work, my first thought will be, “I’m not even supposed to be here!” but really, who is that going to help? It will just make my workdays that much worse. But now that I’ve voiced it, I might have a bit more control over what the next thought will be. Perhaps something like, “life has meaning and we grown-ups know what it is.” Allow myself to be more gullible than I am cynical.

I’ll calm down in a few days, most likely. I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll shut up about it, probably about 24 hours after everyone’s had enough of my whinging. For the good of friends, family, acquaintances and the general public, I probably should self-isolate. Anticipating that this won’t qualify me for sick-leave though…

…see you Monday.

Big Fat List of the Year: 2019 Edition

Hello 2020, a pleasure to meet you. I say this in spite of the fact the whole year seems like a mockery of people with imperfect vision. I wonder if this bodes poorly for me and foretells a year of feeling out of place (or out of time?), but my tastes never left the 90s anyway so I’m confident whatever struggles lie ahead would probably have happened on their own. I’d better go to the optometrist at some point anyway though, if only so I can remark drily that this year, of all years, it’s particularly insensitive to tell someone their eyesight is anything short of 20-20, true though it may be. I’m sure SpecSavers are already looking forward to 2021 because of dad-jokers likes me.

2019 was rather a good one, all things considered. I’m better at my job now than I was a year ago (unsurprising, given I was only two weeks into the role at this point) and go about things with far more “I know what I’m doing,” than all out winging it. I did get yelled at by various members of the public for things beyond my control (and often within theirs, ie. their overdue book fees) and once got locked inside the library (not as much fun as it sounds) but things on the work-front have otherwise been positive. We’re trialing a new Readers’ Advisory program at the moment where members fill out a form about their reading preferences, and one of us will send them a list of personalised recommendations they can borrow from the library. I am living that dream job! And if nothing else I’ve enjoyed a full year of actual weekends; something which was not afforded to me in previous years of working in retail and/or multiple jobs. Paid leave has felt like a bonus too, even though I only took one day off sick and didn’t have enough annual leave to cover my month-long holiday. Nevertheless, to still get paid for any part of my travels felt like reaching a wondrous milestone of being a professional traveler – a very specious moniker, but one I’ll take all the same.

I met my niece and nephew for the first time and learned that, like the Tin Man, there’s been a heart inside me all along. There are two small children in the world whom I favour above all, which replaces my previous sensibility of staying well clear of anyone too young to talk books with. I don’t know what we’ll talk about when they’re older if they’re not readers, but we’ve done alright so far and they can’t talk at all, so have a feeling we’ll be fine. I can tell my niece about how when she was very small, her grandma and I went to Melbourne to see Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, and it was magic on a stage. How not long after that, she sat on my lap during her other aunty’s wedding just outside of Edinburgh – until she made baby-noises I was ill-equipped to deal with, and handed her back to her daddy. How we holidayed together on the Isle of Skye and beyond, where I saw puffins in the wild AND caught her first laugh, so it was a big week all round. Then her grandparents and I roadtripped around Ireland having a marvellous time, and I’m not sure exactly what she got up to, but I’ll ask her to make up a story about it. My nephew arrived a couple of months after all this, at a similar point in my work roster, which meant I was sitting at my desk rather than playing out on the library floor, and my next-desk neighbour was at hers too, so she was the first person to be privy to the arrival of both babies. Because I was impatient to find out his name, and this announcement was still a few hours away, I decided to call him Hagrid and am still the only person to do so. I’m holding out hope the name will take root, although I’ll probably wait for him to tell me he doesn’t like it before I give up. I’ll also remind him that there was a point in his life he thought my singing was really something, and I introduced him to the first dog he ever met, which is an important part of any person’s life and I’m glad to be a part of it all. He’s a pretty cool little guy; I think he and I are going to be good pals.

Now that the rest of my year has been wrapped, I’ll get to what I read, which is why you and I are here in the first instance. I read 133 books, which broke my previous record (120 in 2018) and when I’ve been asked how, have answered very simply, “I don’t get out much.” My favourite 2019 releases were Saltwater by Jessica Andrews, and Lanny by Max Porter. Honourable mention to Horror Stories by Liz Phair, which was an unexpected literary joy. Some other favourites published in years gone by but new to me were The Green Road by Anne Enright, Grief is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter, and Outline by Rachel Cusk. The biggest surprise to me was the Booker Prize co-winner Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo. I was bracing myself for a thankless task, since I read the winner each year out of a sense of duty borne from a desire to have an informed opinion on something that experience of Booker winners past suggests I probably won’t enjoy. But wonders will never cease: I thought it was very good AND I enjoyed it! That almost never happens. I wish it had won the award outright; I felt all at sea with Margaret Atwood’s The Testaments. I suspect a working knowledge of the TV series The Handmaid’s Tale would’ve benefited me greatly, but damned if I’m going to do any TV homework before attempting a reread. That book can stay on everyone else’s “you simply MUST read…” list.

1. The Science of Harry Potter by Mark Brake with Jon Chase
2. The Overstory by Richard Powers
3. My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh
4. The Library Book by Susan Orlean
5. The World was Whole by Fiona Wright
6. My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell
7. Out of My Mind by Sharon M. Draper
8. The Revolving Door of Life by Alexander McCall Smith
9. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J. K. Rowling (reread)
10. Never Mind by Edward St Aubyn
11. Laura the Explorer by Sarah Begg
12. Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle
13. Geisha of Gion by Mineko Iwasaki with Rande Brown
14. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J. K. Rowling (reread)
15. The Dressmaker by Rosalie Ham
16. The Distance Between Me and the Cherry Tree by Paola Peretti
17. The Flaneur by Edmund White
18. The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert
19. Persian Pictures: From the Mountains to the Sea by Gertrude Bell
20. The Grim Grotto by Lemony Snicket
21. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J. K. Rowling (reread)
22. The Green Road by Anne Enright
23. The Librarian by Salley Vickers
24. On the Come Up by Angie Thomas
25. Knuckled by Fiona Wright
26. The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time – Part 1 by Akira Himekawa
27. The Tao of Travel: Enlightenments from Lives on the Road by Paul Theroux
28. My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite
29. The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time – Part 2 by Akira Himekawa
30. Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout
31. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J. K. Rowling (reread)
32. Educated by Tara Westover
33. Tales from the Inner City by Shaun Tan
34. Full Tilt: Ireland to India with a Bicycle by Dervla Murphy
35. The Seventh Circle by Rob Langdon
36. The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain
37. One City by Alexander McCall Smith, Ian Rankin & Irvine Welsh
38. Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson
39. Knots and Crosses by Ian Rankin
40. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J. K Rowling (reread)
41. The Railway Children by Edith Nesbit
42. The Friend by Sigrid Nunez
43. The Lost Child of Philomena Lee by Martin Sixsmith
44. Searching for Schindler by Thomas Keneally
45. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J. K. Rowling (reread)
46. Becoming by Michelle Obama
47. Can You Ever Forgive Me? Memoirs of a Literary Forger by Lee Israel
48. Outline by Rachel Cusk
49. The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O’Farrell
50. Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman (reread)
51. Dark Emu by Bruce Pascoe
52. The Recruit by Robert Muchamore
53. Ox-Tales: Earth by Various Authors
54. Machines Like Me by Ian McEwan
55. I’d Rather be Reading: The Delights and Dilemmas of the Reading Life by Anne Bogel
56. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J. K. Rowling (reread)
57. No Friends but the Mountains: Writing from Manus Island by Behrouz Boochani
58. Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid
59. Sunrise by Jessie Cave
60. The Pun Also Rises: How the Humble Pun Revolutionised Language, Changed History, and Made Wordplay More than Some Antics by John Pollack
61. White Oleander by Janet Fitch
62. Warlight by Michael Ondaatje
63. Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens
64. Lanny by Max Porter
65. The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer
66. No Walls and the Recurring Dream by Ani DiFranco
67. Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
68. The Arsonist: A Mind on Fire by Chloe Hooper
69. Mirror Sydney by Vanessa Berry
70. The Valley of the Assassins: and Other Persian Travels by Freya Stark
71. I’ll Be There for You: The One About Friends by Kelsey Miller
72. The World’s Most Travelled Man: A Twenty-Three-Year Odyssey to and through Every Country on the Planet by Mike Spencer Bown
73. Finnikin of the Rock by Melina Marchetta
74. What I Was Doing While You Were Breeding: A Memoir by Kristin Newman
75. An Orchestra of Minorities by Chigozie Obioma
76. The Bertie Project by Alexander McCall Smith
77. Grief is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter
78. The Birdman’s Wife by Melissa Ashley
79. The Opal Dragonfly by Julian Leatherdale
80. The Other Wife by Michael Robotham
81. Tin Man by Sarah Winman (reread)
82. Saltwater by Jessica Andrews
83. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
84. Exit West by Mohsin Hamid
85. East of Croydon: Blunderings through India and South East Asia by Sue Perkins
86. Exploded View by Carrie Tiffany
87. I Built No Schools in Kenya: A Year of Unmitigated Madness by Kirsten Drysdale
88. The Sparrows of Edward Street by Elizabeth Stead
89. A Dream About Lightning Bugs by Ben Folds
90. NW by Zadie Smith
91. Good Girl, Bad Girl by Michael Robotham
92. The Stationery Shop of Tehran by Marjan Kamali
93. The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid
94. Running Away from Home: Finding a New Life in Paris, London and Beyond by Jane de Teliga
95. Destination Cambodia: Adventures in the Kingdom by Walter Mason
96. The Dinner by Herman Koch
97. The Trouble with Goats and Sheep by Joana Cannon
98. Frankenstein in Baghdad by Ahmed Saadawi
99. The Wind in my Hair: My Fight for Freedom in Modern Iran by Masih Alinejad
100. Year of the Monkey by Patti Smith
101. The Body: A Guide for Occupants by Bill Bryson
102. The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra by Vaseem Khan
103. Voices from S-21: Terror and History in Pol Pot’s Secret Prison by David Chandler
104. My Life as a Traitor by Zarah Ghahramani with Robert Hillman
105. Schadenfreude: The Joy at Another’s Misfortune by Tiffany Watt Smith
106. The Nancys by R. W. R. McDonald
107. The Embassy of Cambodia by Zadie Smth
108. The Testaments by Margaret Atwood
109. Elsewhere: One Woman, One Rucksack, One Lifetime of Travel by Rosita Boland
110. Cilka’s Journey by Heather Morris
111. Horror Stories by Liz Phair
112. Grand Union: Stories by Zadie Smith
113. There was Still Love by Favel Parrett
114. Confessions of a Bookseller by Shaun Bythell
115. The Weekend by Charlotte Wood
116. About a Girl: A Mother’s Powerful Story of Raising her Transgender Child by Rebekah Robertson
117. The Land Before Avocado by Richard Glover
118. High School by Tegan and Sara Quin
119. Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo
120. Harry Potter and the Cursed Child: The Journey Behind the Scenes of the Award-Winning Stage Production by Jody Revenson
121. Night Fishing by Vicki Hastrich
122. The Trauma Cleaner by Sarah Krasnostein
123. Part of the Pride: My Life Among the Big Cats of Africa by Kevin Richardson with Tony Park
124. Bibliophile: An Illustrated Miscellany by Jane Mount
125. Girl by Edna O’Brien
126. Spider and the Fly by Claudia Rowe
127. Bridge Burning and Other Hobbies by Kitty Flanagan
128. The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern
129. Sexing the Cherry by Jeanette Winterson
130. Fly Already: Stories by Etgar Keret
131. This is Going to Hurt: Secret Diaries of a Junior Doctor by Adam Kay
132. Dear Mrs Bird by A. J. Pearce
133. Christmas Days by Jeanette Winterson

 

Rather be Reading, Rather be Travelling

In quiet, slow moments at the library, usually when I’m out on the floor and trying not to think of all the work piling up that I really need to be at my desk to attend to, my mind wanders to some odd places. Usually towards useless hypotheticals that have no discernible use in the real world: Jasper Jones-esque “would you rathers” like, “would I rather slam my fingers in a door or get them caught in a toaster?” or “if I had to give up one, would I sacrifice reading or travelling?” I don’t know why I do this. The latter is a rabbit hole of despair just waiting for me to tumble down, and I can’t imagine a scenario where I’d ever have to make this call. But it does help pass the time and spur me on to read more books and plan further travels just in case.

Fingers being slammed in doors do not embolden me to get them caught in a toaster, but my reading and travel decisions do tend to inform one another. I read a string of Indian fiction and non-fiction in the lead up to that trip, and was quietly confident my first trip to the UK ten years ago would feel like a homecoming of sorts having grown up on a steady diet of Famous Five and Harry Potter. On the other favourable hand, reading can assuage some of the less achievable wanderings my itchy feet have in mind. I’ve read a few novels by Nigerian authors in the last few months, which has been enough to satisfy my yearning to hop a plane to Lagos. I’ll park that particular idea for the time being and focus on destinations that are more achievable and at least as enjoyable, and read a few books set in places I’m more likely to find myself. Redirect those itchy feet.

When we were in our early 20s, my older brother asked me why I spend so much time reading when I could be out in the world doing things. Possibly he was trying to justify his late nights out in relation to my being an absolute square, or maybe he really did think one day I would look back on those days with regret at having spent so many hours with fictional characters instead of real people. Probably he didn’t understand quite how much real people exhaust me, or the restorative power of fiction. My standard response was usually, “I do go out in the world and do things (author’s note: I didn’t) but I can’t actually go to Hogwarts or all of a sudden decide to scale Mount Everest.” I must’ve read a book about scaling Mount Everest. In any case, we’d stare at each other blankly for a moment and wonder how we could possibly be related, before turning on our heels: he to the pub, me to the library.

We’ve since reconciled these differences. He became a reader for a period when he was living just outside of London – too far from town and too short on cash to be doing anything “interesting.” I finished uni and took off out into the “world” to do “things.” We’ve settled more or less back into our original patterns, he working as a winemaker and me in a library. His life is pretty busy with the doing of things – the playing of sports and raising of family – but he does find time to read occasionally. Mine is filled with the reading of books and staying at home where it’s nice and quiet and nothing ever happens, but I save my money so I can blow it all on travel adventures now and then. We may yet be related after all.

While Paulo Coelho might’ve inspired a trip to South America and Arundhati Roy the Indian adventure, I decided when I was quite young that I would one day travel to Africa, and I’m sure this did not come from anything I read in a book. I went through a phase of being deeply interested in and curious about deadly animals, and living in Australia was apparently not enough for me. My parents gave me what I still consider one of the greatest birthday presents ever when I turned eight or so… remember Encarta CD ROMs? It was one of those, but exclusively about dangerous creatures. The African animals I found particularly interesting. I read every scrap of information therein until I could ace the quiz at the end. To this day, I know an inordinate amount about Great White Sharks, and did you know that hippos are responsible for more deaths than any other large land mammal? Eight year old I did! Then one day my father approached me for my considered opinion and some expert advice. He was off to London on a business trip, and had some time at the end before he needed to come home and be back at work, so thought he’d make a trip of it.

“Erin, if you could go anywhere in the world on any kind of holiday, where would you go and what would you do?”

“Well Daddy, there are lots of good places to go, but I would go to Africa and go on safari.”

That afternoon he booked himself a trip to Zimbabwe. I was not invited. You’re very welcome indeed. I decided then and there that one day I would go to Africa, go on safari, would not invite him thank you very much. It took another 14 years but I got there. I think it’s fair to say this decision and this trip were based on jealousy and defiance, but it did inspire me to read some books set in and about southern African nations in the meantime, which kept the desire alive.

As for 32 year old me, right here right now, I’m saving up my leave and my money for the next trip. My reading list this year has so far taken me to various corners of the globe, but if you have any glowing recommendations of books set Elsewhere, send them my way. In the absence of any substantial travel plans in the next few months, I need all the books to keep me going. These itchy feet won’t scratch themselves!

A Suitcase Full of Books

It’s coming up to that time again… time to fly! This time next week, I’ll be in a metal tube 10.668km (approximately) above the Philippine Sea hurtling towards Tokyo. After a few days there it’s on to Scotland, Ireland (Republic of AND Northern) then a couple of days in London before coming home to remind myself that these trips don’t pay for themselves and I rather need to return to work. After coming home from India, I found myself pacing my apartment for about 10 minutes in existential despair. I had a load of washing on, had separated gifts to others from gifts to self, restored my passport to its Safe Place, and it was throwing away my spreadsheet that began the spiral. What was I even doing with my life now that I wasn’t out experiencing the wider world? Sure, I had work the next day and a job interview in three. I was quietly confident about the interview (spoiler alert: I got the job) so change was already afoot and I had things to be working towards, but in my post-holiday blue, I wanted none of it. If my clothes hadn’t all been in the wash and my body in such need of a lie down, I’d have been sorely tempted to repack my bags and head back out the door. (Jokes! I knew darn well I’d have an even greater guilt complex about failing to show up for work the next day, and couldn’t trust myself in travel-mode without a spreadsheet.) Then I remembered there was another spreadsheet. The next trip was already booked, I had a thing to look forward to. In one relieving realisation, my life had meaning again. Please remind me of this in a month’s time when I’m back here experiencing an identical crisis – I’ve already booked part of a trip for this time next year. I haven’t started the spreadsheet yet, but that’ll give me something to do when it’s stupid o’clock in the morning and my jetlagged brain thinks it’s a good time to do some work.

With an overseas adventure imminent, the pressing question is a big one: what should I read while I’m away? I’ve read 32 books this year so far, which is an average of 2.667 per week. I’m away for 3.5 weeks, which means 9.3345 books. Invariably, I read less when I’m on holidays; apparently I need less distraction from the world when I’m not at work, and have greater interest in scenery when it’s not part of my commute. Oh, and am more inclined to talk to people when they speak with an exotically attractive accent. Let’s conservatively say I’ll need 5 or 6 books. Maybe even fewer if they’re particularly long.

I usually like to read a book or two set in the place I’m visiting. For India it was A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. Last time I was in Scotland, it was the first in the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon. I’ve been prepping for Japan with The Geisha of Gion by Mineko Iwasaki, and Ireland with Roddy Doyle and Anne Enright. But what do I take with me? Fortuitously, my last trip to Scotland came not long after my 30^th birthday, for which I was gifted a Kindle from my brother and his then fiancée. They’ve always been excellent and generous gift-givers, and since the upcoming trip was for their wedding, a Kindle was perfect. Naturally, it comes with me whenever I leave the house for more than a day, and now that I think about it, it has the next two Outlander books on it already. (As I recall, there was an Amazon deal at the time of purchase that meant it was cheaper to buy three books than just the first. Bit of a no-brainer, really.) Evidently I didn’t enjoy the first book enough to move on to the next, but part of me knew I’d be back in Scotland before too long, which might provide a prompt sufficient for me to continue the series. The books are also on the lengthy side, which is great when it’s all on Kindle anyway, and means lugging fewer physical books in my carry on.

Which brings me to the next criteria: I don’t think I’d know myself if I didn’t have a physical book on me. It has to be something long enough that I won’t finish it in one plane ride, but not so big I’ll be discouraged from carrying it with me. In previous years, when not reading my book of choice, I’ve wrapped the hefty tome in a jumper to use as a pillow. Having said that, my financial situation at such times meant I could not afford accommodation anywhere the pillow provided could be trusted not to give you bed bugs, so this last point is not the deciding factor it once was. My bookshelves are overflowing as it is, so I plan to take a book I can pass along to the next reader somewhere on the road to free up some space at home. For India, this was A Fine Balance, and the last Eurotrip was The Secret History by Donna Tartt. For this trip, I’m thinking a classic I bought secondhand – something like War and Peace or Crime and Punishment, something I can easily buy a cheap secondhand copy of again if I think I’m really going to miss it.

If I’m taking a classic, I probably want to balance it out with something contemporary, which is where you guys come in. What have you been reading? What might I like to read when the weather is European-mild but I’m nevertheless wearing three jumpers because that’s how I roll? What Amazon deal of the day has piqued your interest? What have I missed that’s come out of Scotland and Ireland recently? Note: I’ve read both of Sally Rooney’s already (loved them) as well as Milkman by Anna Burns (very “worthy” but also impossible for me to enjoy.) I should also point out I won’t be taking any library books with me. I’ve never had so much as a late fee (except for my cunning scheme within the university library, but that’s another post) and don’t intend to accrue any now. I also don’t have anything on my non-fiction TBR pile that’s burning to be read, so will gratefully accept any such recommendations.

I’m sure you appreciate the weight of such decisions, and I really would like some recommendations. Because I like to be proactive about such things, I’m now going to consult The Novel Cure, “a warm and passionate, witty and wonderful way to expand your reading list,” according to the blurb. And if I don’t see you before I go… so long, suckers!

2018: Quite a Story

Like any year, like any day, like anything, really, 2018 had its good and bad points.  I went skiing in Winter (as no year really feels complete without it) and to India with Lou in Spring, which was most definitely and easily the highlight. I finished reading my hundredth book of the year (A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry) in flight from Mumbai to Goa, a book which kept me company for much of the trip, including a 17 hour train journey. I might add that audiobooks were an additional graceful saviour during said journey. I read books aloud to Lou, even as she fell asleep and later swore she was enjoying it. Perhaps she was, so on those grounds I continued. I finished working at the bookshop for a full time job at the library – something I’m still figuring out and impatient to feel competent in. Three weeks in and I’ve not burnt the library to cinders, which I’m chalking up as a small victory. I’m still all about achievable goals. One of my brothers got married, and I’m to become an aunty in 2019.  With this pleasing news, I’ve been entrusted a child’s literary upbringing. Which is just as well, as it’s the only branch of adult guidance I feel naturally inclined toward and rather think I’m a good choice for the job. Any tips on auntying are otherwise welcome, if you please.

It hasn’t all been the fun of expansive travel horizons and career progression, and even my reading habits took a hit after Luke died. I think I said all I needed to for cathartic release in the previous post, so I’ll say no more about it here. I was happily distracted while in India but on my return picked up books I would ordinarily probably quite enjoy, then put them down for inability to focus. I turned instead to the comforting familiarity of Harry Potter rereads and even a Marian Keyes. Achievable goals, once again.

On balance, I think I’ve come out ahead. I read more books than ever in previous years. Highlights were Normal People by Sally Rooney, Take Nothing With You by Patrick Gale, and Lethal White by Robert Galbraith. I don’t tend to finish books I’m not enjoying, since there are so many good books out there that it just seems like a waste of time. I’m not sure why I stuck with Katerina by James Frey, since I didn’t enjoy it or find it well-written, and it’s not one of those literary buzz titles that I thought I needed a professional opinion on. I’m naming it as my least favourite book of the year, so I guess that’s something.

Without further ado, this is what I read in 2018:

1. A Death in the Family by Karl Ove Knausgaard
2. The Dry by Jane Harper
3. Two Steps Forward by Graeme Simsion & Annie Buist
4. My Absolute Darling by Gabriel Tallent
5. The Simple Act of Reading edited by Debra Adelaide
6. Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie
7. One Day We’ll All be Dead and None of This Will Matter by Scaachi Koul
8. Indian Takeaway: One Man’s Attempt to Cook his Way Home by Hardeep Singh Kohli
9. A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles
10. The Power by Naomi Alderman
11. The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris
12. The Diary of a Bookseller by Shaun Bythell
13. This House of Grief by Helen Garner
14. The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga
15. Night by Elie Wiesel
16. The Inner Life of Animals by Peter Wohlleben
17. The Epic City: The World on the Streets of Calcutta by Kushanava Choudhury
18. Pobby and Dingan by Ben Rice
19. The Course of Love by Alain de Botton
20. Travelling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd & Ann Kidd Taylor
21. The Midnight Assassin by Skip Hollandsworth
22. The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry
23. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stane (Scots Edition) by J.K. Rowling, translaitit intae Scots by Matthew Fitt
24. An Almond for a Parrot by Wray Delaney
25. Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur
26. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
27. The Library: A Catalogue of Wonders by Stuart Kells
28. Room by Emma Donoghue
29. The Life to Come by Michelle de Kretser
30. Denial: Holocaust History on Trial by Deborah E. Lipstadt
31. One Life One Chance: A Story of Adrenaline and Adventures in the Most Unforgiving Places on Earth by Luke Richmond
32. The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas
33. The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart by Holly Ringland
34. Our Homesick Songs by Emma Hooper
35. The Giver by Lois Lowry
36. The Consolations of Philosophy by Alain de Botton
37. Saga Land by Richard Fidler & Kari Gislason
38. Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng
39. Circe by Madeline Miller
40. The Moth edited by Catherine Burns
41. Couchsurfing in Iran: Revealing a Hidden World by Stephan Orth
42. The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce
43. The Books of Magic by Neil Gaiman
44. An American Marriage by Tayari Jones
45. An Artist of the Floating World by Kazuo Ishiguro
46. Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking by Susan Cain
47. Extinctions by Josephine Wilson
48. Nine Lives by William Dalrymple
49. Lovesome by Sally Seltmann
50. Staying by Jessie Cole
51. Transcription by Kate Atkinson
52. Bitter Orange by Claire Fuller
53. How to Stop Time by Matt Haig
54. Sinning Across Spain by Ailsa Piper
55. Oranges are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson
56. Bridge of Clay by Markus Zusak
57. Pachinko by Min Jin Lee
58. The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaur by Steve Brusatte
59. Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver
60. Daring Greatly by Brene Brown
61. Broken Republic by Arundhati Roy
62. We are all Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler (this one was a reread)
63. The Testament of Mary by Colm Toibin
64. Cedar Valley by Holly Throsby
65. Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata
66. My Life on the Road by Gloria Steinem
67. Around India in 80 Trains by Monisha Rajesh
68. Reasons to Stay Alive by Matt Haig
69. I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith
70. The Mars Room by Rachel Kushner
71. The End of the Moment We Had by Toshiki Okada
72. Christopher Robin by Elizabeth Rudnick
73. Shock for the Secret Seven by Enid Blyton
74. Danger Music by Eddie Ayres
75. A Year of Marvellous Ways by Sarah Winman (reread)
76. The Dreams of Bethany Mellmoth by William Boyd
77. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling (reread)
78. Take Nothing With You by Patrick Gale
79. Let’s Pretend This Never Happened (A Mostly True Memoir) by Jenny Lawson
80. Snap by Belinda Bauer
81. You’re Just Too Good to be True: A Love Story about Lonely Hearts and Internet Scams by Sofija Stefanovic
82. Less by Andrew Sean Greer
83. Conversations with Friends by Sally Rooney
84. Pretend I’m Dead by Jen Beagin
85. Lethal White by Robert Galbraith
86. Autumn by Karl Ove Knausgaard
87. Journeys to the Other Side of the World: Further Adventures of a Young Naturalist by David Attenborough
88. The Animators by Kayla Rae Whitaker
89. Everything, Everything by Nicola Yoon
90. The Call of the Weird: Travels in American Subcultures by Louis Theroux
91. How to Build a Girl by Caitlin Moran
92. Katerina by James Frey
93. Fatty O’Leary’s Dinner Party by Alexander McCall Smith
94. Ignorance by Milan Kundera (reread)
95. The Women in Black by Madeleine St John
96. Any Ordinary Day by Leigh Sales
97. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling (reread)
98. Hippie by Paulo Coelho
99. Normal People by Sally Rooney
100. A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
101. Boy Swallows Universe by Trent Dalton
102. People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
103. Bertie’s Guide to Life and Mothers by Alexander McCall Smith
104. Milkman by Anna Burns
105. Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger
106. Every Word is a Bird we Teach to Sing by Daniel Tammet
107. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling (reread)
108. Enid Blyton: the Biography by Barbara Stoney
109. Making it Up as I go Along: Notes from a Small Woman by Marian Keyes
110. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer
111. Case Histories by Kate Atkinson
112. The Children Act by Ian McEwan
113. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling (reread)
114. Flights by Olga Tokarczuk
115. Fantastic Beasts: the Crimes of Grindelwald – the Original Screenplay by J.K. Rowling
116. Britt-Marie was Here by Fredrik Backman
117. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by J.K. Rowling (reread)
118. The Christmas Mystery by Jostein Gaarder
119. Six Memos for the Next Millennium by Italo Calvino
120. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling (reread)

 

 

 

Tribute to an Old Flame

The last couple of months have offered me a little bit of everything: some of the happiest, most hilarious, laughter-inducing moments served as a timely chaser to the most heartbreakingly sad, snot-and-tear-soaked moments I’ve lived through. You’ll hear all about my trip to India in due course I’m sure, not least because I finished reading my 100^th book of the year while I was there. But this was prefaced by some terrible news and a funeral of such sadness, such complex layers of grief, that I’m not quite sure where to begin.

Luke was my on-again-off-again boyfriend, ages 15-28. In the interest of clarity, we were together less than we were apart; of those 13 years, I think I celebrated three birthdays where we were romantically involved, five or six where we were just friends, and during the rest we had little to no contact at all. I don’t wish to overstate my significance to him, but we were important to each other during our formative years, and seemed to orbit one another the rest. He introduced me to some of my favourite musicians: Tori Amos, Smashing Pumpkins, Bright Eyes, and he gave me the complete Nirvana collection for my 21^st. More importantly, he got me onto some amazing authors. I doubt I’d have come to Milan Kundera on my own, and it would’ve taken me a while to reach Haruki Murakami but for his recommendation. When he worked at Borders, he’d borrow books he thought I’d like as long as I promised to read them carefully and within a week. Another time he bought me a book of Courtney Love’s letters and artworks, then hastily reneged on the gift: having miscalculated his finances, he’d accidentally spent his rent money and had to return it the next day. A very sweet gesture nonetheless. When he worked at JB Hifi he bought me wireless headphones and a waterproof Bluetooth speaker so I could listen to audiobooks in bed and in the shower. The dude provided books and encouragement to read them. Easy to love, right?

He was easy to love, but hard to be in relationship with for all that. He seemed to struggle to identify his emotional needs, making it damn near impossible to communicate them. He was a quiet boy and a private man, ill at ease maintaining relationships on his own mysterious terms. Much as I value quiet and personal boundaries, his were too rigid for me and I felt like the only one emotionally engaged, which obviously wasn’t true by his reaction when I’d then pull away. We’d break up, spend time apart, see other people, commit to other people even. One way or another though, our paths kept crossing and we’d end up back together. He was my dead-body guy: I lived with full certainty that if I showed up with a corpse in tow, he’d help me get rid of it. Turns out, however, that an eager accomplice does not a soul mate make: it would be far more helpful for the other party to discuss one’s options and diplomatically urge you to alert the authorities. Still, there’s something deeply comforting in the knowledge that there’s someone out there who will take your side no matter what. That doesn’t mean you’re right for each other though. And while I don’t regret getting back together with him time and time again, nor do I regret finally calling it quits. We weren’t really that good together, in the end.

He wanted to stay friends; I didn’t. It’s hard to bear helpless witness to such angst, and I didn’t have it in me anymore. I knew he’d sought professional help with his mental health since we broke up for the last time, and I was glad for him. Relieved for him. He had been struggling for as long as I knew him, reluctant to admit it and terrified to face it. As far as I can tell, he was doing well for a while. He went back to art school, something he had given up and longed to return to. But evidently it didn’t last. News of his suicide hit me like an iron-fisted punch, but it didn’t come as a total surprise. It wasn’t a fear I had entertained in recent years, but it fit the rest of the picture. And the fact that I first met Cate through him, who took her own life three and a half years ago, brings an awful sense of symmetry that seems too painful to be fair.

His funeral was a heart-rending reunion and outpouring of grief for the old gang, the worst reason for getting the band back together. Ellie took the day off work to accompany me and pay her own respects – she had been friends with him too, back in the day. I brought along a copy of When God was a Rabbit by Sarah Winman to give to an old school friend, Mia, who is a bookworm like myself. I had a feeling she’d like it (she did) and I wanted at least one of us to walk away with something other than a heavy heart. She rose to give me a hug, elegant in her sadness. I trod on her toe as my tears fell onto her shoulder. “I think I stepped on your toe,” were the first words I spoke to her in person in nearly a decade. “You did,” were hers to me. Then I said I had a present for her, which everybody thought was a feeble attempt at a joke. I reached inside my bag for the book and pulled out instead a half-eaten packet of chocolate pretzels I had brought for the drive then promptly forgotten about. I offered the pretzels around, which made everyone laugh more than it should’ve. I guess I wasn’t the only one worried about breaking the ice at such a miserable assembly, but I think I succeeded, albeit with spectacular awkwardness. I gave her the book, which she appreciatively accepted, and again offered around the pretzels, which were politely declined. Just as well, really, as I hadn’t offered any to Ellie and we were hungry on the drive home after all the grieving.

The chapel itself was adorned with relics from Luke’s life. Artworks, photos, his soccer shirt and year 12 jersey. His coffin was carried in to a Smashing Pumpkins song. For one last time, he was everywhere. The service was as sad as they come – it could never have been anything else. At its conclusion, we were invited up to his casket to share some final private moments with him. I was thinking Deep Thoughts in his direction while Ellie stood by my side. Things like, “I’m sorry for the parts that were my fault,” and, “I forgive you for the parts that were yours.” But because the coffin was positioned left to right rather than top to tail, I wasn’t sure if I was addressing his head or his feet. So I switched, which obviously didn’t solve the problem. Instead I directed my parting missive somewhere in the middle, which was probably right at his crotch, which I think he would’ve liked. So I laughed, because he would’ve laughed, but tears and snot were pouring from my face so it came out as a breathless choke, and that’s how I said goodbye to Luke.

I met up with his brother a couple of days ago. He hand-delivered a folder to me that had my name on it and was filled with half of Luke’s and my history: the half I cared less about, which was my own. I already knew the secrets hidden there, but was deeply moved by what he had kept. There was a photo of me aged about 15. One from his year 12 formal. The Valentine’s Day 2015 card I made him with a wry, brief attempt at poetry: “I love the way your mouth fits mine, will you be my Valentine?” – seriously, I’m not making this up. And letters. Lots and lots of letters. Letters that I had written, of course – he kept them all. I don’t have his replies anymore. He was never as wordy as me anyway. But it’s nice to remember the time when I still called and he still responded. And in the middle of it, a letter he had written me post-break up and never sent. That one was particularly hard to read. I don’t know what to do with these memories. Writing it out with sadness and fondness seems as good an option as others, any past hurts now so thoroughly eclipsed.

Luke: the boy who made me mixed CDs, the man who kept making them for me well into our 20s. The deeply flawed lost boy. The guy who would muscle his way to the front of a crowd so I could have the best spot at every gig. The only person ever to buy me a bouquet of cats. The boy who loved me first. The softest spot in my heart.

I hope the world sees the same person that he’ll always be to me.

 

 

Here we are, ten years apart. Age apparently did not help us look any less awkward.