I'm Off To England, and a Review of English Passengers!

Last post before England! As le boif keeps reminding me. I'm still struggling to heal myself of this fun-filled cough, before I away, but time is running slim. And yes, I'll be a good girl and do as granddad tells me: "be careful of pickpockets, they're rampant there" (in London). It's such a hassle changing currency. "That's why we have the Euro" yeah, I know, I know. But I'm just moaning, I'm not for us little Irish having Euro really. Being a part of the EU, sure, but the Euro is a bit much. Saying that, do they make wallets bigger in the UK? The feckin' £20 notes barely fit in mine. Pickpockets, come at me bro. Even before my granddad's warning, I was already expecting thieving folk, I mean, I've seen Oliver. It's not like England has changed since then or anything... In fairness, the accent hasn't. As I've said before though, I'm a sucker for an English accent, so I'm not complaining. As long as my Irish little self doesn't go around bursting into fits of giggles every time anyone speaks... It's such a funny accent like... Le boif will have to control me, if I can't manage to restrain. That, or make some sort of excuse that I've got an illness, or a mental disorder or something. You can't blame me like. For a silly little lady who thinks accents are hilarious to go somewhere foreign, what do you expect me to do?

Anyway, I finished reading English Passengers by Matthew Kneale today (I was determined to get it done before England). I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed it. I loved the mixed narrative and hearing all the different accounts of things; it kept it interesting, even past the plot, as the book, in my opinion, is all about the characters. Whether you love them or hate them (mostly the latter), it's very entertaining to read. The plot was interesting itself, what with its close association to the truth, but what I probably enjoyed the most, apart from the very unique, polarised characters, was the way in which Kneale connected everything. You know from the beginning it's gonna happen, but it's just the way he ties it all up in a ribbon, the perfect linking up of characters, plots etc. It actually made me say "aahhhhhh!" out loud a couple of time, in a 'that's how it relates' type of way. The story unfolds very neatly, no strings left untied, and by the time you're finished, you're at peace with it all, everything making perfect sense. All in all it was a very cleverly written novel. Very quick and witty. There were a couple of small parts where I lost enthusiasm slightly, and read less, but these were very slight, and towards the end, after reading 50 pages, you barely notice and you want more.

I'd say my favourite character was Renshaw, which I felt I sadly didn't get to hear enough of. However, my favourite narrator would have to be (after a lot of thought) Reverend Wilson, because (no spoilers, I promise) the way he put things is just fantastic. Not the English he used, just his way of looking at and thinking of things. He has an amazing talent for making something so ordinary out as something extraordinary (you could argue it's a religious thing, but to a point; Wilson is way past that point). For anyone reading this, who hasn't read English Passengers, I'm flattered, but I'd strongly advise you to read it.

Mainly, to summarise, I'd have to say it's a story about a journey, while there is a more exact plot, it's the journey that steals the show, and within the journey, the mixing of characters, that often would usually never mix by both choice and lack of opportunity shines though. I'm a sucker for good solid characters, even more so than for a good solid plot, and this book didn't fail to deliver. I may sing praises, but trust me. Or don't. Either way, read the book.

A Splash of Poetry

It's a terrible moment when you can't taste your coffee. I can smell it, and it smells as divine as always, but it sits there teasing me. I can feel it there lounging about in my mouth when I take a sip, but nope, no taste follows.

Anyway, today is quite an uninspired day, with a quiet me, so I've decided I'll share my writings from two more inspired days, when I had so very much to say. In other very hipster words, you can read my poetry.

The quintessence of beauty, tranquility and peace, to the foreign eye,

Is to me, a given, a burden and frankly, a bore. 

I long to be occupied, to be amongst a different species of breath,

A more active, more involved habitat, where swiftness is daily. 

But another variety calls, a more seductive, serene surrounding.

Salt, pine, sand or blossom; I suppose I could rest my head there with the same ease.

Until then, green will keep me captive in its manufactured wilderness.

And one more, in a sonnet type style.

A droplet patiently awaits its cue,

Suspended within a cotton-like fluff.

Its call is sudden and it falls when due,

Its force is gravity, its journey, rough.

As it falls, along with its brethren - quick,

What exhilaration they must enjoy!

They race one another, boasting their shtick,

With blatant disregard, like bombs deploy.

Sights the human eye can't hope to behold,

Stretch on for what seems to them a lifetime.

Each generation of droplet grows old,

And the view of the next is smoke and grime.

But each ending won't alter, just remain,

The death of a droplet, lost in the rain.

I have no titles, nor headings, forgive but don't forget me. 

I apologise for my silly little lady self today.