Monday 8 March 2010

Fingersmith

Sarah Waters is, I believe, a great author. I have just finished a third book by her. Fingersmith. Set in London, the use of the city is brilliant (she perfects this use of the Capital in a later book of hers The Night Watch) and the storyline is pacy, quick and clever.

The story is in three parts, and follows the fates of two girls, one a Londoner born into a house of thieves in Borough (Susan), and the other a rich little country girl shut up in a strange and lonely country estate, with her elderly abusive uncle (Maud). They are brought together as a result of a moneymaking plot, that turns out to be so much cleverer than your average "rob the rich" story.

Strangely, the first two parts tell the same story, and so run the risk of being repetitive and a little boring. But one is through one girl's eyes, the second part from the other's perspective. And the second part turns the first so wonderfully on it's head, you almost forget that the events you are reading you already know, have already read and passed judgement on; so altered are they when seen from Maud's angle, the story is practically a new one.

Susan's London is grim. From the language they use around the kitchen table, to the dining habits (pigs head and gin), and even the smells and heat of the place. Within the house is a brazier that is always warmed up, and the heat of the kitchen, alongside the constant dirt and fog of London is constantly apparent. Every other word among the thieves is innuendo, and the joking in their kitchen is beyond crude - "cunt" and "fuck" feature heavily in their late night conversations. The house is a channel for stolen goods, farmed babies, and refuge from the law. It also offers a prime view of the hanging scaffold.

Briar House in the country is the other way around. Rather than the crowded, stifling appearance of London, Briar House is barren and cold. It is always grey, lifeless and abandoned, and the silence is oppressive. Instead of people being mashed together, they are kept apart. A brass finger on the floor of the library prevents people coming too far into the room, come night time one can wander the house unnoticed and unchecked, Maud's fashions are outdated, she can neither dance nor play cards so shut away from real life is the estate.

Yet the more you read the more you come to respect the honesty and openness of London. Yes it is vulgar and crude, but the secrets that are hidden there are anticipated. The thieves are thieves, the murderers are murderers. It is the dark secrets hidden at Briar that are more sinister. The Uncle's vast collection of pornography, and his obsession with his young niece reading it to him. The past of madness and madhouses, all hushed and hidden, and the cruel punishments lavished on Maud when she first comes to Briar.

It is a novel that turns on its head, and proves that as a reader, one's predispositions and initial judgements can be as distant from the truth as the characters themselves.

In comparison with her other books, the feelings of displacement and malevolence, and the powerlessness of women when faced with the diagnosis of "madness" is similar to that in The Little Stranger. The use of London is reminiscent of Blitzed London in the Night Watch, and the theme of lesbianism is apparent in all three (although The Little Stranger the least so?) But these parallels aside, the characters, settings and plot stand alone. Fingersmith is a clever and interesting book, portraying a terrifying and yet intriguing picture of Victorian London, Victorian thieves and madhouses, while keeping the veil of secrecy over the scandals occuring in the higher echelons of society.

Weekends

I am not alone in my love for the weekend. Once Wednesday is clear, one can officially start to get excited about the weekend. By Thursday (especially after answering the phones for James O'Brien's Mystery Hour) I am eager with anticipation, and in many ways, Friday is better than the weekend itself (in the way that Christmas Eve is sometimes better than the big day itself).

But this weekend just gone was not one that was eagerly anticipated. And, I am ashamed to say it, a big reason behind this was that the beloved boyfriend was gallavanting about Nottingham with a gang of university friends. Leaving me alone.

Normally, I would take this as a golden opportunity to go to Bath, Manchester, Wigan, even Scotland to visit the sister, friends, Deda. But alas, I was tied to London because my parents, also away (their chosen holiday destination.... Israel - yes I too was slightly concerned, but touch wood they seem fine) had enlisted my help in the feeding and petting of their two cats (George and Dorrit - utterly adorable, but sadly very determined in their dislike for me).

But I decided that I would make the best of this tiny window (tiny in the sense of the rest of my life, but seemingly huge on Thursday) of opportunity and really just embrace all the nice things to do in the capital.

Friday was spent in the pub with good friends, and then in a tapas restaurant with the friend good enough to stick out the drinking, and subsequently share my great need for tapas food. And Saturday was one of the most beautiful days of the year so far (although fiercely cold). In fact it was, in my head, the proper start of sping, and therefore I started the day with my family's famous poem

Spring has sprung
the grass has ris
I wonder where the birdies is

Not Shakespeare I know, but a tradition all the same.

And then I went and sat in my Aunty's lovely kitchen. She made homemade scotch eggs (I do not like scotch eggs, I really really do not - but my god, these were like eating a little bit of heaven and did WONDERS for my hangover) and homemade bread, and generally spoilt me in a way that seems disgustingly self-indulgent to someone brought up by a singly dad, whose rare cooking attempts often resulted in mass evacuation of the house due to smoke inhalation, apologies to the neighbours for the fire alarm, and serious tummy ache.

And then I had to feed the cats. But they actually let me pick them up. Plus points.

Drinks with a housemate, and more drinks out. Nothing too manic, but just enough mojitos to merit a box of chicken nuggets on the way home. And then bed, not too late, and then on Sunday up, not too early. Lazing in bed with a brilliant book, a mug of lady grey, and a jammy dodger.

And then it was time for the traditional route of the farmer's markets - Brixton (still not as great as many, but it is a new one, and is steadily getting better - Post Office Bakery does the BEST almond croissants in the world) and then Queen's Park. Queen's Park's farmer's market is really up there in Farmer's Market Royalty. It is big, varied, busy and you can definitely get a bargain or two if you are prepared to haggle. And there is a cake stall which is what my own personal paradise will hopefully look like (alongside some nachos, and some of Aunty Louise's scotch eggs).

And then suddenly, the part of the weekend I had been desperate for (The Boyfriend's return) was upon me. And we managed to get be on the same train, him getting on at Victoria and me getting on at Clapham, and I felt so so happy to see him. He was back, and we still had half of Sunday. He was back, and him being away for the weekend was over. Just like that.

Monday 1 March 2010

Mexican

The Boyfriend and I were huge fans (to the point of obsession) with a tacky and over the top mexican restaurant on Battersea Rise called Dos Amigos. On arrival you were seated by a man wearing a ridiculous sombrero, a billowing blouse, and with maracas attached to his belt. On sitting down a similar sombrero was wedged on your own head, while you drank luminous coloured cocktails filled with straws, sparklers and umbrellas.

Much to our upset Dos Amigos closed last year. Sigh.

But last week a new mexican opened up, also on Battersea Rise. Hurrah!

Cucurachas has a little more class (when I say class I mean class in terms of Dos Amigos - do not go here if you are expecting suave and sophisticated). It is still hilarious inside - there is faux gold velvet pinned to the walls, and a hand painted purple and gold motif on the wall surrounded by big fake feathers. But the drinks look a little less radioactive and the margharitas are really yum.

The food is good if you want cheap and cheerful - and it is most definitely NOT first date food. It is sloppy and tasty and very very messy. We're talking salsa, beef and cheese covered nachos with no cutlery. But it is great value, and while the waiters are a tad scatty, you'll get everything you need in the end (and probably a little more on the side!) and at £4 each, any situation can be salvaged with a margharita.

Brighton

Not going on holiday abroad, the Wiganer and I decided to brave the wet and the wind and embark on the traditional British holiday by the sea. Brighton is a mere 45minutes from Clapham Junction, a seaside city with shopping, eating and drinking all within walking distance and with the added bonus of sea views.

So we booked a guest house (Cross Street Guesthouse - really lovely and highly recommended). £45 for the two of us in a double room with a shared bathroom - not that we had to share with anyone, and the perfect distance from the shops, bars and seafront, without being in the middle of a drunken warzone come 3am.

We hopped on the train just before midday. I had barely had a decent snooze when we arrived in Brighton just after 12.30pm. We walked (well, were blown actually) along the seafront to our lovely guest house, dumped our bags, and re-emerged into, in my opinion, the best seaside town that England has to offer.

Having been to Brighton on a number of occasions during my sixth form, I assumed I would know my way around with no trouble. However, most of my time spent in Brighton back then was masked under a heavy cloud of drunkeness, and after about 5minutes we realised that my usually infallible internal GPS system was well and truly off.

Not to worry, Brighton is easy. We pottered to the Lanes, and had some tea and shared a cupcake (Angel Bake House again HIGHLY recommended) and then pottered some more, and had some lunch, and then had some more tea - in fact when we were on the train home we realised that most of trip involved eating and drinking at various establishments.

The second cafe was truly lovely, and truly inspired. Called Tic Toc, it was in the lanes, and yet had a view down a little road to the sea. And right outside was a perfect suntrap - it still had the sun at 4.30. But in case it was a little chilly, there was a big pile of fleecy blankets to wrap up in, provided by the owner. The milk was in an old glass milk bottle, and the victoria sponge was perfect.

After shopping, we headed back to the guesthouse, stopping for warming hot spiced rum en route, and then for wine, and nearly for a wash and blow dry (the dozy Wiganer had brought straigteners but no hairdryer, and this place offered any hair service for £9 - dangerous when drunk we decided).

And we went out, and had a great night, from having those first sophisticated cocktails, to the less sophisticated sambuca shots, and the totally unsophisticated dancing like a pair of loons, and finally the wobbly walk home, supported by a bumper bag of crisps (Kettle Chips no less - not all vestiges of class were lost).

And we were home and in bed, and then in the morning up and had breakfast, walked along the prom, drinking plastic cups of tea, and then headed to the station and then we were Londoners again. All in 24hours. It has made me bump Brighton back up to one of favourite places in the world. And the Boyfriend and I shall be revisiting imminently.

Growing up in Bath has given me unrealistic expectations of urban areas. And living in Stockwell has worked well at stamping out a few elements of snobbishness on my part. But being in Brighton, I realised how much I love being surrounded by beauty and space, and the comparitive tranquility. Coming back to London, and a tiny piece of me really sank when we rejoined the crowds. But the bigger part of me surged back with the excitement that, ever since moving to London, has never fully disappeared.

Legally Blonde

The Wiganer and I were due to go away at the end of February, but due to restricted funds, and the recent booking of another holiday at the end of April, we decided to save the pennies, and instead enjoy the wonders of our very own England.

When you live in London it is easy to overlook the many and various things that make this city possibly the greatest on earth. And I must admit that I am often guilty of such a vice, and so I was determined to rectify this situation - in doing so I booked the two of us tickets to Legally Blonde, the Musucal.

I am blonde. I have my moments of dizziness. This film very nearly made me reconsider my career and become a lawyer. The Wiganer just loves a musical. So we were happy all round.

Irritatingly the Wiganer had given up chocolate for lent and so a bumper pack of minstrels for the performance was a no-no. Instead we had to settle for some yoghurt covered raisins (really not a bad substitute for others in a similar situation).

And we turned up at the Savoy Theatre, expecting a wonderful performance from Sheridan Smith (we both saw her in Little Shop of Horrors and she was an unexpected delight - funny, great singer, good dancer, wonderful presence, etc).

Sadly both her and Duncan James were not in our performance. Initially this did prompt a little moaning. But once the show started the two understudies were so good that we both agreed we could have asked for nothing more.

It was really really good. Catchy songs, enough laughs, no boring conversations or irrelevant plot developments, they kept close to the film but not too close - I cannot recommend this show enough. It was fun and fast (I must admit I was contemplating having a snooze at the start as I really was tired, and can sleep anywhere - it happened in the first scene of Oliver! much to the Wiganer's annoyance). But the minute the lights went up and the music started I was bright as a bee and even the men in the audience had a great time.

Please go. You will not regret it. Even if there is a lot of pink.