At Home

"In the early 1870s, the London and South-Western Railway announced plans to run a line right through the heart of the Stonehenge site. When people complained, a railway official countered that Stonehenge was 'entirely out of repair, and not the slightest use to anyone'".

Slightly pompous, dry and sarcastic in a very English way (though by birth an American), occasionally falling too much under the spell of his own research yet always able to give good anecdote... At Home is pretty much everything you'd expect from Bill Bryson. It purports to take a tour round the author's home, a 19th century rectory in rural Norfolk, using each room as a springboard for a 'history of domestic life'. Of course, being Bryson it soon rambles way off message, to the point where certain chapters manage to get by almost without ever mentioning the room they're supposed to be focused on. (The quote above comes from the chapter on 'The Attic' - don't ask me why.)

So 'The Nursery' deals at length with infant and adult mortality in days gone by and doesn't tell us anything about where cots came from or who first came up with those nursery-rhyme playing mobiles people use to distract babies to sleep. On the other hand, we do get the life story of the man who invented the mousetrap (James Henry Atkinson) in the chapter on 'The Study' - because that's where Bryson fights his own battles with vermin. A typical Bryson anecdote follows, telling how smart rats steal eggs from a poultry market without breaking them...

"...one rat would embrace an egg with all four legs, then roll over onto its back. A second rat would then drag the first rat by its tail to their burrow, where they could share their prize in peace."

Occasionally Bryson becomes so wrapped up in the life of a particular architect, designer or historical figure that he might well be writing their biography, but mostly he boils these characters down to their most fascinating and amusing traits. It's always dangerous skipping a Bryson paragraph, even the boring ones, because you might miss a gem.

Some rooms give him far more to write about than others, particularly the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom... which proves most revealing on how the prudish Victorians dealt with sexual arousal. Who doesn't want to find out more about that?

"A sample of Ice Cream sold in London in 1881... was found to contain human hair, cat hair, insects, cotton fibres and several other insalubrious constituents"

"'Wash your hands often, your feet seldom and your head never' was a common English proverb."

"...the Penile Pricking Ring... was slipped over the penis at bedtime and was lined with metal prongs that bit into any penis that impiously swelled beyond a very small range of permissible deviation."

There. That'll keep my blog blocked on certain search engines for "sexual material". Gotta maintain my sordid reputation...

Home Invasion

People always say that moving house is the most stressful thing you can do as a homeowner. Well, as you may remember, we moved house last summer, and yes, it was pretty damned stressful.

But to be honest, it was a walk in the park compared to what we've done this summer... getting a new bathroom fitted.

There's something extremely disconcerting about having workmen in your house. Home is where you go to get away from other people - but when there's strange men clomping around in it in big boots with big hammers and bigger attitudes, where do you go to escape?

Before I go any further, let me tell you that now it's finished, we couldn't be happier with the way our new bathroom looks. Louise has a keen sense of design and she's been planning this since we moved in (while we've also been saving like mad). I'm proud of the way her vision has come to life. I'm not unhappy with the work that's been done in fitting it either. The problem - and from talking to other people it seems a common experience when people let builders into their home - has been the lack of communication.

Not being told when work has been delayed. Not being told when things have been damaged. Not being told the final bill wouldn't match the quote* (because of a few "unforeseen extras"). Just generally not being told anything. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. "What they don't know won't hurt 'em!" "Mañana, mañana..." as the Spanish apparently have it, or, "Ee-ven-shwall-ee!" as Manuel from Fawlty Towers used to put it.

When tradesmen act like this, they put you in the position of having to constantly chase and question and pester them... they somehow make you feel like you're in the wrong. Like you're an overbearing nag, an awkward customer, or a precious control freak... when actually, you just want to know WHAT'S GOING ON!? It all makes me very uncomfortable - and it shouldn't. I know, I know, I need to toughen up, grow a thicker skin and a harder heart... but why can't people just do what they've said they're going to do... or, if they don't or can't, at least have the decency to tell you? Is that really too much to ask?

I'm stressed out. I need to go relax in our new bath.


(*Yes, it will.)

Beach Front Property

I watched the movie The Ghost (or if you're in America: The Ghost Writer) on DVD this weekend. I was a big fan of the book, so naturally the film left me a little cold. It was moodily directed by Roman Polanski, with decent enough performances from Ewan McGregor (a little wooden at first, but he warms up), Pierce Brosnan and particularly Olivia Williams in full-on Cherie Blair bad hair day. But the book was far more gripping and the final twist in the movie felt grafted on, even though the screenplay was written by Harris himself.

There was one thing I loved about the film though, and that was the location.

The majority of the story takes place in the former PM's American retreat in a beach-front property on a remote island off Massachusetts. The house itself is rather cold and utilitarian, but the office McGregor does most of his writing in features a floor-to-ceiling window which looks directly out onto the beach and sea. It's not a sun-drenched California beach though. The sky outside is grey and filled with rolling clouds. The sea is choppy and uninviting. The beach is covered with patches of scrub grass and always deserted. And yet I was drawn to this place more than I've been drawn to any movie location in a long time. I could imagine myself living there, writing in that room, staring at out this stark yet beautiful panorama... though I have to admit I'd probably end up doing more staring and less writing than was good for me. It's no wonder McGregor's character is constantly distracted from his work.

I'm sure there would be all kinds of problems associated with owning a beach front property, particularly one where the weather was anything but idyllic. Soil erosion, salt water rust, rising damp, sand constantly blowing in every time you open the door... but it'd be worth it to stare out on a view like that every day. Not that we're unhappy with the view from our own front windows. That view (below) was among the first things that drew us to this house and it's something we appreciate every day.

It's probably more beautiful - is slightly less dramatic - than the view from the beach house in The Ghost. In an ideal world, I'd want both. A house looking out on beautiful countryside and a beach retreat too. Hey, I can dream, right?

What about you? Have you ever been drawn to a movie or TV location and wished you could live there? Where would your dream home be situated? If you're living in it right now, you are allowed a second pick...

On the subject of beaches, this week's Thoughtballoons script is set on one... though one with a little bit more sunshine. The chosen character is the Silver Surfer and you can read my take on him by clicking here.

30 Songs - Day 6

Day 06 - A Song That Reminds You Of Somewhere



The first time I flew the nest I was in my early 20s. I'd just come out of an ill-advised and emotionally scarring relationship and I thought what I needed most to sort my life out was a place of my own. Unfortunately, the only place I could afford was a shitty one-down two-up hovel perched precariously over the motorway with pleasant factory views, neighbours who liked to party (and park right outside my front door) and a cold, sterile bathroom. It was the worst six months of my life. While I was there (over Christmas too), my dad was rushed into hospital, my dog died, and a girl I really, really liked made it clear it wasn't ever going to be mutual.

I drank a lot while I was there. I developed a taste for red wine and vodka and cultivated my interest in whiskey and Jack. A trip to the supermarket wasn't complete without spending at least £15 on spirits. I stayed up late watching DVDs on a tiny TV (that I'd forgot to buy a TV license for), drinking till I was sleepy enough to make it through the night. The staircase was really steep; more than once I remember climbing up to the bedroom on my hands a knees.

I'm sure I listened to a lot of music while I lived in that house. I was working in the record library at the time so getting loads of freebie CDs and gig tickets. It was probably around the time Britpop started imploding, so my album of choice was more than likely This Is Hardcore, the perfect soundtrack to my life right at that moment (and, ironically, my favourite record of the 90s).

But it's not Pulp that reminds me of that house, and that dark, dark time. It's not Radiohead either, though they would be similarly appropriate. Actually, it's Sonny & Cher, I Got You Babe. My overriding memory is of watching Groundhog Day on DVD, struggling to laugh, hearing that song come round again and again and again...

A couple of mates rescued me a few months later, offering me a room in a shared house in a much more pleasant area, and happier times (while they lasted). I'll always be grateful to Matt and Greg (and Dave, who was moving out) for getting me out of that pit.