The Bedside Crow

Justine wrote this. I have stolen it from her. It is my gift to you on this day of days. You should follow her. @swimble

It’s the final term and thoughts turn inevitably to a proper holiday. Possibly this idle desire also has much to do with the wettest drought on record. Not that I’m a sunbather. Any parent with a tan that isn’t out of a bottle (or, indeed, a flung jar of muddied poster paint) is, frankly, not doing its job. I recall my discreet pleasure at the comeuppance of a rather deliciously distracting mum in the slightest of bikini bottoms (no top), who lay down on the beach to bronze while I struggled to contain a small Trasha, who was busily handing out adoption papers to strangers and telling them of her life of cruelty at home, and her little brother. Who was locked-down in a pop-up tent anchored with stones. Thereby lending weight to his sister’s tale of woe. The lady leisurely applied lotion. Lay down again. And then, like an angel, appeared the most gorgeous of naked baby daughters (hers, not mine) lightly caked in sand who, on seeing her mother dozing, climbed on to her flat (of course) tummy to lay a perfect twirl of poo in her belly button. 

First paragraph of her next book review. Not published yet.

You should buy her book (two posts down).

The Little Book of Nits. First review.

Justine's book, The Little Book of Nits gets its first (early) review in the London Evening Standard

We will be launching it on publication day 24th May at 7.00pm. Book a (free) ticket here.

Also joining us to celebrate will be our good friend Richard Guard author of Lost London - An A-Z of forgotten landmarks and lost traditions.

Richard also happens to be the lead singer of the brilliant Dulwich Ukulele Club, some of whom, if perhaps not all eleven, will be in attendance for a glass of cider a sing song and a general rock of the house.

 

 

 

Pre-order a signed copy of The Little Book of Nits

Buy a signed copy of Lost London.

The Gingerline Conspiracy. Justine reports.

I’ve experienced it again. I’ve been bewitched by the Gingerline Effect. It began as it always does, with an unromantic imperative – the text message. In an ideal world the instructions as to how we were to proceed an hour before we needed to arrive would be delivered by an amber coloured collared dove. Or in retrospect, in the case of this particular occasion, something with talons that flies by night.

I am luckier than most because my journey along the orange liveried Overground that acts as a conduit the epicurian odyssey always starts at the very best station on the line, Crystal Palace. The sublime sweep of that one must descend in order to gain access to the platform is an adventure in itself and perhaps reveals just about the only fault in the entire operation – no destination platform can ever match its grandeur. It’s a heck of a way to begin.

Canonbury, the message said. Our personal tangerine serpent shed the southern back garden clutter and blossomed railway banks, slithering through industrial yards under a spreading sky ascending to rooftop level, cleaving posh smoked glass balconies and contrasting decrepit upper retail premises imprinted with ghost signs. The bookseller, as ever my date, surveyed the landscape over his shoulder as it slipped away: “Blimey,” he murmured. “The North.”

It actually felt a little bit like the movie version of Brooklyn though as we clanked our bottles towards Newington Green, the elevated terraces were huddled and scruffy, the odd spoke of foliage opportunistically sprouted between basement railings. A cast of  characters crossed our path – a man in a suit lifted from a painting by Edward Burra, a woman with a backpack haltingly gazing up, another shuffling with bare legs and a handbag. Were these part of the conceit? That’s the Gingerline effect . It takes a street and then cranks your perception into a state of thrillingly heightened suspicion. 

We found the chapel just as the big red doors were being withdrawn and entered solemnly. The atmosphere was hazy with incense. There were tall ‘cups of acceptance’ swirling with oily gin, there were communion wafers. The minimalist Unitarian walls had stained-glass projections. The tables fashioned amidst the pews were black and there was a single stalk of orange neon in the centre. Ruddy Nora, we were in it up to our neck this time. A clash! Candles sputtered in the draught. Hooded figures appeared, faces obscured by silver masks. The Secret Order of the Gingerline!

The sacred root was held aloft and bogus Templar type intonations made us all laugh. Then finally Gingers Forever! went the cry  and the tension snapped like garter. The performance over, as ever at these things, this was not the time for timidity. That ole hand-shake has to happen immediately (how very Masonic) so we made friends with our neighbours – one who came via Brockley, the other Tufnell Park (and exotic) and with 80s disco now on the turn-table, we realised those stained-glass projections were somewhat saucier than your average saintly depictions.

Upright shafts of bone were presented to us on black plates and the bone-marrow drenched in parsley and garlic that we had to dig out with sticks was mouth-wateringly primal. There were one or two diners in the shadows who were clearly too squeamish and weak to partake of the ‘initiation’. They stuck to the home baked bread with shallots but even that came with symbolically crimson pomegranate syrup. Pity them, I said as I plunged in my stick, I could eat an entire skeleton. 

Then came the ‘purification’, a palate cleansing, bright lettuce and hock broth and I would happily have supped a font full of that too. After the soup came the ‘nourishment’: a generous slab of cod reclining seductively on a counterpane of red lentils littered with chorizo, like the debris of a romp.  And I ate up my greens like a good girl (I was finding an endless wealth of empty gut to fill, thank the lord) and the Macon we’d brought was a heavenly match. All the while, the bookseller was itching to tweet, but like a good disciple, he refrained. You must not tell, or hell will have you.

It did anyway. Blame the ‘enlightenment’. Those who love me know I don’t really do pudding and I can leave a Crunchie in the fridge for weeks (yeah, like that actually happens) but this unleavened chocolate almond cake soused in cherry brandy with a virginal lick of marscapone and a ginger crisp as delicate as a baby’s bonnet was pure evil.

Then goddamit, there was ‘fulfillment’ – Red Devil, Ginger Spice and Black Bomber cheese. Christ on a bike this was so much fun. The quality of the grub was stupendous given the space it had come out of and that’s the crux of the thing – you have to trust the Gingerliners completely and in return, you are truly rewarded. No wonder people go back for more. Feeling so reassured is integral to the conspiracy. It’s like going to the Ritz. With horns.

But, the best thing is relinquishing control. Tonight’s motif underlined the allure of the secrecy and community of a Gingerline event but it could have been any theme, any place. This sense of submission has the potential to be seriously addictive. As the red doors closed behind us and we reluctantly caught the last train back to the quiet of our southern suburb snoring in the darkness, the bookseller finally tweeted – “Too bad you missed it, suckers.”   

With thanks to  https://twitter.com/#!/GreenMop for the photo.

Gingerline.

Ma b*tch will be well pleased.

Sorry about that, for a moment there I thought I was still talking to our twelve year old son who is currently making his way through a state school in south east London.

Anyway, Alison Uttley, The Little Grey Rabbit books, long out of print, now gloriously republished by templar and one of Justine's childhood favourites.

Take a look in our window.

Fabulous World Book Day competition entries from the children of Horniman school, each telling the story of a book in a box. Every year Justine climbs up on stage at assembly, hands out the prizes and gives an address in the manner of Joyce Grenfell pretending to be Miss Jean Brodie. It works every time.

This brilliantly rendered War Horse tableaux is a particular gem, don't you think?

Everything you always wanted to know about The Bookseller Crow but were afraid to ask.

A podcast interview with the lovely Kirsten. Listening to it, you would never guess that I was tied to a chair, electrodes strapped to my bare feet.

A Walk in London. Salvatore Rubbino

 
Oh, I say to Jon, Where have I seen this before? The New York one, remember? he replies. Ah, yes, it does have a bit of the Sasek about it. As Jon remarked, it is almost as if someone in the office went, what we need is our own updated version of those classic city picture books that are unbelievably popular and selling shedloads.. But that’s not to say this and the big apple one don’t have charm. Any book that boasts an UNFOLDING THAMES PANORAMA! has got to be worth a butcher’s, and along with lots of facts hidden among the landmarks, such as ‘London is Europe’s third rainiest city’ (in case you hadn’t guessed) and that Big Ben has been ticking since 1859, the illustrations do capture the history and pizzazz of the place. If not the barrage of advertising from every bus, building and backside. (Which, surprisingly, isn’t the case in New York)

 Justine.

Justine was reading a book about ART.

 
 
In the first part of the video, wearing only football cleats, gloves, and a bathing cap, Barney maneuvered over a bed of Vaseline while suspended in a restraint harness...

Wanker, she said.

In the second part, he manipulated athletic equipment while dressed in a wedding gown.

WANker, she said.

He named the series after the muscle that controls the position of the testes...

WANKER!, she said.

It helped to pass a half an hour, or so.

 

Ribbit Rabbit. Candace Ryan

Heck, I like this picture book because it is just sooo very satisfying to read out loud. With deft vowels, snappy consonants and irresistible alliteration, you can romp through this story of two best chums who have a brilliant time playing together before falling out and then making friends again at a clip. Or, you can slow the pace right down and do the ribbity rabbity voices and be the robot that Frog and Bunny fight over. Then, quite unexpectedly for a miserly parent who really took some bribing to get involved with her own kids’ games, I find myself wistful for the days when a cardboard box with a window cut-out made a fine mechanical monster mask for a small sad boy, when torch beams were spooky searchlights roaming the spare room and when a roll of Selotape fixed absolutely everything. Even friendships.

Justine.

 

It's a Book. Lane Smith

  
 Long ago, back in the days when there was sunshine and flowers, children just read books. They were very happy with them. Sometimes even now, children come into our bookshop and they tug the sleeves of their grown-up desperate to show them a tale they recognise. The grown-ups however, have gone out of their way to ensure that books are not enough for their little darlings. They have to have lots of technology too. And now it seems people big and people small have forgotten that the printed word was the original technology. As the monkey says – and at least monkeys still have some plain-talking sense – it doesn’t blog or wifi or tweet or text. It’s a book. It doesn’t scroll because you have pages to turn. Yet, amazingly, it is still full of exciting words and pictures that tell the most brilliant stories. And it doesn’t even have to be charged up. Sometimes the simplest ideas are the best ones…

Macmillan £10.99