Monday, 6 August 2012
Saturday, 19 April 2008
Fraggles and Fiestas
My favourite things:
This was originally going to be about fan fiction: how I wrote it, what I wrote, why I wrote it. But the last part has taken over, and grown. Why? I’ve thought about this, and it comes down to what I love, I love writing, and I love many other things so I write about them.
It’s about passion, if anyone asks. Passions have flowered throughout my life: some have died away, other have been perennial. Some come and go at different times and moods. Passions, and if I admit to myself, obsessions.
When I was a little girl, I loved many things: my yellow ride-on car; my Fraggle Rock, Red puppet; my rabbit. And not always my sister. Sisters who were younger were not as much fun as cars and rabbits.
I loved other things too, and other people. I remember watching John Steed in Saturday afternoon repeats of The Avengers, on my Grandma’s television, wondering why what I was watching took place in a world that was only black and white. But even in monochrome, Steed in his bowler hat and suit captivated me. I watched close up. And I dreamed of being Emma Peel.
Then as I grew up there were other things I fell helplessly in love with, people, not always real, situations, ideas. It was like a fire inside, sometimes a magnesium flame, intense and blinding, but then dying out. Other passions burnt slow and lasted for years, still glowing.
Though I didn’t realise it at the time, I concerned my parents. They talked about this with me years later, and as they did I began to accept some of the pieces of my character. For them, the fear that I was slightly unusual started when my mother bought a new car, a red Ford Fiesta, ‘Rosso Red’ and my delight. We got it in April 1986 from Hoylake Ford, and its registration number was C710 OLV. When we were affectionate about it, we called it Olive, usually it was just the little red car. I fell in love with that car, so much so that years later when it came to getting my own car, I had a red Ford Fiesta.
I remember dropping two 10 pence pieces down the seats, and never forgot about them, to the point that I was insistent that if we ever sold it, 20p would have to be added to the price of the car. When we did finally sell it, the coinage had changed, and we sold it to my cousin, so I felt it rather churlish to ask.
I became obsessed with fiestas after we got that car. When we went for drives, I would spot them, note the different colours and registration plates, see if I could make words from any of the letters on the plates they had, and see if they were close to our number. It was a happy day when I spotted C711 OLV. It got to the point where I was seeing Ford Fiestas when I closed my eyes at night. And when I passed an exam, my present was a book about cars. I still have the book. And even today, I can recognise the sound of a Ford Fiesta engine blindfold which will come in useful one day. One day.
This was originally going to be about fan fiction: how I wrote it, what I wrote, why I wrote it. But the last part has taken over, and grown. Why? I’ve thought about this, and it comes down to what I love, I love writing, and I love many other things so I write about them.
It’s about passion, if anyone asks. Passions have flowered throughout my life: some have died away, other have been perennial. Some come and go at different times and moods. Passions, and if I admit to myself, obsessions.
When I was a little girl, I loved many things: my yellow ride-on car; my Fraggle Rock, Red puppet; my rabbit. And not always my sister. Sisters who were younger were not as much fun as cars and rabbits.
I loved other things too, and other people. I remember watching John Steed in Saturday afternoon repeats of The Avengers, on my Grandma’s television, wondering why what I was watching took place in a world that was only black and white. But even in monochrome, Steed in his bowler hat and suit captivated me. I watched close up. And I dreamed of being Emma Peel.
Then as I grew up there were other things I fell helplessly in love with, people, not always real, situations, ideas. It was like a fire inside, sometimes a magnesium flame, intense and blinding, but then dying out. Other passions burnt slow and lasted for years, still glowing.
Though I didn’t realise it at the time, I concerned my parents. They talked about this with me years later, and as they did I began to accept some of the pieces of my character. For them, the fear that I was slightly unusual started when my mother bought a new car, a red Ford Fiesta, ‘Rosso Red’ and my delight. We got it in April 1986 from Hoylake Ford, and its registration number was C710 OLV. When we were affectionate about it, we called it Olive, usually it was just the little red car. I fell in love with that car, so much so that years later when it came to getting my own car, I had a red Ford Fiesta.
I remember dropping two 10 pence pieces down the seats, and never forgot about them, to the point that I was insistent that if we ever sold it, 20p would have to be added to the price of the car. When we did finally sell it, the coinage had changed, and we sold it to my cousin, so I felt it rather churlish to ask.
I became obsessed with fiestas after we got that car. When we went for drives, I would spot them, note the different colours and registration plates, see if I could make words from any of the letters on the plates they had, and see if they were close to our number. It was a happy day when I spotted C711 OLV. It got to the point where I was seeing Ford Fiestas when I closed my eyes at night. And when I passed an exam, my present was a book about cars. I still have the book. And even today, I can recognise the sound of a Ford Fiesta engine blindfold which will come in useful one day. One day.
Friday, 4 April 2008
It was EBD's fault
Always blame someone else. In this case it was probably jointly my mum and EBD, or Elinor Brent Dyer to those not a member of Friends of the Chalet School (I am, yes, still hooked). After reading ridiculously fast through Enid Blyton's Malory Towers and St Claire's series, soaking up the adventures of Darrel, Sally, Pat and Isobel at their boarding schools, I was in need of more. Blyton only managed a poor six books per series, and it took me under a day to finish each book. That was even with my dad, in exasperation, hiding the books from me in the holiday cottage in Wales we were staying in. Nothing daunted, I climbed up on the settee, fished them down from the top of the grandfather clock and carried on speed reading.
I still have those books somewhere, a little bit battered from many reads through, a couple have shed their covers. They were cheap paperbacks from the seaside shop, but I loved them. I read them so many times I could quote pages of dialogue. To the consternation of my friends who had to listen to me doing so. It was a blow to reach the end of 'In the Sixth at Malory Towers' and realise that was it. And that Enid Blyton had died long before I was even born, so there was no chance of any more. Little did I know, but more on that later...
So I turned elsewhere. My grandma always kept an eclectic assortment of books at her house for when my cousins and I visited, and one of these books was a bright yellow paperback book, with an intriguing title: 'Mary Lou at the Chalet School'. I tried it, and didn't like it. Sadly, Momma died a little while later, and some of her books passed to me.
A year later, I re-discovered the book, and tried again. Something in it appealed to me, probably not least that one of the characters had the same name as me, which I'd never come across before, I was sold.
The next time I had some pocket money, I knew where I was going and what I wanted to buy, straight to Chapter One bookshop. The books I wanted were not easy to find, and I was almost ready to give up, and the sales assistants were about ready to throw me out, then I found them on the bottom shelf - a glorious row of white-spined books with pastel titles and covers. Different to the edition I had, which I was later to learn was the 'Second Style' cover, but much more attractive. I coveted them, but had to make do with just one, for the time being: 'Chalet School Triplets'. I still have that book too, less battered, much more cared for. By the time I finished it, I wanted more. My excitement after looking at the inside pages to discover, oh glory, there were 61 more books to go was unlimited. That had to be at least a few months reading worth...
Ah, if only I'd known then. It did in fact take me 12 years to track down and read every single one of those 62 books, and I don't want to calculate how much money it has cost me. Perhaps there's something about being a stubborn Taurean. That one book would take me along a strange and lengthy path of reading, writing and collecting though. More soon.
I still have those books somewhere, a little bit battered from many reads through, a couple have shed their covers. They were cheap paperbacks from the seaside shop, but I loved them. I read them so many times I could quote pages of dialogue. To the consternation of my friends who had to listen to me doing so. It was a blow to reach the end of 'In the Sixth at Malory Towers' and realise that was it. And that Enid Blyton had died long before I was even born, so there was no chance of any more. Little did I know, but more on that later...
So I turned elsewhere. My grandma always kept an eclectic assortment of books at her house for when my cousins and I visited, and one of these books was a bright yellow paperback book, with an intriguing title: 'Mary Lou at the Chalet School'. I tried it, and didn't like it. Sadly, Momma died a little while later, and some of her books passed to me.
A year later, I re-discovered the book, and tried again. Something in it appealed to me, probably not least that one of the characters had the same name as me, which I'd never come across before, I was sold.
The next time I had some pocket money, I knew where I was going and what I wanted to buy, straight to Chapter One bookshop. The books I wanted were not easy to find, and I was almost ready to give up, and the sales assistants were about ready to throw me out, then I found them on the bottom shelf - a glorious row of white-spined books with pastel titles and covers. Different to the edition I had, which I was later to learn was the 'Second Style' cover, but much more attractive. I coveted them, but had to make do with just one, for the time being: 'Chalet School Triplets'. I still have that book too, less battered, much more cared for. By the time I finished it, I wanted more. My excitement after looking at the inside pages to discover, oh glory, there were 61 more books to go was unlimited. That had to be at least a few months reading worth...
Ah, if only I'd known then. It did in fact take me 12 years to track down and read every single one of those 62 books, and I don't want to calculate how much money it has cost me. Perhaps there's something about being a stubborn Taurean. That one book would take me along a strange and lengthy path of reading, writing and collecting though. More soon.
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