The Book Tower

I’m currently reading The Book of Dave by Will Self and I really think I’m going to finish it. My life has hitherto been Selfless, but I’m enjoying this one very much. And although his vision of London (both present and future) is an unusual one, it’s got me thinking a lot about my home city. It also proved a perfect companion for me on a recent trip down to the smoke. I moved out of London seven years ago and don’t visit that often. Whenever I do, it’s usually work related – a ninety minute train journey followed by tube stress to somewhere-or-other for sometimes only a two hour meeting. Then the tube and train business in reverse and often a guilty Burger King snatched on the way. And whenever I do visit London these days I feel further removed from it; the underground connections I have to make are less embedded in my memory, I don’t recognise the free newspapers that people try to hand to me, everywhere just seems to be standing room only.

So it’s always with a mixture of trepidation, wonder, nervousness, excitement, mystery and romance when I travel to London. This time I was visiting the BBC Weather Centre in Wood Lane on a work-related trip; the mystery and trepidation looming large as I had not yet met either my potential new pals at the BBC nor even the fellow colleagues from the organisation I work for. Many of these meetings simply don’t work out as you fail to gel with eachother, although on this occasion all concerned were pleasant and likeable, so the trip quicky began to morph into one of excitement and possibility.

I haven’t been to the BBC Television Centre for a long time, and in that time it’s changed beyond recognition. There’s the obvious architechtural changes such as the space age frontage to the building complete with automatic swivel doors that appear to have escaped any usability testing (momentarily encasing two of my alarmed colleagues within their glass walls), but I noticed more the change in culture. Where it used to be such a laid back place, with the likes of John Craven and Valerie Singleton strolling around holding their styrofoam tea cups, it’s now so very hustle and bustle, so business-oriented. And a lot less charming. Apart from the weather presenters, we spotted no tv celebrities. Or none I recognised. Perhaps the tv stars of today are so much less noticeable and blend in with the staff and visitors, although the building did appear strangely devoid of all creativity and actual programme making. We were constantly overtaken by groups of teenagers as they were given quick tours of the BBC of long ago, shown where the Blue Peters and Record Breakers of yesteryear were filmed.

Memories and expectations aside, we still had a great time visiting the BBC, but with business easy to complete our visit was brief and we were out of the swing doors back into Wood Lane in what felt like record time. I’ll probably be returning quite soon now that we’ve hit it off, but my next visit will be no less romance and memory fuelled. As we climbed the steps on White City station I looked back at the already thickening traffic, pleased I’d come but equally pleased I was leaving. As we held ourselves up on the speeding tube back to Paddington we passed the time with our London anecdotes, where we’d lived, the nightmare commuting journeys we’d taken. London has become the stuff of personal battle, the stuff of personal legend.

I love my quick and periodic visits to the Capital but it’s a three stage process; get in, do your stuff, get out. When I eventually find a seat on my train home it’s with a sigh of relief. The mobile comes out of the pocket to inform my loved ones of when I’ll be returning, and then the book comes out of the rucksack. In this case a wonderful dose of Will Self.

Comments [2]

4/5

I was quite ill last week with a cruel stomach bug. When not in the bathroom, I took the advantage of spending my time curled up with the cats and reading. Luckily for me my companion was Essays in Love by Alain de Botton. This is a writer who first came to my attention a few years ago with the excellent The Art of Travel. But like countless others, de Botton was cast to the back of my mind with all the other writers I really must read again.

So I was very glad to get reacquainted . Essays in Love is de Botton’s very first book, written in 1993 when he was in his early 20s. Semi-autobiographical, it charts a relationship he has with a young lady called Chloe. The couple meet on a Paris to London flight and proceed to embark on a not particularly unusual love affair. What is remarkable however is de Botton’s writing, especially in how he can make the ordinary and common incredibly fascinating. The wonders of this chance encounter (he marvels over the incredible odds that they sat next to one another on that particular flight), are followed by all the joys and complications of love – that first breakfast together, the introductions to parents and friends, the unpicking of past histories, the rows, the doubts, the plucking up the courage to say I love you. Throughout the book de Botton examines the nature of one who claims to be in love, the characteristics of the passionate, the unwise and the irrational. Why does he have a terrible row with Chloe over her odd choice in shoes? Especially when his newsagent’s choice in shoes is even odder? If he loved his newsagent would he react in the same way? And why does he react with jealously to Chloe’s actions, even when he knows his suspicions are unfounded and absurd? And so on – pondering over every mad notion anyone in a relationship has ever entertained.

What let me down slightly that at times the situation did not always seem real. Alain and Chloe appeared a little too text book and showed all the too obvious stages in a relationship, from conception to bitter break up. At the end of the book, depressed and defeated the lonely de Botton slips into the self indulgent despair we’ve all slipped into. And that doesn’t make the final chapters easy reading. But perhaps this is his intention. Alain and Chloe are text book lovers because they are like us all, we notice the obvious hallmarks because we are all doomed to repeat the pattern.

Alain de Botton is a thoughtful writer with a neat line in self deprecation. He is also very funny, one of the few writers who can make me laugh out loud. Like his other work Essays in Love is peppered with references to philosophers and their writing but skilfully done as to not alienate the reader. What’s ultimately, and strangely, satisfying is that even though he writes very wisely about the subject he has probably learnt nothing. As he hints at the end, like all foolish lovers he will keep making all the same mistakes again.

Comments [2]

…but I’m terribly unsettled in my reading. It took me real, concentrated effort to finish Day by A.L.Kennedy, a book I’d been very much looking forward to. I usually do so well with Costa winners (Stef Penney, William Boyd) and expected to enjoy this Second World War themed novel, but it was such hard work to read that it was like trudging uphill whilst wearing a particularly heavy and bulky knapsack.

But I’m also worried about writing too many negative posts in quick succession, so I have been trying to pick my next read with care. After years of treating him coldy I’ve started flirting again with Will Self. After buying my copy of The Book of Dave I sat down to read it but I’ve realised that it’s still too soon to get back together with him; the experience wasn’t the pleasure it might have been. I closed the paperback and put it aside for another day, like ruefully putting the cork back into an ill-chosen bottle of wine.

Panic set in. I started J.G.Ballard’s The Drowned World last night. Although it wasn’t quite the sobering Self experience, the important work meeting I had looming the next day spoilt my enjoyment of the book, and then proceeded to spoil life itself until I’d got it out of the way. What to do? A trip to Borders this afternoon saved the day. Following the meeting from hell (a.k.a Stephen against the world – alternative a.k.a Stephen comes out quite well after a potentially confrontational and nasty meeting) I decide to treat myself to a few new books, including Essays in Love by Alain de Botton.

Sitting in the school library as I wait to pick my daughter up from netball I dip in to de Botton and he’s a joy to read. I feel no heavy burden. The wine is nectar. Choosing the right book shouldn’t be so difficult, I shouldn’t ponder on it as much. Do you really want to know? But when the pleasure of reading kicks in there’s nothing like it, so I feel that I need to tell you. And I bought the Duffy album too, which helps to calm the mood. A review of Essays in Love coming soon…

Comments [4]