Going Off Half-Baked

My name's Megan and I'm a blogger. It's been ten days since my last post.

But what a ten days. The kids finishing their school year seems to bring so much drama with it. Getting reports, cleaning out the layers of detritus from their school bags (for which I am grateful for some archaeology knowledge), going through all the school clothes and all the school books. And getting ready for Christmas. There were presents to buy and presents to finish making and baking to do. So much baking. And in the midst of that all the usual, boring things, like grocery shopping and cooking and doing the washing. Bleah.

Somehow, in all that, time for quietly drawing or painting got shunted back in the schedule (and blogging went right out the window).

Baking. Every year I go a little crazy making gingerbread. I love gingerbread, and ginger cake. And I love making things out of gingerbread. The whole house smells of gingerbread for days on end. It greets you when you walk in the door and wafts you off to sleep at night. Just heaven.

It started with houses. I have been making houses for a number of years. They are fun and versatile and when the kids were little they used to love decorating, although I think that had a lot to do with scoffing sweets as they worked. Houses were made for family and friends and we would have a great time making each look different. We'd change the biscuits and other decorations out the front. But inside was always the same - biscuits with the names of each of the recipients, as a little surprise when the roof was finally taken off.

Then last year the Son up the ante. "We always do houses. They're fun. But can you make a TARDIS?" said with the definite tone of throwing down the gauntlet. So I put my mind to it and came up with this (note the small size of the Cybermen and Daleks) :

Gingerbread TARDIS, 2013

There was one for us and one for some friends who love Dr Who. And then there were several houses as well. Inside the houses were the usual biscuits with names. Insides the TARDISs were biscuits done like Seals of Rasalon with names on the back. I was quite pleased with how it came out.

Gingerbread Seal of Rasalon, 2014

So this year I thought, more TARDISs, why not? I made TARDISs for some school friends and their families, with Seals inside, and larger Daleks outside. They were more to scale, but it did mean two figures per structure. Four was too cluttered.

Gingerbread TARDIS 2014

Looking at it now, my piping could have been better. Don't know what was wrong with me there. The Daleks (and cybermen) are just made with a template I draw each year, which will always mean that no two years will be alike. I also found this year that Smarties make a perfect top to the TARDIS light. Which enables me to colour-code each one. Otherwise, once the lid's on I have trouble remembering which one is for which family.

There was also a sleigh. I used a mold, which I haven't done before. It needs rethinking. I was happy with the sleigh, but the two reindeer had to go. They looked like they'd been hanging around the king of Goblin Town. Not good. I shall cogitate and experiment (there is still some dough left in the freezer). Might make templates for them and see if that works better. Or make them in the mold but with chocolate rather than dough. Needs work. This was the first time I had made something without testing it first. Just trusted the thing I had bought. Sorry, Cate. I owe you two reindeer.

Anyway, Son threw down the gauntlet again this year. "You've made TARDISs. They're good. But what about a Dalek? Like, a 3D one?" Ooookay.

So I went through the process I adopted for the houses years ago and for the TARDIS last year. Lots of thinking. Draw plans based on images from the Doctor Who Technical Manual. Build out of cardboard to perfect template. Build prototype from gingerbread. Look at it, pick faults, iron out kinks, revise, think.

And this was the result:

Gingerbread Dalek Travel Machine, 2014

There were problems. Snapping the panel above the gun and plunger was a big one. The dome needed perfecting. But I think jelly baby heads make perfect lights. On the whole, however, it worked. And the scale is Jaffa scale.

I made another one for a friend and her family. And the Son came up with the great idea of putting an actual dalek inside. Did you know, if you chop up and melt jelly snakes they become a glorious slimey mess? And almost impossible to clean off teaspoons? The Dalek came out okay, and caused a "ewww" reaction, which was the desired effect. But I have since had ideas on improvements. This is, as always, an ongoing process. And sometime I shall have to make a Doctor gingerbread man. After all, he often says he wants to be ginger.

So after all the panic and rush, Christmas was done. I love that people loved their gingerbread. I love that we still have our prototype to eat. But I am really pleased to sit down, to get off my feet, to read and draw at leisure.

And I am NOT showing this to my Son:

In closing, here's a little something for all of you who, like me, need to relax a little now Christmas is done. In! Calm! Out! Relax!

A Jolt to The System

Sorry it is such a long time between posts, but this is a busy time of year. I'm writing this in between baking and finishing presents and helping the kids wrap up the school year. This is the last year in primary school for the Son, and today is his last day. So it's something of a big deal, for him and for me.

In the midst of all this there hasn't been much time for non-Christmas creation. Although I didn't get my Christmas cards finished (but at least I now have a head start on next year's). The house is looking nice and Christmassy, the windows are gradually being covered with Star Wars snowflakes (they're fun). Through Your Eyes on Christmas Eve, which is usually our go-to album for Christmas (because it is fabulous) is having to compete with Nomad, but in a day or so I shall make us stick to Christmas music (leading, no doubt to a Nomad explosion on Boxing Day). The baking started a few days ago, and I am taking advantage of the strangely cool weather to get a crack on with it.

Christmas was not a happy time when I was growing up. Bits of it were, but on the whole, no. So I love making it happy for my children. My parents-in-law have the right idea - remove as much stress from proceedings as possible so that everyone can have a good time. Cook as much beforehand, go for salads, cold meats, etc (which makes sense in our climate) and make clean-up as quick and easy as possible. And everyone helps out. That way there's more time for fun and frivolity.

The children are working on making presents and have also been saving their pocket money so that bought presents come from them. The Steamgoth particularly is coming up trumps in the making department. She is going to be an artistic force to be reckoned with.

Most of the stuff I have been doing I can't discuss because some of the recipients read this blog (I think). But there is one thing, as it has already been given.

One of the sillier things I do, but which my kids love, is modifying NERF guns. I'm not great at it, I need more practice frankly, but I'm getting there. And I am good at NERF repairs (which reminds me, I need to take my repair kit to my friend's house. I promised her sons ages ago I'd have a look at their NERFs.

Son's class do Secret Santa. This is a great idea and really cuts down on school Christmas expenses. Everyone writes out a slip of paper with their name and interests. The teacher then gives them out so everyone has someone they get a present for. Limit is $5-$10. You get a present, wrap it with the recipient's name but not yours, and sneak it under the tree in the classroom. The Son drew a girl in the class who likes "rainbows and weapons". So I got asked to modify a gun, but without rainbows.

We went and got a Jolt. This is the smallest NERF and costs $5. It also packs a real punch. I learnt the hard way to not remove the air baffles. With the baffles the Jolt fires hard (hence its name) and makes a pleasant thock sound when fired. Without the baffles the Jolt hurts and makes an unpleasant snap sound when fired. Some guns, such as the old Maverick, perform better without the baffles. Not the Jolt.

The Jolt, as it comes

What I have done with it doesn't actually constitute a mod. It's really just a new paint job. And before you ask, all my guns have names. My modded Jolt in called Minnie (as in Minerva), this one is Lily. It is missing its brand plate (just realised - too late) - HMA Firearms and Munitions. There's a whole story to that. One day I will write it up.

Lily. Unfortunately the bullets still look the same

I wanted a really Chrome paint for the cartridge handle. Still looking for that (at least this paint is more silvery than it appears in the photo). The copper barrel isn't bad. I am looking into "gilding" parts of the guns in future. We'll see how that works out. The Son liked the finished product, and the recipient loved it, so that's the important thing.

There's so much Christmas music I could put on this (and I am seriously running out of time to put any up). But I thought, silly post, so silly music, so you get this...

Zat You, Santa Claus?

I've been getting a lot of drawing done, but there's nothing ready to show yet (that's the trouble with working on several things at once). So instead I will do something appropriate to the season and write about Father Christmas. And show some old fruits of labour.

In Bangladesh 25 December is a national holiday because it is the birthday of Rabrindranath Tagore, the famous poet. The Tiger of Bengal. He wrote a lot about Indian independence (he also wrote about love and other things. His poetry is worth finding and reading). He was also a playwright, composer, painter, essayist and novelist. So, my first bearded fellow at Christmas was this man. I think I got off to a flying start.

Rabindranath Tagore, 1861-1941

My first actual encounter with Father Christmas was in Port Moresby, PNG, when I was about 23 months old. Yes, I do remember this (my earliest memory is at about 14 months, but that's another story). He was an old, slightly overweight PNG man with a VERY bright, highly patterned shirt and a short, white, curly beard. He was accompanied by a number of PNG ladies and they were all on the back of a flat bed truck. I don't think I knew what "Santa Claus" meant or entailed, but I knew he was it.

The next year my mother took my elder sister, my baby brother and me to the local shopping centre to have our Christmas photo done. The photo is one of those "mixed bag" ones. Sister is happy enough, Brother is a babe in arms (only two months old) and I am furious and tearful. Because this fat white guy with the huge beard was not Santa Claus and I was having none of it. Wrong outfit, wrong beard, wrong colour. No, no, no! I suspect there was foot stamping involved (I should ask Mum for the photo so I can scan it). The next year, and all subsequent were fine, but that year... no. Not at all.

Shopping Centre Santas are their own mixed bag. Some are lovely and knowledgeable and really have the children believing. Others, while sweet, are not so convincing. If you want to be a Shopping Centre Santa it is best to not live under a rock.

I have always had my children's photos done at David Jones. Great service, great photos with a good range of packages and prices so you do not have to bankrupt yourself. Generally good Santas. Except for one year.

Every year I make (or now offer to make) a new outfit for my children. For the Steamgoth a dress (often worn two years running, the first year floor length, the next mid-calf. Her choice. Smart girl), for Son a shirt (he wanted the same one four years running, so that was easy).

When Son was three he made his most extravagant demand (he has never topped it, although last year's cammo gear was interesting). He wanted to be the pilot of Thunderbird 2, which meant dressing like Virgil Tracy. 

I am not one for putting photos of my children on the web, but I'll make an exception this time because this photo is so old, and he is so cute, and I am so proud of the damned costume.

The new pilot of Thunderbird 2

Everything is made by me, except the gun. The boots, the hat, the sash, the belt and holster, the uniform. The badges on the sash and hat were painted with fabric paint and then appliqued. We still have this. I don't care how big Son gets, I am never giving this away.

When you take kids for Christmas photos mums look and coo (or appraise), dads ignore. Not this time. We had guys in their 20s and 30s stop us and ask where the uniform came from. One guy walked backwards in front of us to get a better look. Son thought this was all marvellous. And then we got to Father Christmas.

And the silly man asked "who are you meant to be?" and when son looked shocked and told him, he said "Who?" Like I said, if you want to be a Shopping Centre Santa, don't live under a rock. At the age of three I had to have that talk with my son. You know, the one where you explain that these guys are all just helpers because the real one is flat out getting everything ready, but don't worry, he gets all the messages.

The local Westfield has told the local David Jones (inside the local Westfield) that they can't have a Santa this year because it competes with the Centre one. So we will be going down to Sydney to the big DJs in the centre of town. Raspberries with knobs on to Westfield. The Steamgoth has declared she is NOT coming. She is "too old". And there is nothing I can do or say to change her mind (I have tried).

Laser Claus, Megan Hitchens, watercolour pencil on paper, 2013. He wants a word with Westfield Tuggerah

To finish up, have you ever really listened to the words of "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town"? The guy is  a creepy stalker. Doubt me? Listen to it in a minor key, then tell me I'm wrong. (That's my drawing, by the way (Fat Man, watercolour pencil on paper, 2013). I couldn't resist after I heard this version).

On the Ball

Tomorrow is the Year 6 Farewell dinner at the local Golf Club. When I was at school there was a school disco and the principal stood up at the last assembly in the year and said goodbye to us all. That was it. Now, there's the farewell dinner, a farewell pool party, the assembly, and on the last day the rest of the school forms a guard of honour at the gates (that's actually quite funny, watching the Year 6 kids trying to get under the arms of the kindergartners).

My baby will be finishing primary school.

Lots of people are pitching in (it's a public school, we're not flush with cash). Decorations and special place mats have been made, I've spruced up the banner and written out place cards. Parents will be decorating the room at the club on the day (not me, sorry, that banner was more than enough). Everyone pulling together, which is as it should be.

Son loves his teacher. Miss Casamento is lovely, but she is also a great educator. She has a tough class (the Opportunity Class (gifted) - pack of smart arses, including my boy), but she keeps them in line and motivated and interested, and learning all sorts of things. There are two OC classes, the kids have the same teacher for both years 5 and 6, and the two classes, next door to each other, interact a fair bit. So when Son asked me to make a temari for Miss Casamento, he also asked for one for Miss Garland, the other OC teacher. To be given at the farewell.

Remember temari? I made one for Mrs Dawes, our deputy principal, when she retired.

It was a simple thing for Son to ask both women for their favourite colours. Then he and I went through all my temari books looking for just the right designs. I swear he bookmarked about twenty. I deliberately did not say "Let's look on online too". We'd still be choosing.

After several days he settled on one for each.

I made Miss Garland's first because my boy was still deciding thread colours for Miss Casamento's.

This is wrapped in red thread, divided with gold into a C8 (see the other post) and then the pattern is built up by stitching interlocking large and small squares. That's right. Squares. The triangles appear as you go. I had to unpull it once because I mistranslated something in the instructions (if I had looked more closely at the photos I would have realised my mistake). Then I had to unpull it again because there are two ways to stitch the large squares, and I chose the wrong way (again, photo, dur). But it came out alright in the end.

By the time it was done, Son had finalised the colours for the second one. A dusty pink and white. I suggested a touch of light green, but he was adamant.

The mari was wrapped in dusty pink thread (it's fairly dark in tone) and then simply divided into twelve, like segmenting an orange. All those petals are achieved by first stitching zig zags from the pole to midway to the equator on alternating spokes (repeat once so all spokes are done) and then stitching spindle shapes on each spoke over the equator. Repeat till finished. The equator is then wrapped in an obi (basically a belt made of wrapped threads) and that's it. It is a simple pattern, but it takes a lot longer to stitch than the red one.

And if you are wondering about the cushion, that's a zabuton, or little mattress. I have a few of these in my temari box. The colours were perfect, so Son snaffled it.

So that's it. Now I have to find something else for the evenings (too warm for knitting at the moment).

Christmas music. I meant to start this yesterday, but I forgot it was 1 December (despite stressing about the Christmas tree and the cats). Still, better late than never. (And don't roll your eyes, listen. Great version)

Into Aladdin's Cave

So what did the Steamgoth think of Frankenstein? She loved it. As we walked out into the bright Summer sunshine, she said "thanks, Mum, for bringing me to this". She even held my hand as we walked along the Quay through the ever present throng of tourists. My teenage daughter! That it had been a film of a stage production seemed a bonus. She particularly liked the ingenuity involved in the props and the Spartan settings, conveying so much with so little. We had a lengthy talk about Mary Shelley and her parents  as we made our way over to The Rocks and the tightly-packed Aladdin's Cave of wonder that is Parker's Fine Art Supplies.

I love Parker's, and unlike last time, it was open. It smells glorious. Turn your head to the left as you walk in and it is the heady scents of linen and cedar from the canvas and stretchers. Turn to the right and it's the metallic tang of pen nibs. There are racks and racks of handmade paper, leather-bound sketch books. Old Holland oil paints (the best paints in the world, and that is written without any exaggeration). I have to admit, I stand in the oil paint aisle and shut my eyes and breath in and am transported to other times and other places.

We drifted around for a while just gazing at all the beautiful things. The Steamgoth found a rather nice retractor pencil and a pack of 2B nibs, and I found chalks that were buttery-smooth and glode onto the test scraps of paper.

Did you really think they wouldn't come home with me?

There was a little stand set up with various coloured ink stones and a calligraphy brush. The Steamgoth had a great time writing Kanji while I got some serious looking done. Honestly, I could spend thousands in that shop without blinking. But I don't have thousands. So I contented myself with my chalks, her pencil and leads, a beautiful new sketchbook (heavy cream paper) and... a silverpoint stylus. Yes, finally, a silverpoint stylus.

Such a contrast to Eccersley's. "Do you have silverpoint supplies?" "Yes, but it's only the silver at the moment. I think we are out of the gold". Oh, bliss. He showed me what they had (they even had lead. Nice, but no thanks). And then he apologised because they are out of prepared paper. Before I even asked (I wasn't going to, but still... impressive).

The day in Sydney was rounded out with afternoon tea at a cafe and then an hour or so in Kinokuniya, with the Steamgoth waxing lyrical over the manga while I looked through the art books and the Japanese Steampunk magazines (they had a new one, but having been to Parker's I couldn't afford $40 for one magazine, lovely though it was).

And we just made it home before the exhaustion set in. Sunday's activities got severely curtailed, but after feeling like I was made of lead for most the day( and still I had to wash the children's school clothes), I took son shopping for his year 6 farewell outfit and then sat down and did these from memory, because they wouldn't let me rest.

The Train, Megan Hitchens, trois crayons on buff paper, 2014

The Creature, Megan Hitchens, trois crayons on cream paper, 2014

Worker, Megan Hitchens, white chalk on black paper, 2014

They tumbled out of my head. There are more, and I have found a stack of photos this afternoon on the National Theatre live website, so I can fix up some I am not happy with and maybe do some others. It's odd, drawing from memory. A very good exercise, but not easy. They aren't perfect but I am quite happy with them, given what they are.

The one of the creature I got too caught up in musculature and wounds, and forgot about proportions. His arms are hopelessly long, or his legs too short. But I showed it to the Steamgoth and she knew exactly the moment I had drawn - his bottom-wriggling joy at finally mastering walking.

I have included the Rachmaninoff because I like it, and it is melancholy, and I am knackered.

The Monster Within

I meant to write and post this on Saturday, but Saturday wiped me out. Sometimes I can withstand a lot of physical activity, sometimes I really pay for it. The last couple of days I have been paying. Mind you, a whole week of waking at 5am (alarm is set for six) coupled with screaming nightmares while I have slept probably had something to do with it.

On Saturday I went down to Sydney with the Steamgoth, to see the National Theatre production of Frankenstein at the Dendy Opera Quays. You read that rightly, a stage production at a picture theatre. Frankenstein is a film of the stage play in London, right down to an audience present. Almost like being in the audience, only the view is better. We saw the changing of the sets, the rotating of the stage, the works. The industrial train was especially impressive.

Promotional poster for the National Theatre Live film of Frankenstein

This is an amazing production. If you ever get the chance to see it, make every effort to go. It's the version with Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller. Every night they would swap who played Victor Frankenstein and who played the creature. Which version you see depends on the session you go to. We got lucky. We got Cumberbatch as the creature. It is an incredibly demanding role, which is possibly partly why they swapped each night.

I wasn't sure what the Steamgoth would think of it all, but I was hoping she might like it. We got off to a good start when she said how much she liked the theatre. Then they played "Minnie the Moocher" while we were waiting for the film to start. Cab Calloway, but a different recording to the one we are used to, so we had a lot of fun trying to sing the responses correctly. The Steamgoth added "sir" to the end of each of her's (Jeeves and Worcester fans, us). The two elderly ladies sitting next to us weren't sure what to think.

When the lights finally dimmed, we got a documentary. The Steamgoth hates documentaries about films, whereas I love them. I have indeed watched all 12 hours of documentaries on the Lord of the Rings discs, and been declared mad by the rest of the family. But this documentary was mercifully short. We both agreed that Benedict Cumberbatch looks weird with his real hair colour, and my daughter was very impressed that Mary Shelley was 19 when she was writing Frankenstein (she wants to be a horror writer, and her stupid English teacher has said that as a girl and a dyslexic she should give it up. We have had words).

And then the film itself started. From the beginning it was enthralling and imaginative and utterly believable. More from the point of view of the creature than anything else, unlike the novel, which is Frankenstein's report to a friend of all that happened. Frankenstein's lack of humanity is in sharp contrast with that of his creation. It's hard going at times, but the story is hard going. If you have never read Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, do so. It is a classic for a reason.

Cumberbatch was brilliant as the creature. His performance so very physical, the spacticity of the early attempts at movement ghoulishly fascinating. As he learns to speak, I was reminded very much of David Threlfall's performance as Smike in the 1980 production of the Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby. That sense of disability never really leaves the character, and it calls upon that terrible but wrong-headed instinct in us all that how someone sounds reflects their intellect. He speaks with a slur and moves unevenly, so he must be an idiot. But he isn't. He is more capable of reason than many others he encounters. Frankenstein is astounded that the creature has read Milton, but seems unable to believe that he understands it (which he does).

And is that not how most react? People speaking slowly to Stephen Hawking, or to the son of my spouse's friend who is wheel chair bound and speech impaired but a whiz with computers. We see and hear only the externals and ignore all other evidence to the contrary. This production highlights that terrible, stupid reaction in us, the audience, while brutally enacting the other common reaction, that of violence and revulsion, the fear of the other, the threat it poses to our own sense of self. The creature is beaten and yelled at and chased off, to the point that his first spoken words are "piss off".

Then there is Elizabeth, and the first bride. Mary Shelley well knew that women were the pawns of men, devalued, used and then abandoned. Not only was she an intelligent woman trying to make her way in the "Age of Enlightenment" (has ever a time been so badly named?), but she was also the child of Mary Wollstonecraft and William Goodwin, the great social philosophers and feminists. This background is drawn on in the play, with Elizabeth even baldly stating the central point of Wollstonecraft's "Vindication of the Rights of Women", that she is "no less intelligent but appear so only because I am less educated, and who's fault is that? For I was not allowed to go to school". Elizabeth and the bride are shamelessly used as weapons by both the creature and Frankenstein, then butchered and discarded.

It is also very much a play about pecking orders. At the top is Victor and his family, then their servants, the industrial workers, the vagrants, (at all ranks women inferior to men) and at the bottom the creature, outcast because of his appearance. It is a long time before his actions become such to justify that exile. He is more noble, more just, sweet and innocent than any humans encountered. It is the actions of those around him that teach him how to be a social being, that is, how to lie and cheat and hate and kill.

While it is a strong theme throughout the book, Godwin's main tenet roars through the play, that the evil actions of men are solely reliant on the corrupting influence of social conditions. While Godwin believed that changing conditions in society could remove evil, the outcome in the play and the novel is that the evil in society instills evil in the creature. All are culpable in the crimes of Frankenstein's monster.

At the moment Danny Boyle (the director) is resisting requests for the production to be released on DVD. God knows why. The National Theatre could make a mint from it. I for one shall be adding my voice to the growing chorus.

What the Steamgoth thought of it all and what we did next shall follow.

Tag, You're It

Okay, so sitting here at 7am, checking emails and the dreaded facebook (I hate facebook, but I love being connected to my friends. Aargh), and looking at my blog stats (that is so addictive. Be warned, should you start a blog. And remember, the views and + are not reflections of you or your worth as a human being. It's okay that no one has looked for a while). My son and I love looking at where the views are from. That can be a lot of fun, and quite perplexing. I have a regular viewer in Russia, and the family history blog (which I must get back to) seems to have someone from the US armed forces. At least I think that's what's going on. Views from South Korea, then Germany, then South Korea again, but never both at the same time. Then both will vanish and there'll be extra under US (I have a branch of family in the US, so it's possible). The Zentangle blog gets readers from all over the place - Czechoslovakia, Poland, Netherlands, South Africa, Malaysia. It's up to about twenty destinations now.

Today I am checking the blogs. I have one and a half posts ready to go for Grasping Nettles (hopefully later today), and because it has a been a little while between drinks there hasn't been much activity. One view. I'm curious (it did annihilate the feline species, according to K9). Source? House Goes Home, that wonderful blog of my old school friend, Alana. Which is weird. Who has clicked through from there and how? So I follow the link. And get a shock.

I read Alana's blog every day (yes, she blogs every day. I don't know how she does it). If you want a blog that is honest, frequently funny, sometimes heartbreaking, that deals with everyday existence, her part of the extraordinary journey we all make, go and read HouseGoesHome. I looked at the post the link took me to, "I Got Booked", and wondered how someone found me through there. Um. Alana tagged me. And I didn't realise. I read that post three days ago and didn't see the tag. I loved the little image at the top of the page (the Steamgoth had a good laugh about it too then wryly said "there are some people at school who need to see that"). I followed through and read Pinky Poinker's post from which she tagged Alana (see? Grown ups do still play tag). And I looked at who Alana tagged in her post and thought "that would be fun" and didn't realise one of them was me. Some days, I swear, thicker than a whale blubber sandwich.

So, questions, answers, incep dates. I have to answer some questions about my reading habits. Here goes, and apologies in advance for boring you all to tears.

Do you snack while you read?

Ah, no, for the same reason I don't listen to music when I paint or draw. I get so caught up that I don't notice if I'm eating or not. Plus, if I do stop to think to take a bite then the flow is gone. I also don't like intermissions in plays or films.

Do you tend to mark your books as you read, or does the idea of writing in books horrify you?

For fiction books, this absolutely horrifies me, makes my blood run cold. My uni texts, on the other hand, are full of notations. Even if I am looking at them again now, more than 15 years after leaving, I sometimes add notes. Some of my non-fiction favourites also have very full margins, passages underlined, wording questioned. It is like a conversation with the text. At high school I would have died rather than mark a book. Studying the history of book production at uni shifted something in my head. But only for non-fiction. The words of a fiction author are sacrosanct, their creation, and the images they are pouring into my head don't leave time or space for anything else. But there are editors out there who could do a better job.

Fiction, non-fiction, or both?

See above. Definitely both. There is too much knowledge out there, and too much amazing storytelling for me to ignore a category.

Hard copy or e-books?

Oh, this is vexed. I love the book as artefact, the smell, the sound of the pages turning, the feel of the paper and the spine, especially if it is a hardback. Especially if it is old. I love having those beautiful volumes on my shelves, just waiting to be picked up, with no energy needed other than mine. They don't need recharging, they don't rely on electrickery. Once made they need no other energy investment, they become clean and green for more than a lifetime. But... (there is always a but), I have an e-reader on the computer (I hate it. I want a Kindle. They use Othello technology. They aren't hard on the eyes). There is a Victorian author I love, George Chetwynd Griffith. He was an explorer and author (yes, he wears a pith helmet in his author photo). He was a left-wing science fiction writer, posited the powering of London with wave power from the Thames, wrote about airships that didn't run on fossil fuels, gave women strong important roles. He was a Steampunk writer before there was Steampunk. And my chances of actually owning a physical book of his are pretty much close to zero. But I have his entire output in e-book format. So for the sake of George I have to beat down my Luddite tendencies and say thank you to e-books.

What is the last book you bought?

I can't say because it is a Christmas present, so the one before that was "Frankenstein" by Mary Shelley. Because I really wanted to read it again (you'll see why if I get my act together) and I don't know where my copy has gone. I went to QBD and found there was stacks on my card so I got Frankenstein and a Percy Jackson for my son for free. Who cannot love free books?

Is there a specific book or author you find yourself recommending over and over?

Yes, yes, yes. Terry Pratchett, Robert Brown and Nancy Mitford. I have been reading Terry Pratchett's books since I first picked up The Colour of Magic in 1987. The collection has grown from there - his science fictions, children's books, the Discworlds (obviously), Unadulterated Cat, his collaborations, including the latest, the Long Earth series, with Stephen Baxter, essays. He is an extremely gifted writer. Over the years his books have become darker and more political, and I have loved those even more. And if you want books with a strong role for girls, go straight to his Tiffany Aching books "The Wee Free Men", "A Hat Full of Sky", "The Wintersmith" and "I Shall Wear Midnight". The first one is okay for 8-10, the last for teenagers. Like Harry Potter, the story grows with the reader.

“Zoology, eh? That's a big word, isn't it."
"No, actually it isn't," said Tiffany. "Patronizing is a big word. Zoology is really quite short.”
Terry Pratchett, "The Wee Free Men"

Robert Brown. If you have been reading this blog you know about Robert Brown, whether you want to or not. Lead singer, main lyricist and songwriter of Abney Park. And a glorious author. Only two books so far, "The Wrath of Fate" and "Retrograde", but he is a great story teller. They follow the adventures of Robert and his wife Kristina as they are shot into a world of chaos in a time-travelling airship, the Ophelia. Along the way they discard, meet and recruit others (who fans can identify as past and current band members, some are harder to pick than others) and Robert tries to "fix" the world, with disastrous consequences. That makes it sound twee. It isn't. You don't have to know a thing about the band. You don't even have to like their music (although how could you not?). These stories stand tall on their own strengths. I have written elsewhere about them. Brown is maturing as a writer (so is Pratchett. All good writers mature with each book). These are rollicking good tales, with beautiful illustrations, and they are novels that make you think. At least, they make me think. Even if you are one of those who rolls their eyes at my banging on about Abney Park, you are doing yourself out of a bloody good yarn if you ignore Robert's books (and if you want more of the story, it's there in the songs too).

And lastly Nancy Mitford, author of (amongst other things) "Love in a Cold Climate", "the Pursuit of Love" and "Don't Tell Alfred". She wrote startlingly funny books about upper class England between the wars. There are also her biographies, her essays, journalistic writings and reviews, translated stories (from French) and collections of letters. Beyond her novels (which I adore) I especially love "The Mitfords" from 2007, a collection of letters between Nancy and her five sisters, including Unity (although there aren't a lot from her after she shot herself in the head when Hitler rejected her. She was the black sheep in the family. You can read more about all the sisters in "The Mitford Girls" by Mary S Lovell, 2001). I have always urged others to read Nancy Mitford's books. She will make you laugh until you cry, and then she will make you cry.

So all that remains now is to tag two other bloggers and ask them to answer the questions on their reading habits:
Do you snack while you read?
Do you tend to mark your books as you read, or does the idea of writing in books horrify you?
Fiction, non-fiction, or both?
Hard copy or e-books?
What is the last book you bought?
Is there a specific book or author you find yourself recommending over and over?

So, to the lovely and talented Lianne of the Tangled Way, tag, you're it. Most of the other blogs I read are by academics I don't know, others I have only been following for a short while and don't feel confident to tap them almost out of the blue. Alana already tagged me and it seems I cannot tag her back. One blog is so specific I dare not ask (We've Got Work to Do. I would love to know the reading habits of my favourite Who blogger). Instead I shall tag my Facebook friend Arthur Slaughter, who isn't a blogger but should be. An erudite and well-read man with many strings to his bow, whose reading habits I am rather curious about ("curiosity annihilated..." yes, yes, K9, I know).

And to end, my son's favourite band, the Russian ensemble, Caprice. They often write about stories and books (there are at least two albums about Middle Earth) and have lots of weird labels put on them - neo-classical, neo-baroque, fairy-pop (wrong), fairy-goth (closer). But everyone seems to agree: evocative music, ethereal vocals. I can't find his favourite track, Edge of Arctica, so instead you have this, which isn't typical, but is soothing.