What I read in 2015

According to Yes by Dawn French

Capital by John Lanchester

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz*

The Sisterhood by Emily Barr

Career of Evil by Robert Galbraith

The Bees by Laline Paull

I Let You Go by Clare Mackintosh

After You by Joyo Moyes

The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessey by Rachel Joyce

The Death of Bees by Lisa O'Donnell

Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan

Out of My Depth by Emily Barr

Backpack by Emily Barr

Where Love Lies by Julie Cohen

We Are All Made of Stars by Rowan Coleman

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers*

Us by David Nicholls

The Woman Who Stole My Life by Marian Keyes

The Lie by CL Taylor

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce

Lady Worsley's Whim by Hallie Rubenhold

The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult

H is For Hawk by Helen MacDonald*

Mothers & Daughters by Kate Long

The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton*

The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough

Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline

Precious Thing by Colette McBeth*

Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase by Louise Walters

Hello From The Gillespies by Monica Mcinnerney

Balancing Act by Joanna Trollope

The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly by Sun-Mi Hwang

*Book Club choices

What I read in 2014

The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters*

Her by Harriet Lane

The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August by Claire North

A Cornish Affair by Liz Fenwick

The Murder Bag by Tony Parsons

Life After Life by Kate Atkinson

We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler

Public Battles, Private Wars by Laura Wilkinson

The Unknown Bridesmaid by Margaret Forster

The Friday Gospels by Jenn Ashworth

Life Drawing by Robin Black

Elizabeth is Missing by Emma Healey

Silkworm by Robert Galbraith

Life After Life by Kate Atkinson*

The Universe Versus Alex Woods by Gavin Extence

Mad About the Boy by Helen Fielding

Strength in Strangers by Lauren Britton

The Land of Decoration by Grace McLeen

Erosion by S A Hemmings

The Memory Book by Rowan Coleman

The Paris Wife by Paula McLain*

Sense and Sensibility by Joanna Trollope

The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan

The Accident by CL Taylor

Secrets and Rain by Cally Taylor

The White Cuckoo by Annie Ireson

The Diary of The Lady by Rachel Johnson

Out of The Ruins by Sue Guiney

The Moment by Claire Dyer

The Rosie Project by Graeme C Simsion

Wake by Anna Hope

The Legacy of Hartlepool Hall by Paul Torday

All Change for Nurse Millie by Jean Fullerton

Woman Walks into a Bar by Rowan Coleman

Call Nurse Millie by Jean Fullerton

The Woman Upstairs by Claire Messud

The Lewis Man by Peter May

The Husband's Secret by Liane Moriaty

The Wicked Girls by Alex Marwood

Longbourn by Jo Baker

*Book Club choices

What I read in 2013

Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Benedict's Brother by Tricia Walker

The Girl on the Landing by Paul Torday

The Irresistible Inheritance of Wilberforce by Paul Torday

The Hopeless Life of Charlie Summers by Paul Torday

Light Shining in the Forest by Paul Torday

The Twins by Saskia Sarginson

Something Beginning With by Sarah Salway

House of Silence by Linda Gillard

Stoner by John Williams*

Burial Rites by Hannah Kent

Death Comes to Pemberley by PD James

Where'd You Go, Bernadette by Maria Semple

A Cupboard Full of Coats by Yvette Edwards

The Other Half Lives by Sophie Hannah

Summer of '76 by Isabel Ashdown

Carol by Patricia Highsmith

Diary of a Provincial Lesbian by VG Lee

Revenge Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger

Dearest Rose by Rowan Coleman

Build a Man by Talli Roland

What The Grown-Ups Were Doing by Michele Hanson

The Lighthouse by Alison Moore

The Silver Locket by Margaret James

The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald

The Uninvited Guests by Sadie Jones

The Light Between Oceans by M L Stedman

The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

The Light Years (Cazalet Chronicles 1) by Elizabeth Jane Howard

Catching the Sun by Tony Parsons

Left Neglected by Lisa Genova

White Cargo by Felicity Kendal

Alone in Berlin by Hans Fallada*

The Return of Captain John Emmett by Elizabeth Speller

Restless by William Boyd

The Knot by Mark Watson

Your Voice in My Head by Emma Forrest

My Future Husband by Karen Clarke

Thursdays in the Park by Hilary Boyd

My Fat, Mad Teenage Diary by Rae Earl

Still Alice by Lisa Genova

Winter Games by Rachel Johnson

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins*

You Had Me at Hello by Mhairi McFarlane

Jubilee by Shelley Harris

Swimming Home by Deborah Levy

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

*Book Club choices

What I read in 2012

The Secret Keeper by Kate Morton

The Casual Vacancy by JK Rowling*

The Bolter by Frances Osborne

The Cook's Tale by Nancy Jackman & Tom Quinn

The Accidental Billiionaires by Ben Mezrich*

Move Over Darling by Chris Stovell

Mr Churchill's Secretary by Susan Elia MacNeal

The Colour Purple by Alice Walker*

A Kind of Vanishing by Lesley Thomson

The Soldier's Wife by Joanna Trollope

27: Six Friends, One Year by RJ Heald

A Perfectly Good Man by Patrick Gale

Drowning Rose by Marika Cobbold

Ninepins by Rosy Thornton

Somewhere to Hide (The Estate, Book 1) by Mel Sherratt

Tony Hogan Bought me an Ice Cream Float before he Stole my Ma by Kerry Hudson

Gold by Chris Cleave

The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year by Sue Townsend

Charlotte Street by Danny Wallace

The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas*

The Expats by Chris Pavone

Various Pets Alive and Dead by Marina Lewycka

The Cornish House by Liz Fenwick

The Most Beautiful Thing by Fiona Robyn

The Buddha In The Attic by Julie Otsuka

Untying the Knot by Linda Gillard

My Dear I Wanted To Tell You by Louisa Young

When We Were Orphans by Kazuo Ishiguro*

You Before Me by Jojo Moyes

Nirvana Bites by Debi Alper

Everything and Nothing by Araminta Hall

The Book of Fires by Jane Borodale

Hothouse Flower by Lucinda Riley

Room by Emma Donoghue*

A Field Guide to Fabric Design by Kimberly Kight

When God Was a Rabbit by Sarah Winman* (reread)

Limitless by Alan Glynn

Handmade Type Workshop by Charlotte Rivers

The Fundamentals of Printed Textile Design by Alex Russell

What the Nanny Saw by Fiona Neill

More Than You Can Say by Paul Torday

Cuckoo by Julia Crouch

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel*

How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran

*Book Club choices

Thought for Thursday: guilt

Something came up at book club on Tuesday. One of our new members asked if people read more now that they are expats. Answers were split. I don’t read more; I’ve always read obsessively.

Someone asked about guilt. They said: do you feel guilty taking the time to read? Quite a few people did.

I don’t. It’s not like I’d be dusting under the sofa if I weren’t reading, is it?

Confused

When the blogging cupboard was bare the other day I mentioned I could tell you about our book club meeting where we discussed Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit. With Fran’s encouragement, “Go on. What did they think of 'Oranges'? Have you seen the film?” I’ve decided I do want to talk about it.

I want to talk about it because I am troubled.

I adored studying English literature at school and I’ve blogged before here and here about the teachers who contributed to that passion. Since I could read I’ve loved reading but later on I discovered that I really enjoyed studying books too.

But those things are different, aren’t they?

I think that that’s where we didn’t… couldn’t do Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit justice.  It’s possible to read and not study it but it throws up all sorts of questions for the average reader - at least it did at our book group. (And I am assuming that we’re the average reader… we’re all enthusiastic readers, educated – mostly to at least degree level – we read a wide range of material and want to meet with other addicts to talk about our experience.) Another assumption I’m going to make is that you know of or have read Jeanette Winterson’s OANtOF – if you don’t, you can check out its wiki page.

Many of us enjoyed it while acknowledging that we knew we were 'not getting it' or missing out in some way and others decided that they just didn't like it. I felt alienated. My knowledge of the Bible is sketchy. The chapter headings alone left me floundering, Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy: the Last Book of Law, Joshua, Judges and Ruth, the only one that means anything to this impious one is Genesis. 

I am of course a ‘looker upper’ of things and I wanted to be prepared for book club so Google pointed me towards Sparknotes. They told me that OANtOF fits firmly in the postmodern tradition. It explains that the confusing nature of the plot is deliberate. The interruption of Jeanette’s narrative for fables and myths “creates a ‘metafiction,’ or a fictional novel that attempts to question the nature of fiction instead of just recounting a simple plot.”

So simply put, it’s a deliberate device to remind the reader that what they are reading is artifice.

Why? Who wants to read only as an academic exercise? And how is the average reader (the non studying one) supposed to know this? 

If anyone is able to shed any light on this I would be most pleased. 

Hmmm, when the blogging cupboard is bare...

I had plans for today’s post but not until it was too late, she says cryptically; I shall post that tomorrow instead.

I’ve been out at Book Club this morning. We read Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit; could I tell you about that? I guess I could but perhaps there’s something else more exciting... I could tell you about the physio appointment I had this afternoon and that she’s very pleased my gluteus maximus muscles are finally working and not lying idly against whatever they were lying idly against before I started working out. But that’s a bit icky and maybe too personal…So, I looked in the cupboards for a proper blog subject but the shelves were bare. So I went out of the condo, wondering how far I’d have to go to find something exciting to show you.

I had faith in the fact that I’d find something out in my soi to tell you about. Just a few steps away from our place are the mooing frogs; I really want to tell you about them but it wasn’t raining and they only moo in the rain.

Then I had a little panic. What if we are moving home to the UK this summer? There won’t be mooing frogs or street vendors or soi cats and dogs or spirit houses in my road in the UK. What will my blog be about then?

Anyway, enough panic, I am trying to be zen about not knowing what is happening to me…

This is the spirit house - San Phra Phum - in the garden of our apartment. It is at the corner edge of the property as we come into our drive.

Most houses and businesses have a spirit house, often placed in the corner of the plot but it will be an auspicious place where the shadow of the human building will never fall on it.  A Brahmin monk will probably have been consulted to find the best place to put the spirit house.

The houses are put in the grounds to appease any spirits who may have been disturbed by the building process. (Incidentally, this is Animism rather than Buddhism and as I understand it, they have sort of merged into the Thai beliefs.) It is believed that the spirits can be mischievous and they can make problems for the business or home unless they are mollified. Offerings of food, flowers and incense are put onto the house to keep the spirits happy.

Here's another one. This spirit house belongs jointly to the businesses down the road. 

Nearly back to normal

Oooh it’s nice to re-enter normal life; I’ve been at Book Club this morning where we started and finished with a gossipy catch up and some book talk in the middle. It went on into the afternoon.

A couple of years ago, at our January Book Club, we met to discuss Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky. Because of travelling, entertaining guests or other Christmas mania, nobody managed to give it the attention it deserved. So the following January we introduced a ‘pot luck’ meeting where members bring whatever they’ve been reading and enjoying over Christmas. We each get the floor to tell the others about our book choice.

It always provokes discussions and is often an opportunity to be able to say ‘if you liked that, you might like this…’ I like it because, being fundamentally nosey, I want to know what people choose to read when they aren't being told what to read by Book Club. It has introduced me to books that I might not have considered. Last year there was a lot of debate about Engleby by Sebastian Faulks – it seemed to be a love or hate it read so that was one I followed up with (I loved it.) Today I was reminded of Barbara Trapido, whose work I’ve often meant to read. Can anyone recommend which of her novels I should start with?

One slight hiccough to the ‘back to routine’ is that school started today without either of my children in attendance as both of them are feeling a bit sicky today. Hopefully all will be well tomorrow.

My own hiccough for the day is that I went to sleep when I got home this afternoon. Pah! I berluddy hate jetlag.

Busy

I fly tonight and I haven’t packed yet.
I had book club today to discuss The Little Stranger. It was an excellent meeting.
I wasn’t going to stay for lunch because I hadn’t packed yet, but I changed my mind, saying ‘well, I’ve got to eat…’
I’ve come home to pack now.
And here I am blogging.
I have to go out in one hour because Paul Theroux is coming to talk at Neilson Hays Library. He is in Bangkok for the Sea Write Awards.
And now I must go and pack.

See you in the UK.

Book news

After my 4,000 words last week, I lay awake on Sunday night worrying that the big scene I’d so enjoyed writing wasn’t where it ought to be or perhaps it’s just that too much is revealed. So yesterday I didn’t do any writing at all: I finished Rebecca instead.

Oh I am so sad I finished Rebecca. I really enjoyed it. I must have read it longer ago than I thought because there was only one time when I pre-empted what was about to happen. Every other plot twist came as a total surprise. It makes me so sad that for all the years I’ve been reading I haven’t kept a log book of what I’ve read. That list – over there on the side bar – is the first time I’ve recorded what I’ve been reading.

Other book related news:

I’ve just started The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters for Book Club. I don’t normally suggest titles for book club because the whole point of it for me is being told what to read by someone else. The Little Stranger was my choice though because of an administrative cock-up (mine) I had to insert something at the last minute.

For commenting over at Novel Spaces I won a book by Farrah Rochon which I received a couple of days ago. Thank you for that, Farrah. It’s quite ridiculous how snail mail still excites me!

This morning I must write (HA, Sheepish, not so easily sidetrack my woolly friend!) and this afternoon I must continue the Bangkok wide search for some suitable, gargantuan trekking shoes for Son.

Today

I’ve just got back from Book Club. It’s only down the road from me but we got stranded by the torrential rain storm. It’s proper tropical rain. Only newbies try to run home in it.

Our book club was a ‘pot luck’ meeting where there is no prescribed book; instead members come with a book they’ve read recently and enjoyed and we all get the floor to talk about our choice. I like pot luck meetings.

I took ‘We Are All Made of Glue’ by Marina Lewycka. I loved it. I love the way she writes. I love that she writes about ordinary personal drama. I don’t need guns and aliens or the imminent end of the world; there’s enough drama for me in the ordinary domestic arena.

Finally, after lunch and then another natter, the rain stopped. I made for home.

In my soi, I very nearly had to swim.

Certification

Now that the Slumps have been officially diagnosed and I’ve got the certificate to prove it, I’m feeling a bit better. Even though I realised it, the words of my mentor have reassured me “…they happen, it’s impossible to work at full creative speed all the time. The best thing is – as it seems to me you’re doing – to listen to it.” We’ve agreed that the last lot of words I send in can be either the next 10k of novel or the working synopsis. Thus far I’ve been writing without a plan of any sort… just knowing the story but it looks as though it’s time to prepare some sort of strategy.

In acknowledging the slumps two things have happened: I can get on and do other jobs that haven’t been done because of my anxious slumpy paralysis and secondly my subconscious has started to think about the story again and the bits of plot I might need to introduce to combat the flat feeling.

I’ve done the updated BWG website this morning … my bits of it: Book Club and the Noticeboard as well as the committee page. I’ve sent overdue emails out. Now I’m in the midst of book buying… for May. Then I have to try to sort out a beach holiday for when SiL and her family come to Thailand in the summer; that sounds fun but it’s hard trawling through the many, many options and making choices for other people. I keep opening up the internet, then faced with so many alternatives I shut it back down again.

Brilliant books

Either I’ve lost my critical faculties or I’ve read some stonkingly good books lately. For the first time in my life I’m keeping track of what I read – you can see which ones I’m referring to over to the left. I so wish I’d done this all my reading life.

I’ve just finished The Dead of Summer by Camilla Way. I’m not sure how I’d missed seeing this title around but I had and it only came to my attention when someone nominated it as their choice for book club. It wasn’t available here so I Amazoned it. I was unmoved by the cover … it looked so ordinary; I read the back and promptly forgot any of the details when asked about it at the last meeting. So, my expectations were fairly low.

It was fabulous. I really enjoyed it.

The story is told by twenty year old Anita to a child psychiatrist, ‘Dr Barton’.
The narrative is intercut with the original reports from 1986 of Anita’s interviews with Dr Barton. It recounts the events of one summer after Anita, a thirteen year old Pakistani girl, has moved to Lewisham with her family, following the death of her mother.

Her second paragraph tells us: ‘By the end of that summer three of us were dead.” She cuts out newspaper reports of child crimes, and tells us that her friend Kyle is the most famous of the mini monsters. Of course it doesn’t go entirely as we expect.

She starts at her new school where she meets Denis who leads her to Kyle, who lives almost opposite her. The three of them form a friendship; all they appear to have in common is their being outsiders, those ostracised by other children.

Camilla Way captures the voices of the kids; the cruelty, the tedium of summer holidays, the feelings of isolation and detachment from their families. I particularly loved Anita’s sisters. They had tiny parts to play but they were drawn so expertly, they lived.

Now I have to lend it to someone else to read. It’s not available here in Bangkok so we have to pass around the available copies. I don’t want to lend it out …I want to read it again and see how she did it.

Little Bird, Camilla Way’s second novel, is due out in August 2009.

I ♥ Book Club

My being ‘a reader’ isn’t unusual here on the blogs. Among those of us also writing it’s also a requirement, although I’ll bet, entirely a pleasure. When I meet people who don’t read (in the same compulsive way I do) they often remark on my ‘head in a book’ habit. It does define me.

I’ve always known what I wanted to read. I’ve no idea how early books came into my life (did my parents choose them?) My parents certainly never ‘managed’ my reading nor forbade anything. I was aware that my Mum disliked Enid Blyton, but both she and my Dad had a ‘any reading is good’ philosophy; they believed if you discovered a love of reading (anything) you’d always be a reader and your critical faculties would develop with maturity.

About four years ago I had a fiction reading crisis. It came upon me slowly, but I ceased to be satisfied by the type of books I was reading and then worse still, I stopped being able to choose books. It was so frustrating because I’d never been unable to select books. My lovely friend The High Priestess of Punk-chew-ation let me loose on her bookshelves. Among the ones I took and never read was Bel Canto by Anne Patchett.

Then I found out we were moving to Bangkok. There wasn’t room in my head to worry about what to read and so I just consumed ‘escapist’ novels because I needed more than ever in this time of upsidedownyness to read. This took the pressure off me and my panic and misery subsided a bit.

Then when I got to Thailand I joined a couple of book clubs. Once a month my reading was prescribed and I had agreed to read whatever it was that was nominated. (When I read in the blurb of Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami that there were ‘talking cats,’ I nearly expired on the spot. I didn’t do talking animals ... but I really enjoyed it.)

I don’t always like the book club choice but I always (barring life events) read it. Brilliant books I would NEVER have picked up with being made to, are: The Red Tent by Anita Diamant and Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes.

This month’s book for Book Club… is Bel Canto by Anne Patchett which I’d already got.

And OMG: I’ve found the book I wish I’d written.

It’s my first 5/5 for Book Club.

Books

It’s Book Club today.

We’re talking about Emergency Sex (and Other Desperate Measures) by Kenneth Cain, Heidi Postlewait and Andrew Thomson. It’s written by three UN workers who meet in Cambodia and they tell their stories through that mission, and then subsequent missions in Rwanda, Bosnia, Somalia, Haiti and Liberia.

It’s another hit for the book club reader in me as I would NEVER have picked it up voluntarily and it was tragic but brilliant.

I’m now reading Pigtopia by Kitty Fitzgerald. You might have seen in on my pile of goodies here. It has a lovely spine and cover (the spine is very important if that’s the way it’s presented in the book shop) which is why I picked it up.

In my own struggle to cobble together a novel, I’m strongly attracted to ‘beautifully crafted’ in the hope that I might learn something.

Pigtopia tells the story of two unlikely friends, Jack and Holly. ‘Jack Plum looks like a monster’ says Holly, ‘but his voice is sweet and soft. He also looks like an adult but he doesn’t act like one.’ With only his invalid, alcoholic mother at home, Jack wants to befriend Holly but he waits until her 14th birthday so he can make offerings and approach her when the time is right. When he does speak to her, she’s terrified as Jack is the brunt of local folklore. Jack asks himself ‘why she is so feared and is it just my big hoghead and ugliness?’

Holly, despite her lack of physical development, is more mature than her peers. Things got better when her Dad left so she lives happily alone with her Mum. However, the status quo is about to change at home.

So they begin an unlikely friendship. Jack introduces Holly to the pigs that he rears in secret and Holly promises to help him with life’s practicalities.

Some of the reviews I read suggest an uncertainty whether Pigtopia is written for children or adults… they wonder from the book jacket (not the same edition as mine) and speculate whether Kitty Fitzgerald knew. But what I think… I DON’T CARE. It just doesn’t matter who it’s aimed at.

Listen: ‘Mam says that Dad was pigflesh and pigmind, a huge mucky porker what nabbed her by force, then jogtrotted off beyond the farlands when he understood what had been hatched.’

I’m about half way through and something rather awful has happened. Holly has promised she will help Jack without the outside world intruding in on his world. Jack has 'the frights' and so do I. I can’t wait to find out what they’re going to do.

Logged on at last

Thank you to everyone who dropped by to say that you hope we're all staying safe. That was exactly what I meant about friendship and bloggie friends and you all deserve yesterday's award. My apologies for not replying to the comments but I've been unable to log onto Blogger until now.

Nothing really changed yesterday. The announcement about the state of emergency came at 7am, and the children left for school twenty minutes earlier so they were off on their way to school before we even knew about the situation. School made the decision to stay open, but cancelled after-school activities so everyone got home at the same time.

I'd got a big group for Book Club expected yesterday morning, just around the corner in Bitter Brown on Asoke (road) so I texted everyone to let them know I would be there as normal. Everyone else turned up too. Lots of the Book Club members are seasoned expats that have seen ... well, volatile times in other countries so no-one was frightened to go out. (We had a good meeting discussing Tim Winton's Cloudstreet which I really wanted to like more than I did. I'm not sure I understood it all - I need a conversation with the writer about some of the themes! I struggled hugely with the Australian vernacular, despite many years of Neighbours while a student! It was beautifully written, and the characters wonderfully drawn. He writes women really well, and I was desperate to know more of their stories.)

I've never done politics on this blog, and I'm not about to start now, but it may interest you to know what's happening here for me as an expat. It was quiet around town. Public transport unions were threatening to stop in support of the demo and there was considerably less traffic on the roads than normal. None of us would go anywhere near to Government House where it's all happening but there's nothing to be seen where I live.

Thanks again to all of you for your good wishes.

Update

I’ve just finished reading Labyrinth by Kate Mosse. I really enjoyed it. You’ll all have seen it on the shelves, but it’s a biggie at nearly 700 pages. I’ve read much more widely since I’ve been a member of a book club so I probably wouldn’t describe Labyrinth as being my first choice genre, but I read it because she’s a tutor on the Literary Consultancy’s Literary Adventures writing course that I’m going on next month. The minute I finished it I had that lovely/horribly reaction of feeling bereft of the new friends I’d made.

My children flew home to Bangkok on Saturday and I went to meet them at Suvarnabhumi airport (pronounced Soo-van-a-bhum). Son got to me first, gave me a big hug and whispered ‘We flew business. We got upgraded.’ His ‘Na-na-na-na-nah’ patent in the warm breath in my ear … I wasn’t at all envious …

There seems to be a correlation (for me, anyway) between writing and blogging: the more I write, the less I blog. I’ve got stuff to blog about, but I appear not to need to say it quite so desperately when I’m writing elsewhere. My word count isn’t escalating dramatically, but I’m reworking Chapter One. I know I should just get the story down, but there are several reasons for what I’m doing. If there is any chance to show any part of my embryonic novel to anyone on the writing course, then I don’t want it to be just plonked down without any further thought. Secondly after the wonderful conversation with the vicar about funerals I can now add stuff in and change errors I’ve made.

Seaweed popcorn, anyone?

We've been to the cinema today to Indiana Jones. When I first met Husband I was very resistant about seeing films like that. I didn't like films that were silly, escapist adventure but over the years I've been ground down ... I've obviously made progress because I thoroughly enjoyed the film today - despite the aliens. I still want my books full of realism though, I don't much like silly, escapist adventure in novels.

I thought Harrison Ford was gorgeous still, if a little slower! I was surprised to find that the actor playing his son was Shia LaBeouf, who played Stanley Yelnats in the film of the book Holes by Louis Sacher. Now, that's a fab book and film.

And talking of not wanting silly, escapist adventure in my books, I have managed to finish this month's book club book: The Last Secret of the Temple by Paul Sussman. It wasn't remotely silly and only a bit escapist, but it was quite an adventure. Lots and lots of research must have gone into that book, and I enjoyed it, but it's not one I'd have selected myself. However, that is the pleasure of book clubs.

And now I'm off to choose my next book to read. My choice. Lovely.

It's all talk

I’m back in Bangkok and jetlagged. I went to sleep this afternoon because I couldn’t stay awake which means I’ll wake again tonight (probably).

This morning at 3am: PING I’m awake. I felt pretty good until at Book Group when I had a moment of aphasia while trying to introduce a new member. I knew the existing member’s name – it was in my head – but I couldn’t work out how to make the right sounds and it wouldn’t come out. Sooo embarrassing.

In my final days in the UK I had a horrible, horrible, H.I.D.E.O.U.S (just in case you were in any doubt) realisation: that I share certain genes with my family. I’ve buried it deep and tried to deny that this applies to me but it’s just no good; I’ve got them. I’ve got a hefty dose of Stevens ‘fantasy planning’ genes. We talk about all the things we’re going to do … and that’s all we do: TALK.

OMG.
It’s me and my book.
It’s me and the filing.
It’s me and Charles Dickens, Tom Jones, and Madame Bovary.

I’ve lost the only 750 words I’ve written since January. I talked to Julia about this last Friday (not being a klutz and losing documents) but about the routine: doing it, writing, sitting and doing. It’s all to do with my ‘stop talking about it and just do it’ thing.

I make a big announcement: ‘this is what I’m going to do…’ and then fizzzzz pipple… and it’s gone. The air is thick with the evaporation of my grand plans.

I don’t want to be one of those people who say they want to write a book.

I wanted to tell you

The minute I stopped blogging, I thought of things I wanted to say. I still felt a bit fragile so I thought I’d stay away for the time being anyway.

I wanted to tell you about the sandals I’ve had made (for the price of a decent pair of leather sandals in the UK I had a pair made just for me). I wanted to post a picture because I was so excited.

I wanted to tell you how irritated I’d been by a motorbike on the pavement behind me while I was walking to Book Club. This is normal here and has never bothered me before so I wasn’t sure why it made me so angry this time. I run Book Club and I felt cross with myself for not managing to read Bleak House. It scared a lot of people off, and we were only five in attendance. We met in a new venue that served really yummy Berry yogurty shake thing. I wanted to tell you all how the four friends made me feel cheerful again.

I wanted to tell you that Bill contacted me after reading my Snake Farm post. Bill is a journalist in Houston and was writing an article about the snake farm for the Chronicle and he asked if could help him with some extra details. I could. I love the internet. You can see his article here.

I wanted to post a picture of a beautiful flower I saw.

I wanted to tell you that I picked up the soft contact lenses to replace my lost-because-I-was-so-drunk lens. They are the size of dinner plates and handling them is like manhandling a jelly fish.

I wanted to ask advice about something I don’t want to talk about. There are blurry lines between someone I know in a professional sense that I don’t if it’s right or okay to make an overture of friendship. Blurry lines. I can’t work out what to do so I’m doing nothing.

I wanted to say that I think my peculiar patch might be because I’m having a little moment of homesickness. Maybe because I’m flying home in a couple of weeks or maybe I booked the flight because I was in the early stages of homesickness. I get it so rarely I didn’t recognise it. I miss people, but I don’t often feel homesick.

I wanted to say that while I should've been reading Bleak House I was reading The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield and then The Beach by Alex Garland.

I wanted to tell you that I had hoped … so hoped … that not blogging meant I could write. I never found the time. I spent all of last week websiting. My ‘get writing or quit this pretending to write thing’ deadline is approaching. We’re away in Chiang Mai Friday to Thursday next week so I won’t be able to do much then. Will I quit?

I want to tell you that I'm not sure if I should post this or not.