I hate to see a neglected blog. I mean, if you don't keep it up to date, what's the point? And I only feel able to swan off on trips leaving a ten day old posting flapping in the breeze because I think hardly anyone will notice I've gone missing. Well my friend Deirdre noticed and she gave me a telling off when I saw her last week, so I hereby pledge to try harder.

Where have I been? In England. We like to go back to our old parish for Holy Week and Pascha. There we get stroked and treasured. As opposed to cold-shouldered by the Venetian Greeks. The Greeks don't quite see the point of us and indeed on one infamous occasion threw us out of the Paschal feast because of our evident non-Greekness. Harbour a grudge? Me?

So now we return to Cambridge every year, to the parish of St Ephraim, and we try to be there for Palm Sunday at the latest so we can experience the full liturgical sweep, from the stillness of the Bridegroom Services, Monday through Wednesday to the ear-splitter of Pascha night itself with 250 assorted Orthodox singing themselves hoarse. Mr F notched up 100 percent attendance. I missed two services, one so I could attend the 10th Anniversary dinner of the book group I used to belong to (and get a C minus for tardy blogging from Deirdre), the other because I really felt, Holy Week or no, that I ought to get some work done. Yes, it's that time of year too. Deadline time is fast approaching and I have a book to deliver.

Nevertheless I do solemnly swear that from now on I'll blog at least once a week. I know how disappointed I feel when I check out a blog I enjoy and find there's nothing new to read. But first, the laundry, the bills, the empty fridge, and an early night. We were on a 6am flight this morning and Laurie's running on an empty tank.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 11:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

We were up at the country house Monday, starting to pack, getting ready for the closing - parenthetically, why would anyone have two dozen wine glasses in a small weekend retreat? - and there were problems, as usual. The van we'd rented couldn't make it up the final half mile of track. Ten cartons of assorted household goods on top of mountain, vehicle stuck at bottom of mountain, can't fool me, that's trouble with a T. In these situations there's only one thing to do: call Edda.

Edda and Leandro used to be some of our nearest neighbours. Recently they moved into the downtown area, which is to say their new house is on a metalled road, but they still keep a fleet of four-wheel drive vehicles. So Edda and her son dropped everything and came to our aid. It may sound ungrateful if I say our escapades bring excitement into their lives. I don't mean it that way. They are the kindest, most generous-hearted of people. But nothing ever happens in Mieli, except when idiot foreigners get into difficulties. They are so going to miss us.

We loaded our stuff into their jeep and then the question was, who would ride in the one passenger seat? Mr F has his knee in a brace at present so it had to be him. Edda and I set off together to walk back down the mountain track. And it was only when we got half way down I noticed she was wearing her carpet slippers. She'd been so quick off the mark to help us she hadn't even changed her shoes. Now that's what I call neighbourliness.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 10:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The US edition of my Kennedy book came out three weeks ago and when I heard the New York Times had given it a begrudging review I declined to read it. On the basis that most critics are not novelists themselves and finding fault is the easiest job in the world, I choose to disregard what they say. Except when they happen to recognise my stellar qualities. So a few days ago someone wrote to tell me that the NYT reviewer had remarked on my use of, and I quote, 'esoteric dialect', the words 'hoyden', 'paddy' and 'aerodrome' qualifying as esoteric, in a novel set in the first half of the 20th century and narrated by an Irishwoman.

For the longest time I've thought that publishers and those who swim in their wake underestimate the intelligence and curiosity of readers. Not only do they think they're dumb, they also think the ones who are dumb should be encouraged to remain that way by having authors spoon-feed them. Aerodrome? Esoteric dialect? Why it's nobbut the tip of the iceberg.

Of course, if you're Cormac McCarthy you're allowed to get away with anything. I just read No Country For Old Men - I realise I'm possibly the last person left on earth who hasn't seen the movie and I'm not going to because the book is superb - in which his editor allowed him to dispense with quotation marks. I mean. Talk about making your readers work for their pleasure.

And talking of being the last person left on earth, in this house we haven't yet discussed the death of Charlton Heston. The Second Amendment is one of those subjects on which Mr F and I don't quite see eye to eye. But hey, it's not my Constitution. Anyway I loved Chuck in The Omega Man and his passing reminded me of my favorite Frank Lloyd Wright quote.

'I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Let's start with typewriters.'

Posted by Laurie Graham at 11:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

While Mr F and I were in England recently we drove to the village of Chawton, in Hampshire, to visit the house that was Jane Austen's final (almost) home. I say almost because she actually ended her days in the nearby city of Winchester, to be closer to her doctor. Not that he could do anything for her.

It's ten years at least since I last visited Chawton and I found myself much more touched by the experience this time around. The house is so simple and unaffected, all credit to the Jane Austen Society. OK, the gift shop now has as many DVDs as books, but things could be much worse. They could be selling Jane Austen cookies.

It's not a large house and given the number of nieces and nephews that were regularly dumped there, to be minded by that useful pair of maiden aunts, Jane and her sister Cassandra, it is truly a wonder she was ever able to write anything. I admire her more than I can say. Her books are so exquisitely sharp and she created them under the most dire circumstances. Paper was scarce, privacy even more so, and she had little hope of anything ever seeing the light of publication day. She also died when she was only 41 years old, and when you subtract all the time she must have spent serving tea and scratching her chilblains, her achievements are all the more remarkable.

Every so often I need a reminder of what a charmed life I lead, whining, ungrateful mid-list scribbler that I am. Our little pilgrimage to Chawton did it for me. You have to wonder what more JA could have done with a room of her own and another thirty years of health. And a computer. Imagine if she'd had Microsoft Word.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 09:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)