Book Review: Fatal Revenant

Way back in October 2008 I reported finding the first two books of Stephen Donaldson's Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant. I read book 1 on our Lakes week last October and since then I've been waiting for a chance to pick up book 2. This week has provided that chance and I've been devouring Fatal Revenant's 856 pages since Sunday morning.

I don't want to give too much away, but I will say I found this every bit as riveting as the first book. It's true that you have to be prepared to do battle with Donaldson's style when he's writing about the Land. The constant repetition of his heroes' fear, anguish, trepidation, suffering, loss and uncertainty which was such a signature feature of the first two trilogies is here once again, in spades, and it can get very wearing.

But overwhelmingly, this is a monumental success. Not only does Donaldson pick up the threads of every story, race and being that has gone before, and weave them into a narrative that fits as comfortably as an old cardigan, but he then skilfully embroiders that cardigan with a host of new characters, races and situations that are so cleverly explained and so thoroughly well thought-out that you can't tell the embroidery was never part of the original cardigan.

Moreover Donaldson's skill as a story teller, already epic at the time he wrote the first Chronicles, has achieved a hitherto undreamt of level of mastery. The complexity of this tale, as Linden Avery confronts a host of opponents some of whom endure bitter rivalries of their own and hence can occasionally appear to be her allies, others who are virtually their own hero and foe simultaneously, and continues to journey with a rare admixture of characters each of whom has a mystery to solve or at least one hidden aspect, is breathtaking. One of the most satisfying and rewarding reads I can remember for many years.

I can't really get the hang of this blogging lark

I always seem to be two weeks behind with this. I watched Steve Davis finish his first round match against Mark King in the 2010 World Snooker championships last week and wanted to put something in writing about how impressed I'd been, not just with his performance - still managing to win matches at this level at the age of 52 and on his 30th appearance at the Crucible; still committed enough to put in the hours of practice he must need to counteract the loss of visual acuity and muscle tone that the ticking clock must bring - but with the reaction of the crowd. The standing ovations as he entered the arena were really very moving. The entire audience recognising his achievements not only on the table but as an ambassador for snooker in particular and sportsmanship in general, in a way I can't imagine them doing for any other player.

But despite starting that post last week, I never got around to finishing it. A few days passed, Steve won his second round match and made it to the quarters. A fantastic achievement that energised the whole competition. There were reports of people stopping him in the street to congratulate him, and somehow the lights over the baize seemed to shine brighter and the balls on the table were more colourful in the reflected glory of his success.

The dream stopped at the quarter finals, where he was beaten by the guy who would eventually go on to win - Australian Neil Robertson. Throughout all that drama I either couldn't summon up the enthusiasm to put finger to keyboard, or I was in the Lakes, away from the computer.

You may have spotted that I couldn't possibly have known that Neil Robertson won on the date this post was made. It didn't happen until the Bank Holiday Monday after we returned from the Lakes. I'm writing this up on the 7th of May, and that's what I mean by being two weeks behind. This has turned (or has always been) more of a retrospective record of events than a blog, and it's beginning to do my head in.

Trouble is, whenever I enjoy a spurt (of writing activity I mean) and catch up, this will inevitably be followed by a period where there's nothing to write about, or a total dearth of enthusiasm. Back the pendulum swings and I'm two weeks behind again. >sigh< I guess there are more important things to worry about :-\

Someone's idea of hell

...is another's heaven.

We're spending a week in the Lakes this week. Same place we stayed last time (and the time before) only it's just us this time so we've rented the cottage rather than the entire farmhouse.

Whenever we come away with mates we do tag along on the walks. The less physically demanding ones at least. All of them have been great fun, wonderful views, sights you wouldn't see unless you were walking, and we always get back from a walk feeling glad that we've done it. But left to our own devices we're considerably less energised. Yesterday afternoon we went for a walk on the beach at Seascale, but that'll be the one and only walk of the week and it doesn't really qualify as "a walk" - there and back again and no longer than an hour.

Still, this was never intended to be a walking holiday. It's a chance to get away from work, the computers and pretty much the rest of the world, and please ourselves. To spend hours over coffee at the start of each day, just reading a book. Which is something we always struggle to find time for in "normal life." And then, since this is the final week of the World Snooker Championship, to spend most of the rest of the day watching the BBC's excellent coverage.

Like I said, we know that would be the very definition of hell for a lot of people. But we're loving every minute of it.

Chocolate heaven since... er... 1657

One of the unique, clever and impeccably thoughtful gifts I received from Nikki last Christmas (her gifts always fall into at least two of those categories and more often than not all three. I don't know how she does it) was a voucher for a two-person "taste experience." A choice of any one of about two dozen venues dotted around the UK where we could turn up together and be treated to something foodie.

Options included cheese tasting, wine tasting and gourmet dining, but the only one with the combined benefits of most attractive nosh and proximity was the Famous 1657 Chocolate House at Kendal.

Normally of course this wouldn't tick the proximity box but as we set off this morning for a week in the Lakes Kendal was only a tiny diversion on the way to Wasdale. We arrived with plenty of time to spare. After a short riverside walk to kill that time we climbed the worn stone steps (which presumably have been trodden every day since 1657) and, not really knowing what to expect, crossed the threshold.

The current proprietor greeted us, ushered us to our reserved table in the window and introduced our own personal serving wench. She then ran through the details of exactly what our taste experience would entail.

We began with a mug of hot chocolate from a bewildering choice of flavours (we both selected the spicy "Aztec" option) accompanied by a slice of chocolate cake from an even larger list. Most of these are made in-house from traditional recipes developed by the original owner, although a small number (three on our menu for today, as far as I remember) are bought-in from local cake shops to swell the variety on offer.

Both were delicious.

After a short pause and a glass of water to refresh the palate, the wench returned bearing a plate of cut fruit and four small pots of pure melted chocolate - one each of dark and milk - in which to dip the fruit.

Heaven on a plate, and surprisingly filling. Once the fruit had been consumed we climbed the tiny spiral staircase to a comfy lounge to watch a short film on the growing, harvesting and production of the cocoa bean, after which we were invited into the emporium's basement shop to select 100g each from their handmade chocolate selection.

All told we were there just over an hour, and left well sated with our 100g bags (it worked out at 7-8 choccies each) tucked away for later. What a brilliant Christmas treat. Thanks babe!

Cleaning cars

I don't clean my car.

It's always been a kind of "grudge purchase" - or grudge activity I suppose - with me. I never saw the point of washing something that was going to get dirty again more or less immediately. It's not like a freshly-laundered shirt, where you can avoid dropping your dinner down it. At least for a day or so. Usually. No, with a car, you can't avoid the rain, the mud, the fumes, the dust and - most recently - the volcanic ash. Cars get dirty no matter how "careful" you are.

So I don't bother. Unless it's a special occasion. Like the arrival of the outlaws. Which means it might get a wash once a year, if it's lucky. I drive past one of those "best hand job in Manchester" places every day after dropping Nikki at work, but I even begrudge the six quid it would cost me for the minor detour (it's right there on the main road, so only a swerve or two will do it) to let someone else wash it for me.

Don't get me wrong, I understand the attraction of owning and driving a gleaming polished machine. I just can't be arsed.

But I had to smile at the guy I saw pull in there this morning in his soft-top Merc. I mean, to my mind, the damn thing was ALREADY CLEAN.

A bolt of lightning

Storm the Charts has been on hiatus since Thursday night. The first two rounds of the first week of polling had completed amid accusations of vote rigging, and some pretty heated sniping between rival bands. Despite claims that they "managed to rally the fans at the last minute" it looked pretty suss for two bands in the same poll to have both quintupled their votes in round two compared with the support they drew in the first round.

So the organiser has decided to pull the plug temporarily while he works on a way to make things fairer and less prone to multiple votes. This will undoubtedly not go down well with some factions, but will hopefully be greeted warmly and with encouragement by the majority, who apart from their obvious personal desire to find fame and fortune through their music, mostly also have the altruistic and selfless aim to promote indie music in general in the face of the suits.

Maybe I'll be a musician

I've always wanted to play a musical instrument. You'll notice I said play, rather than learn. A deliberate choice of words, because it's the learning that's always put me off. Not having the time for it, partly, but also knowing myself well enough to admit, reluctantly, that I almost certainly wouldn't have the patience or determination for it either.

Recent musical activities in the shape of Beresford & Wallace have rekindled my interest in playing, and by a strange coincidence Natalie's keyboard has been lying on the study floor gathering dust for more than a year, silently nagging me to plug it in and run my fingers along its smooth white loveliness. With occasional smooth black loveliness thrown in, in the usual way of keyboards.

We popped in to Waterstones over Easter weekend for an OS map or two in preparation for our forthcoming jaunt to the Lakes, and while Nikki was trying to find the holiday reading she was after, my browsing led me to a book entitled Learn to Play Keyboards (with a free CD!). I was tempted. Skimming the first few pages was enough to convince me to buy it.

But owning the means to learn - a keyboard, a computer, and a book of lessons - and actually doing the learning are still quite widely separate things. Nevertheless the actual learning took a step closer yesterday when Annie called around to fix me up with a new soundcard and a music editing suite. In a trice the keyboard was connected up and working, and I was having a play with my very own soundbank. Yes flutes, oboes, grand pianos, church organs and many more are all now mine for the trying.

Lesson 1...

Small fry

I haven't blogged much about our fish recently (let's be honest, I haven't blogged much about anything recently), but they've been doing fine. I'm being so diligent about doing their water tests once a week, and water changes at the same time, that I hardly recognise myself. If those poor creatures who lived in my cold water aquarium during the mid-eighties could see me, they'd stare in awe at the reformed character who does more than clean the tank once every six months.

Anyway that was then, and this is now, and I'm pleased to say our six cherry barbs have settled in very well and aren't exhibiting any of the shyness that barbs are renowned for. They all huddle at the front of the tank every time anyone walks into the room, expecting to be fed, and beyond that they pretty much look after themselves and don't do anything more remarkable than chase each other about a bit from time to time.

Until last night, when I happened to glance over while we were watching TV, and spotted a small piece of floating debris near the top of the tank. The filter usually does a pretty good job of removing anything like this, so I was surprised to see it, and even more surprised when I noticed it was moving. Against the current. Swimming, even. Scarcely able to believe my eyes I rushed over to the tank for a closer look. A tiny fish! Our barbs have spawned!

The little guy is barely half a centimetre long, but appears to be a strong swimmer. He (or she - we won't be able to tell for a few months) keeps his distance from the adults. A sensible strategy, because they tend to eat their fry when nobody's looking. He's done pretty well to survive this long under his own steam, because we've done nothing special to promote breeding in the tank, and not provided any of the recommended feeding material (like "infusoria" - whatever that is) for fry, but the fact that he's grown big enough to be seen free swimming without a black background means he must already be a few weeks old.

Which also means he's somehow managed to survive a filter change. I'll have to be even more careful from now on. We've called him Kevin. Well, you know, "Stephen" was a bit too obvious.

Anticipation

There's a definite warmth to the air this afternoon. A suggestion of incipient summer. A cursory check of the weekend weather forecast suggests it will hold nice all day Saturday and most of Sunday, so maybe we'll get our asses in gear and start the serious gardening of 2010, after last weekend's brief sojourn outside to complete The First Cut of the Year, and trim back the rampant hedge which had once again spent the winter encroaching on the path.

It's been a quiet week mainly, apart from Wednesday when I hauled myself off to the Spread to attend auditions for this year's Chorlton Players "hotpot." Normally a sketch show, this year they're having a vaudeville theme, so I thought I'd chuck my name into the hat for the position of MC.

In the seven or eight years we've been helping out with the Players I've never felt the urge to tread the boards, but I do have a track record (well, to be accurate, one previous outing) as MC in the style of Leonard Sachs, so I thought "why not?"

We're also up for singing a couple of tracks off Weird & Wonderful during the show, which should be a laugh. If I can stop shaking, that is.

The absentee landlord

Three and a half years we've lived in this house, and in all that time we haven't had a single leaflet through our door from the incumbent MP. Regular news of what the Lib Dems are doing to brighten up the neighbourhood, revamp the parks, improve safety and discourage yobbishness in the parish, but from our high profile Labour MP? Nothing. Not a sausage.

Well, it's been a day or so since Gordo let slip the news about the election (which everyone had been predicting since before Christmas) and what's this I see on my doormat? A red-top leaflet prominently featuring a photograph of a smiling Gerald, a few pathetic sentences about his recent good deeds, and a plea for my vote.

Ha!

I made up my mind many, many years ago that it would take more than election-time canvassing to secure my loyalties. I don't know where Gerald has been since the last election but there's not been a single sighting in this neck of the woods since we moved in. Too late, mate. Way too late.

PS: PVR clock display on powering down after tonight's telly? 23:33. Nice.

22:22

I've been meaning to post on this for a while, but tonight brought further impetus to the subject as the PVR went into standby and switched over from displaying the channel to telling the time.

22:22

If I was a statistician, or even moderately masterful at mathematics, I could probably (see what I did there?) work out the chances of one of these "significant" time patterns being visible for any given time you glance at a clock. But that would take all the magic out of it.

Fact is, it feels like it happens to me more often than simple statistics would suggest. I regularly get up in the night (no prizes for guessing why) to greet the bedroom clock showing what I'd call a notable time. 1:01. 2:34. A little while ago - the events that originally prompted me to write on the subject - I woke one morning at 1:11, the following morning at 2:22 and the day after that at 4:44. Don't ask me where 3:33 went. I felt like I'd skipped a day.