My kinda spa day

So last week I wrote a post that mentioned my Reading Spa experience. What is that, you ask? Well, it was back when I was living in Bath, it was utterly divine and it completely deserves a blog post of its own.

Bath is a particularly lucky town, for many reasons, but the one that struck me the most is that it has more than one beautiful independent bookshop. Alongside Waterstones and WHSmith, there’s also Toppings (which I waxed lyrical about a couple of years ago in a blog post of its own) and Mr B’s Emporium. While Toppings is airy and bright, Mr B’s is a rabbit-warren of a place, with tiny rooms over three floors, all packed to the gunnels with books, cosy armchairs and even private reading rooms. Seriously, they’re about the size of a phone booth, with a chair and a lamp so you can have a read before you buy in peace – genius! They also have a bath in the window that’s filled with books. I’m assuming this is a play on words with the town’s name, but I have no idea.

I first found out about Reading Spas when a colleague was gifted one. She told us all about it and I was smitten with the idea instantly. I dropped not-so-subtle hints around my next birthday, et voila! Mum and Dad prevailed with the most wonderful gift.

And it really was the most wonderful gift. I cannot thank Mum and Dad enough for it!

I took half a day off work and spent it in my dream world. Nestled by a fire (I know, a fireplace inside a bookshop!) in what they call their Bibliotherapy room (genius) with a slice of cake and cup of tea, Danielle and I chatted books. When I’d booked, they asked about my reading preferences and paired me with the most appropriate member of staff. They chose so well, about five minutes in I wanted Danielle to be my friend, IRL. We were so like-minded and got on so well, we’d read a lot of the same books and she was expertly equipped to suggest new-to-me titles and authors.

After an hour or so of book chat, Danielle left me to peruse Letters of Note by Shaun Usher while she gathered suggestions and piled books around me. Letters of Note is a lovely coffee table book, full of interesting letters of all kinds – ranging from a cute note from the Queen to President Reagan in which she gives him a recipe for scones, all the way to a really eye-opening missive from an ex-slave to his previous master, explaining why he won’t go back to work for him – it’s a fascinating book and great for flicking through with a cuppa.

Eventually, Danielle came up with 40+ possibilities, ranging from popular fiction to memoirs and historical non-fiction. She did such a good job that I wanted to buy every last one of them. When she’d talked me through them all, she left me to leaf the pages and make my selection. As part of the Spa voucher you get £45-worth of books so I (somehow) had to whittle it down. I would have bought them all, but, you know, rent and whatnot.

In the end I went away with The Miniaturist (Jessie Burton), Burial Rites (Hannah Kent – which I’ve already raved about), Alone in Berlin (Hans Fallada) and The Portable Dorthy Parker (so not portable, it’s brick-sized, but beautiful). I also got a free mug and a book mark because Mr B’s know how to do things right. I’ve read The Miniaturist and Burial Rites in full, dipped in and out of Dorothy Parker’s poems and short stories and have yet to finish Alone in Berlin. Obviously, I’ve enjoyed them to varying degrees (as with any book purchase) but more importantly, I’ve been pushed outside of my usual reading zone, been introduced to new authors and got to spend an afternoon indulging in my favourite pastime.

It really was such an incredible afternoon. The staff at Mr B’s are all so knowledgeable and friendly, they make this experience what it is. Without them, it wouldn’t be anywhere near as genuine and warm. I honestly felt like I could stay there forever. As it was, I was there for around five hours so I definitely made the most of it.

If you know any bibliophiles, or are one yourself, I can definitely recommend a Reading Spa. Plus, a jaunt to Bath is never a bad thing, right? They also do book subscriptions, for a year’s worth of books sent direct to your door, which you don’t have to be in Bath for and I now really want. Damn you pesky blog research! You’re teasing me!

What are you guys reading at the moment? Any gems you can’t stop recommending? Do you have a favourite independent book shop I should check out?

Will flirt for gin

I have this really vivid memory of Steven’s 18th birthday. We had a meal at the pub with his family and he was desperate to get ID’ed, just because he could, but no one felt the need. After his parents had gone home, we went to another pub, where he pleaded with the girl behind the bar to ID him for buying gin.

We drank that gin like it was a shot and it burned. I remember thinking that it was vile and vowing never to drink it again. I certainly wouldn’t have thought that eight years later it would be my tipple of choice. I also probably wouldn’t have guessed that we would have been married for three years by now but that’s completely unrelated.

Three gin bottles

Not my full gin collection.

Since I’ve seen the light (that part I don’t remember so vividly), I’ve been a fan of a G&T but it’s only in the last year or so that I’ve properly come to appreciate gin. As a spirit it’s varied, it’s complex and it is brimming with opportunities for creativity. As a drink it’s classy and refined, yet I can still get a decent cheap one from Wetherspoons.

My love was properly kindled in Bath at the Canary Gin Bar. It’s a tiny little place, down one of Bath’s more beautiful cobbled streets (and let’s face it, they’re all pretty beautiful) kitted out in plush red velvet, with moody lighting and the mandatory hipster bar tenders. You tell them your general preference (fruity, herbal, etc) give a few a sniff and enjoy the resulting G&T. It may be a pricey choice but it’s an elegant one for sure.

Unfortunately we have nothing of that ilk in Milton Keynes (where is the gin love?) and I’ve missed the option of the Gin Bar for a Saturday night bevvy. So earlier this year I went to the Gin Festival in London with a friend.

It was fantastic.

Imagine an industrial-chic venue (Tobacco Dock, to be specific), rammed with gin vendors, punctuated by awesome bands and all topped off with pie. Incredible, right?

My eyes were opened to so much about gin. Which tonic to pair with your gin, what garnishes you should use, the size of the glass and the proportion of ice. It really is an art. I’d always known that you’re meant to have cucumber with Hendricks (everyone grows up knowing that, right?) but I had no idea how far the garnish culture went.

I tried umpteen gins for free, marked them in my gin guide (I know, right? Heaven!) and was let loose on the hall of gin, with my free glass in hand (I told you it was good). Aside from having a wonderful evening with my bestie, I now feel so enlightened and informed when I’m buying and drinking gin. Pretentious that may be, but I absolutely love it.

So let’s knock the awful stereotypes, shall we? Gin won’t necessarily make you cry, it isn’t mother’s ruin anymore and it can be damn delightful. Shall I pour?


A few months ago a friend of mine shared a Facebook status that read as follows (don’t worry, this isn’t a massive invasion of her privacy, it was an international campaign and its entire purpose is to be shared):

We need at least 6 people to participate in a book exchange.
You can be anywhere in the world, the further we get, the better!
All you have to do is buy a book and send it to one person. You will receive approximately 36 books back.📚
If you are interested click “Like” and I’ll send you the details

Seems pretty simple, right? I liked her post and she told me who to send a book to. Then I shared the same status and told anyone who “Liked” it to send a book to her and share the status as well. Anyone that liked their post sent a book to me and so on and so forth. Make sense? (I know it’s complicated but sit and think about it for a mo and it should make sense. If not hit me up and I’ll draw a diagram or something.)

At first glance I had a naive giggle to myself. As a notorious book nerd, I didn’t think of books as a culture that needed saving. Surely everyone has bookshelves bursting with novels? Doesn’t everyone adore getting books for Christmas and birthdays? Do books actually need saving? Surely not!

But it sounded pretty fun nonetheless. If there’s anything I love more than a good book, it’s a good book that’s completely new to me. A few years ago I had a wonderful book spa (which I’ve just realised, I never blogged about, check back for that!) and, among others, I was recommended Burial Rites by Hannah Kent. I had never heard of the book or the author but my god what a fantastic novel. It’s so unexpected and so fascinatingly written. But before I wax lyrical about that fabulous piece of literature (perhaps I need to review it in full) I will come back to my point: excellent book + I’ve never heard of it = winning.

Burial Rites is actually the book I decided to send to my book partner, precisely because it is relatively unknown but bloody brilliant. I will admit, a few months passed before I eventually got round to sending the book, but it is now in the hands of its new owner and hopefully being gratefully devoured.

But I haven’t received a single book.

Not one.

Perhaps it’s because none of the people who were involved (that I could see, at least) got the full six “Likes”, maybe it’s because life gets away from us and people forget, maybe those who did “Like” couldn’t really afford to buy a book and then pay for P&P to send it to someone. Or maybe the reading culture really does need saving? Perhaps it was innocent of me to think that people would send a book to a random stranger out of the goodness of their literary hearts.

I will never know. But no matter what, the way I see it, I’ve introduced a fellow book worm to a fantastic read. And even if they never actually crack open that book, at least I gave Hannah Kent a few more quid in royalties. That’s something, right?

So even if we aren’t sending books to one another, I live on in hope that people still settle in for a good read every now and then. Don’t you?

Modern marvels

As part of the Master’s in Contemporary Literature I’ve been studying this year, I’ve been reading a lot more. Obviously. If I wasn’t, then there would be something seriously wrong with this set-up.

What I’ve loved more than anything, is the chance to really scrutinise and engage with modern texts. My undergraduate degree was in Classical Studies and English Literature at an old-school, red-brick university – enlightening and fascinating for sure, but also stuck in the past (way, way in the past in some cases). One of my lecturers even had the audacity to state that anything written after 1960 could not be considered literature. But then, he was a knob, so what can you do?

Picking up books that have been written in my lifetime and discussing their literary worth has been such an invigorating experience. It’s too easy to fall into the trap of thinking old = good, new = dross, and because of that we can miss some truly exquisite literature that’s sitting right at our fingertips.

Take it from me, you don’t have to trawl through an epic Dickens novel or transliterate a Shakespeare play to read some really good fiction. Although, of course, there’s still a place for Charlie and Will on your bookshelf.

Of course, there’s also a lot of stuff I didn’t like. But that’s part of the fun. If a text makes you angry or miserable, it’s still making you feel something and leaving a mark on you as a reader. I’m glad I read all of the texts on this degree (well, all but one) but I’m not going to wax lyrical about each and every one – some of them can only be appreciated by a literature student and some will push you to the brink of suicide (I’m not even exaggerating. I’ve read some seriously bleak stuff in the last 10 months).

But there were a few that I would recommend to anyone who likes a good book. Of the 17 texts I’ve demolished so far, here are my top three, in no particular order.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran-Foer

This beautiful story, of a boy coming to terms with the loss of his father, is honest, touching and incredibly powerful. Told through a triple narrative, comprising the voice of 10-year-old Oskar, the diary of an old man, and the experiences of Oskar’s grandmother, we see the journey of a family coping with grief in the frame of a national disaster. Thomas Schell, Oskar’s father, died in 9/11 and as the nation grieves, the Schell family are trying to come to terms with their own personal loss.

I often find multiple narratives jarring and disruptive. Just as I’ve got into the flow of one narrator, I find myself shoved off onto another one, starting the relationship from scratch. But in this instance, the structure of the text is one of the features that embeds it in the Trauma Fiction genre. The stilted storytelling echoes the disjointed manner in which trauma memories intrude on a victim’s life. We cannot simply be told the story step by step, because it is too painful to tell so plainly. Instead we must discover scraps along the way and piece the whole together from the separate parts.

This book made me cry. So many times. The threading together of early 2000s New York with war-time Germany, and in particular the Dresden bombings, demonstrates the way in which horror haunts humanity through the ages. Safran-Foer presents us with disparate protagonists who have all and are all dealing with awful things. His writing is sensitive, powerful and bold, and I can’t wait to read his other books, especially his new novel, due out in September.

Read this if: you are in the mood for a good cry.

Tales of Innocence and Experience, Eva Figes

Another of my set Trauma Fiction texts, this novel follows a grandmother as she tries to work out how best to share her traumatic past with her small granddaughter. A German-Jew who lost her family to the Holocaust, the grandmother treads a fine line between sharing her story with her granddaughter and passing the trauma onto her.

This story is told intertwined with fairy tales. Deftly and expertly handled, the truth mingles with folklore until the reader feels imbued with the reality of what happened, without having to read the bald facts. As much as this is a story about the Holocaust, it is just as much about preserving history, remembering our race’s mistakes and learning from them to work towards a more positive future.

But when you look again, this is a book about a woman and her granddaughter. The scenes of tenderness between them are wonderful and it is their relationship, their representation as a pair that I was so touched by. The two of them ground the lofty aspirations of the novel and reinsert them into the human experience. It is their love and bond that exemplifies the goodness in humanity, despite the horrors we have committed. The granddaughter in this text is about the age I was when I lost my nana, so maybe that’s why I was so drawn to it and convinced by it, but besides that fact, this is still a beautiful novel.

Read this if: you miss your grandmother.

The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, Maggie O’Farrell

In this powerful, intelligent novel, Maggie O’Farrell shines a light on the lack of impunity with which women have been treated in recent history. Following the lives of Esme Lennox and Iris Lockhart as the two are thrust together, we discover how little control women had over their lives in the early twentieth century and how far society still has to go in order to give women any real agency in their own lives.

This novel is quite tricky to summarise without giving away some of the juiciest bits, so I’m going to be quite vague in that area. What I will tell you, is that the mystery and intrigue in this book (part of what earned it a place on my Contemporary Gothic module) is riveting. When I worked out one particular plot point I literally buried my face in the pages and made inarticulate noises of revelation, understanding and satisfaction (a kind of unghsfpuah noise). You will be gripped, you will be shocked, you will totally get it.

O’Farrell has a delicious way with words. Complicated concepts and tricky feelings are expressed so eloquently in this novel – she manages to hone right in on the crux of messy things and make them seem clean and easy to understand. She’s an idol of contemporary storytelling and I’m so thankful writers like her exist, bridging the gulf between pulp and literature so expertly.

Read this if: you want an excellently written riveting romp.

But don’t just take my word for it, and don’t for a minute think these are the only books worth reading. There’s so much fantastic fiction out there, go forth and read!


Am I missing out?

Last time I wrote around here, I was talking about appreciation. How important it is that we remember to appreciate the people around us and the things that we do have. It’s so easy to lose sight, and it’s important to take a breath every now and then to remind ourselves of how lucky we really are.

But there’s something that often stands in the way of that. On our paths to zen we encounter, in the modern age particularly, FOMO.

Fear of missing out. Yup, it’s so prolific it has it’s own acronym. That’s when you know a concept has made it to the big time.

Oh man, I suffer from FOMO so much you wouldn’t believe! The amount of times I scroll through Facebook, Instagram and Twitter and see people I know living glamorous, exotic lives while I shove instant noodles into my gob, is unreal. It’s enough to put a girl off her carbs (and it takes a lot to put me off carbs). All joking aside, it makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong, not living life to the full and (dare I admit it?) wasting my youth.

But before I descend into the shame spiral of being in my jammies at 2pm on a Saturday, I have to remind myself that it’s all posed. Social media is a particular representation of reality. Think about it, you aren’t going to post a selfie that shows just how long it’s been since you’ve washed your hair, or just how tired you really are. You’re going to run through the shower and put some slap on first, right? It’s the same across all of social media, no matter what people are posting about.

A brief visit to a coffee shop can become a thirty minute photo shoot, if you want it to. A catch-up with old friends can be an elongated selfie sesh, if that’s your thing. I love a selfie and an insta-snap as much as the next girl, but if I have to sacrifice that to get to work on time, or really talk to an old friend, then that’s fine by me.

My online presence might not be as inspiring as some, but I’m ok with that. Because in the physical world, I’m doing my best. I care about the people in my life and I try to make time for them, weather we’re doing something worth posting about or not. After all, it’s not the version of ourselves that we project, but the version that people actually interact with, that counts.

Besides we all know that sometimes, instant noodles on the sofa are all that will scratch that itch. Am I right?