At Home - Bill Bryson

I don't usually write book reviews, because I don't read books I don't love. So if I begin a book and I am not passionate within the first chapter or two, I simply stop reading, and thus reviews of books tend to be a bit pointless. However, there is an exception to this rule, as with all rules, and the one author to make it through the tiny loophole that presented itself, is Bill Bryson.

I love Bill. I don't just love him as an author, I tend to love him as a kindred spirit, as my kind of person, as someone with whom I could have a great and wholesome relationship because, based on my extensive and comprehensive reading of his work, I have come to the conclusion that we are in fact the same person (The only point of discernible difference between us I should like to point out, is that he doesn't like dogs. But that’s it). So I will read anything he writes, anything at all. I would read his grocery list if that were available for perusal.

Which brings me to the point. I recently acquired (and at only two thirds of the MRP, Heeheehee) his newest book, and have been in a tizzy of excitement ever since. Entitled 'At Home' it is a history of the humble abode, and all the other humble things that make up the bulk of everyday life and have done so for ever but never got the credit and recognition they deserved. Until now. Truly typical Bryson, the book is stuffed with bizarre and baffling trivia that awes and entertains all written in his wonderfully lighthearted, yet acidly irreverent style.

So why am I writing a review? Last night, circa 3:00 AM, I finished the chapter on Drawing Rooms and was struck with a rather unusual emotion. Well not unusual in itself, but certainly unusual in the context of reading a Bryson. I was... unsatisfied, and mildly irritated. So remarkable was this, that I spent many minutes trying to make sure that the source of my discomfort wasn't external. I checked the air conditioner and the mosquito repellent. I poked the dog awake to make sure she wasn't trying to make me let her out (mild irritation appears to be a ferociously infectious condition) and drank some water just to be sure I wasn't thirsty. It was no good though, I was mildly irritated by Bryson and I couldn't pretend I wasn't.

It isn't that book is bad, it is, as I said, typical Bryson, which is a good thing, but also allows me to confidently review the book before I have finished it. Though stuffed with interesting trivia narrated in his wonderfully lighthearted yet acidly irreverant style, his jokes have become, well, a little predictable. And I have never noticed before how deeply disorganised he is. Or perhaps it is only this book, but the chapter on the scullery, for example, takes you on a somewhat complicated journey through the life of the average servant in 18th century England. This is confusing enough to be honest, but he takes this a step further by including a story about a gentleman who wrote a history of the French Revolution and another who had an extremely complicated wig. And though I remember all this, and think it was rather funny, I have to admit I simply can't recall what purpose the Scullery actually served.

See what I mean? It’s wonderfully entertaining, but it doesn't make any sense. It’s like reading '1001 Jokes by Bill Bryson'.

Regardless, and in the words of Bryson himself, I will devour it (Yes I realise it’s an odd line to quote, but that's how Bryson quotes come to me. Odd one liners that I really shouldn't bother crediting to him). I will probably love it also, but for today, I am mourning a little. I'm sure it will pass.

Stone

There are huge glass windows. In every perfect afternoon, there are always huge glass windows.

We sit. In leopard print chairs, facing the street, watching traffic and the odd glint of glass through rough jute blinds. The wooden floor squeeks under my feet as I kick of my blue brocade sandals, I reach for my Iced Tea, with too much ice as usual, I brush the hair out of my eyes, I reach for the soot between your fingers.

And then I look up at you. You smile and I wonder what you're thinking. You look overawed. As if you're watching something you've never seen before.

You kiss me. Gently, you brush your lips against mine and grimace as they come away sticky with lip gloss. We laugh and you tug at my hair making me ash all over the floor, but we dont notice.

The ravioli rears its head and we lean away. You pick up your beer, the bottle catches the tired sunlight and reflects stars over the white walls and dark brown wooden doors. You take a deep drag and lean back into the light, and I see myself in the huge glass windows, looking at you.

I look overawed. As if Im watching something Ive never seen before.

I wrote this on the 13th of September, 2006. I remembered it suddenly, a few days ago and felt the need to re-post it.

Gripes.

Of all the things placed on this Earth to annoy me, (and damn are there a lot) the following have really got my goat recently.

1. People who walk on a jogging track as if they are the only people using it. I mean for God's sake, try and comprehend the fact that there may be people who walk faster than you, or God forbid run, and if you meander across the path lost in conflicting day dreams of being thin and eating Gulab Jamuns, you are being seriously inconsiderate to the person trying to overtake you. And if they subsequently step on the backs of your shoes, accidentally on purpose, you have absolutely no right to get upset. Just bow your head in meek apology and stay out of their way in the future, or the Dragon may be compelled to eat you. Okay?

2. Facebook. Oh dear God, how I hate Facebook. I wish I could substantiate this hate with a high and mighty boycott, but the truth is Facebook has now become essential, in terms of basic social etiquette, and not being on Facebook is tantamount to not having a cellphone number or an email account. It has its uses its true, but it also encourages menatlly unstable Dragons to obsess about the deeper meaning behind an ex-boyfriends latest profile picture change. Even worse to my mind is how people have now started talking in status messages and picture captions. Its bizarre. No actually, its evil. EVIL.

3. Telemarketers. Or whatever those people who call you and try to sell you stuff are called. And the text messages advertising some god forsaken lump of undeveloped real estate at the edge of world. I HATE them. Luckily the Dragon has a thin veneer of civilisation covering her primitive, violent, merciless self and has managed to not rip the aforementioned nincompoops limb from limb. So far.

4. Children. I am aware that Dragonfly and MinCat will probably tell me I'm being unreasonable, but children are just annoying. Though to be fair, its not entirely their fault, their parents have a lot to answer for. I have never been able to understand why a parent would bring an infant to, oh off the top of my head lets say, a play. I mean really??? What exactly did you expect? That your six month would appreciate a spoof on the bards greatest works and NOT cry during the entire performance? Or movies. Or restaurants that don't have table mats you can draw on. Or any public place where people may wish to enjoy themselves even slightly. The Dragon is not completely without a heart however, so if they annoy me excessively I will eat the children. The parents however are simply too revolting. Yech.

5. MTNL. I don't believe this needs an explanation actually.

Venus + Mars = Vers? Manus? Marnus? Venars?

So I love tags, I really do. Especially when I'm suffering from writers block, as I am at the moment and I thought this one, from Mincat, who got it from the Bride, was a particularly good one. However, I was rather thrown by the complexity of their disclaimers, it wouldn't have occured to me to include one. They do make excellent points however, so instead of writing my own, I am directing you to their lovely pages.

Thusly, the following are my Manly Traits:

1. I LOVE Football, passionately. Being Indian, I am compelled to watch Cricket avidly, but my heart belongs to Football.

2. I am a devoted gamer. And I'm not bad either. Also in this vein, Star Wars fanaticism, as well as avid interest in most Sci-Fi and Fantasy.

3. I own three pairs of shoes. No really, just three. I have an anti-shoe fetish.

4. I am a power shopper. I simply can't browse (the only exception being bookshops, where I could spend eternity. Heaven for me would be an enormous bookshop with comfy chairs and a coffee shop), and I hate malls. Clothes shopping is an absolute nightmare, and I avoid it as much as possible. As a result, many of my clothes are more than ten years old, and I'm happy to say I can still wear some of them.

5. I do tend to be protective and chivalrous, though I can't stand simpering, damsel in distress type women. This is probably also a manly trait though. However I have just realised that I don't particularly like being on the recieving end of chivalry, I find it insulting if men think I can't carry my own bags or open doors without their help.

6. I am not terribly particular about clothing. I often wear things that have holes in them, or are crushed, and am not terribly fussed about what I am wearing. I also have low maintainance hair and make-up habits, so I'm perfectly happy walking in the rain.

7. I LOVE food. And am very capable of eating vast quantities of it, unapologetically.

My Womanly Traits:

1. I am obsessed with my weight. A great deal of my happiness depends on how much I weigh, which is deeply sad.

2. I love to bake.

3. It takes me forever to get ready. I dont know why it is so, but I simply can't rush the process.

4. I love to talk, about feelings. I'm not one for mush or sentimentality, but I'm not one to feel something and not share it either.

5. I LOVE Sex and the City. I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on this.

(I can't seem to think of anymore girly traits, though I'm sure they exist. Feel free to make suggestions!)

Also, Happy Budday Mincat. TheDragon loves you madly and hopes you have the best year ever.

(Untitled)

The key to forgetting,
Someone said,
Was to start small
Like your keys, your library books

To stop making associations
Like the way you smell
That song you loved
Your favorite term of endearment

Lie (to myself)
I will see you again, Its not really over
We would have been great together
(And to you) I hate you

Throw away the random things
That we made together
That business card, the red dragon tissues
The newspaper we read on Sunday

Then to get to the point of forgetting
To stop seeing you everywhere
To spend a few idle moments,
Without caressing you with my thoughts

My cardboard boxes are packed
I await the empty space
That comes with forgetting
The way you loved me

*With apologies to Thoughtspotting

*some text missing*

I've been thinking of what to say to you, that will make sense for us. I want to tell you that I miss you, and that I really want to see you again, but the professional help I'm finally getting tells me that this is just a delusion. Apparently all this turmoil and pain inside me isn't real, its just my part in a play, the script for which was embedded in my sub-conscious when I was a child. A play in which you must break my heart and I must let you, just like I've let it happen a hundred times before, when the only thing that changed was the person playing your part. Except this time I mustn't.

I want to tell you how much I loved touching you, how much I loved falling asleep with you curled up around me and waking up knowing you would still be holding me. The way you'd kiss my fingers. I so want to call you, to ask you how the move went, how you like the new city, what the shop looks like and how much he's messed it up. To tease you about how badly your country is playing in the World Cup. I want to tell you that though I say its too late, I'm really hoping it isn't, that you still want to fight for us. That I hate that we can't talk to each other anymore. That though they say what I feel for you isn't real, that its just a result of my childhood trauma and self destructive nature, I am screaming for you on the inside.

But I can't say anything to you, not until I'm no longer broken. So even though I pick up my phone a hundred times a day to reply to your message, I won't.

You were right though, we would have been great.

Frankly Scarlet, I Don't Give a Damn

I should be upset, but I am strangely relieved. The thing is, I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure that what they had said was true, I wasn't sure that I was making the right decision, I wasn't sure that they were right about you.

And then you left, for the very reason that I was afraid you would, for the reason that they said you would, for the reason that you know is the nameless terror that doesn't let me sleep at night.

And I can't stop laughing, because despite everything you said you were, everything you said we were, all the times you lamented the other men in my life who had done terrible things to me, despite how much you said you would never hurt me, you're just the like the rest of them.

So now I'm sure. And no matter what changes, even if I am no longer broken on the inside anymore, you and I are done.

*GRIN*