Yule blog

Our advent calendar this year was selected by my wife, and very thoughtfully so, as it is based on a book of which she knows I am very fond, Tolkien's charming Letters from Father Christmas. The eponymous epistles describe, in the author's own understated comic prose and accomplished illustrations, the trials and triumphs of Mr. Christmas as he prepares for his annual quest while beset by, among other phenomena, accident-prone guests (principally a polar bear with very limited spatial awareness) natural disasters and ill-intentioned goblins. The book blends slapstick, gentle morality, myth, folk-tale and humour expertly, and is compiled from the letters which Tolkien contrived to arrive in his children's bedrooms each Christmas.  It would make, as they almost say, an ideal gift for a child of all ages.

Branching away from books for a moment, although words are certainly involved, I've just unearthed a festive CD that we have relatively neglected, and am as I write being very pleasantly reminded of how excellent it is, and of how many points for being self-consciously esoteric in one's cultural choices it confers.  It's called A Celtic Christmas, and contains many interesting noises from Brittany, Cornwall, Ireland, the Isle of Man, Wales and Scotland.  It illustrates the cheerfully diverse ways in which Ye Ancient Celtic Types droned, danced, sang and celebrated in this sacred season. My wife and I forbid, during the month of December, the reproduction of any music which is not in some way related to Christmas. Imbued with the generosity of spirit which characterises this time of year, however, we graciously confine this prohibition to our house.

This post leaves you with a few more books (see Puns in Royal David's City) which, alas, will not grace bookshop tables and annual best-read round-ups this Christmas:

Sleigh Misérables
Antlers Shrugged
Stocking Lear
The Noel-Shaped Room
Kane and Stable


Wishing you a peaceful Christmas -   David.

On me book, Alan

For me, the day of our Alex Fynn / Alan Smith signing of Arsenal - the Making of a Superclub began ominously.  I arrived at Hitchin train station to be greeted by the sight of half the town standing in the forecourt. Dismissing the notion that these people had been gripped by a spontaneous mass outburst of festive bonhomie and were comparing basting methods, my razor-sharp faculty of deductive reasoning reached the conclusion that yesterday evening's problems with unsteady Flange Capacitors in the King's Cross area had been granted an extension.  Sure enough, the station was full of no trains in both directions, which necessitated my walking back home and driving to Welwyn Garden City.

Once I arrived at The Bookshop, however, a more positive mood was discovered.  Inspired by the imminent appearance of their former stalwart Alan Smith, Arsenal had walloped in an unfeasibly large number of goals against the hapless Reading the previous evening; the books had arrived in timely fashion, (we believe in the old-fashioned virtue of having books at book signings) and the advance orders with special dedications were neatly arranged for the pre-signing signing session. Even the potential and dangerous distraction from our event which manifested itself in the form of a children's choir on the ground floor proved futile, especially when our science-fiction obsessed colleague walked past them several times in the highly realistic zombie costume he had acquired at his last convention.

Soon, a spirited crowd had formed itself into a more or less orderly queue outside the shop, (although things did get a little edgy when someone suggested that Arsenal should be playing with a roving midfield sweeper behind a sagging diamond formation) and I had to suppress the urge to walk past them chanting Tottenham Hotspur slogans, which, I can assure you, required considerable effort.  Messrs Fynn and Smith were friendliness and charm themselves, as they signed for and were photographed with a steady stream of delighted pilgrims from The Emirates.

Smith (left) and Fynn

The business of converting the shop into a signing-friendly zone and then reversing the process, while the Christmas buying frenzy raged around us was a stimulating challenge. We've gone beyond multi-tasking, and have developed numerous astral projections of ourselves which can: simultaneously attempt to look up books described as being 'Blue' or 'About something'; diplomatically urge parents to intervene in the process of their child eating the stock; replace books on tables and displays as they are (increasingly rapidly) snatched up and reassure persistent customers that we're not keeping 'the best books' behind the counter for specially favoured patrons.  Late entrants into festive popularity, by the way, include Alys, Always and (perhaps boosted by Marina Warner's broadcasts) Philip Pulman's Grimm retellings.

In the end, all went well, star guests and customers alike were satisfied, and it was with good cheer that my colleagues boarded the special yaks, thoughtfully chartered by the rail companies, to travel home.

Yoga for booksellers (with apologies to yoga)

I firmly and proudly belong to that section of the population which celebrates (in all senses) Christmas, and am irritated by those who seem to derive a perverse pleasure from sniping at this merry institution.

I recognise, however, that the season carries, like sinister baubles, its peculiar stresses and strains, not least for those of us in the business of handing Christmas over the counter to eager shoppers. I thought, therefore, that I would make the gift of sharing with you the unique, holistic system we have devised at The Bookshop in Welwyn Garden City, to ameliorate these pressures.  We have adapted certain classic yoga postures and blended them with key variants in order to combine and unite the manifold duties involved in modern book relocation with the physical and spiritual benefits of the ancient discipline.  A few examples are:  

Yogic name : Ardha Candrāsana (Half-Moon Pose)

The Bookshop name: Reaching For The Shutter Switch At Closing And Opening Times, Avoiding The Rather Large Number Of Books Thrust Manically Into The Window Space To Entice Customers Across The Threshold.  GREAT CARE must be taken when withdrawing from this posture to ensure: (a) the correct breathing and alignment are employed and (b) that you avoid treading on the nice Peter Rabbit gift set.

Yogic name: Balasana (Child's Pose)  

The Bookshop name: Dignified Apology To Customer For Failing To Have Latest Jamie Oliver On Shelf, While Humbly Reassuring Them It Can Be Ordered Rapidly.  Note the alternative name: Explanation To Manager For Omitting To Toggle F9 On Epos System Then Pressing Enter Three Times And Facing West While Selling Book Tokens (see previous blog posts).

Yogic Name: Spinal Twist 

The Bookshop name: Rapid Swivelling Of Head While Tidying Children's Section For The Fourth Time This Day To Maintain Vigilance Over Customers Waiting At Till, Looking Bewildered Or Muttering About Latest Jamie Oliver Not Being On Shelf.




Namaste.

Yule blog (part the first)

Today's blog launches a short but reasonably well-formed series of Christmas book recommendations, which will comprise a mixture of overtly festive titles and those which, through their beauty, shininess or similar qualities, qualify as gifts.

Many years ago, (before the Internet was discovered in a laboratory accident, and we had to discover information by asking the village elder, who would, before divulging anything, recite advertisements from the blacksmith and local shop, unless you'd paid for the Premium Service) I was a rosy-cheeked schoolboy, possessing an interest in writing poetry and a friend who was similarly inclined, (apart from lacking both rosy cheeks and boyness).  The school which we attended, being then a particularly good example of the comprehensive variety, recognised this enthusiasm and encouraged it by arranging our subsidised attendance at a residential course run by the estimable Arvon Foundation.  There are various forms of Arvon course, centred around many different creative endeavours and genres, but ours was one in which, enfolded by the bucolic tranquility of Totleigh Barton in Devon, we wrote and discussed poetry and received feedback and guidance from two professional poets.  The social aspect of these weeks is an integral and important element, although cooking (usually in pairs) for the entire ensemble can be more of a challenge for some students than the writing, and leads to many a stubborn case of Caterers Block.

Both of the tutors for this course, namely Lawrence Sail and John Mole, aside from performing their didactic duties to a very high standard, and in a winning and diplomatic fashion, went on to make positive contributions to my professional life.  John Mole would enliven the bookshop in St. Albans where I worked for many years through various events (he lived in the city and taught in one of its schools), while Lawrence Sail co-edited the subject of this blog, around to which I am finally getting, namely Light Unlocked, an anthology of poems which the writers had enclosed in Christmas cards to their friends or families.  The publisher - Enitharmon Press - was one of many whose books my then employer represented to the book trade, and handling the book would also bring me into contact with the other co-editor, Kevin Crossley-Holland, who reaffirmed my experience that not even the best-known literary figures are immune to being charming and thoroughly nice people.

This is one of those few books which, since first seeing or reading them, I have more or less continuously and with a kind of idiotic intensity and persistence evangelised about to anyone who would or - for that matter - would not listen.  Its heavy gold end-papers, exquisite restraint of design (including elegant and playful engravings by John Lawrence) and selection of poems combine into the perfect anthology.  Buy it now, in bulk, and solve your Christmas present problems....at a stroke!  If any of your recipients don't immediately swoon with gratitude, they are not, in any case,  deserving of your acquaintance, so the book will serve a useful secondary function as a friend filter.

The poets range from very well-known literary names to Rowan Willams, and the poetic styles vary accordingly.  I'll leave you with a droll piece of UA Fanthorpe.

Christmas In Envelopes

Monks are at it again, quaffing, carousing;

And stage-coaches, cantering out of Merrie England,

In a flurry of whips and fetlocks, sacks and Santas.

Raphael has been roped in, and Botticelli;

Experts predict a vintage year for Virgins.

From the theologically challenged, Richmond Bridge, 

Giverny, a lugger by moonlight, doves. Ours

Costs less than these in money, more in time;

Like them, is hopelessly irrelevant, 

But brings, like them, the essential message

love

A day in the death

Christmas, like an entity being beamed aboard the starship Enterprise, is shimmering into ever greater definition at The Bookshop, Welwyn Garden City.  When last we visited this jewel of literacy in the Home Counties, customers were occasionally brandishing lists; now these pieces of paper are near universal, with children's books, and enquiries about children's books, being the most popular subjects.  Luckily, we as a team are pretty darned clued-up on this subject and - if I had ever felt that the hours I've spent reading junior fiction were misplaced (which I haven't) - being flung back into the front line of Christmas book retailing would have reversed this opinion.  It's heartening to witness that, as our customers pursue their individual quests for the Christmas shopping completion grail, they remain - despite their arms being encumbered by several gaily-bedaubed carrier bags and their ears likewise by the Howard Centre's incessant pop music soundtrack - of good cheer in their dealings with us.

My first task each morning has to do with a serious overflow of crime in our neighbourhood.  A large influx of new titles meant that some copies of books which were multiply stocked had to be rested on a trolley until sufficient spaces appear to re-shelve them.  Thus, ironically, this person, who finds the genre eminently resistible (see this post), is obliged each day to scan carefully each single title on the criminal trolley** and correlate it with those on the shelves, replacing stock where able.  It's a peculiar way to start the day, as if with some dark, perverted catechism, as I look along the rows of titles and murmur: Death in the Morning, Death in the Evening, Death a bit Later, Deathly Death, Look at all the Dead People, etc.

My colleagues and I have devised a devious stratagem to hasten the acquisition of crime fiction by our customers; in a simplified version of subliminal advertising, we hold up a piece of paper with appropriate novelists' names written on it (in a seductive font) and then lower it again, really, really quickly.  It's working a treat.As an antidote to this ritual, I was today imagining a new genre - crime blanc - in which concerned citizens report apparent minor misdemeanours to honest, emotionally stable police officers and are reassured that, in each case, there was a perfectly simple explanation and that no infringements had actually occurred.  Mightily relieved, all the protagonists, gather after the working day and share excellent home-made cakes and a variety of delicious hot beverages.  Each book should start: 

'Down these well-maintained streets - admire in particular the imaginative use of tree varieties - a man or indeed woman must go. To do some shopping, probably. Or just potter about'.

**You're right - it doesn't squeal.