What I Have Read In 2017

One of my new years resolutions for 2017 was to read 25 books within the year. And, unlike my other promises to myself, such as ‘wear cool clothes’ and ‘get fitter’ (which I have actually regressed from last year), this one I completed and further, reading 36 books! For 2018, I want to try and break the twenty-five minimum again, so if anyone has any recommendations, please let me know. For now, have a little browse of the rainbow I recommend for you!

1. May we be Forgiven by A M Homes

2. The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson

  Sometimes fiction just isn’t enough: we need to know things actually exist to really get into it. Ronson’s humorous and titbit-style writing is so engaging that I would consider this book a moderately easy, pleasant read (even though it is about psychopaths).  If you are interested in the inner workings of people with controversial emotions – or lack of – this is definitely a paperback to pick up. This book was also the reason behind one of my Creative Writing A Level coursework pieces, Apes (which you can read here https://helenaquainton.blogspot.co.uk/2017/09/apes-coursework-piece-14.html ). If you find this a fascinating read, and end up reciting snippets of information across the dinner table like I do, I highly recommend Ronson’s other books, such as So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed.

 3. Confessions of a Sociopath by E M Thomas

 4. The Reason I Jump by Naoki Higashida

 5. The Great Gatsby by Scott F Fitzgerald

 6. Memories of a Porcupine by Alain Mabanckou

 7. The Gathering by Anne Enwright

 8. In Search of the Missing Eyelash by Karen McLeod

 9. Thirteen Ways if Looking by Colum McCann

 10. Notes from a Small Island by the Bill Bryson

 11. Good Bones by Margaret Atwood

 12. The Time Keeper by Mitch Alborn

 13. Case Histories by Kate Atkinson

14. This Modern Love by Will Darbyshire
    Discovering Will Darbyshire only a week or so before ordering his book on YouTube, I could already tell this was an artistic individual who fuelled his beautiful cinematographic videos with deep emotion and hours of crafting: just the kind of person I want to be! So, purely on his personality alone, I ordered This Modern Love, and I am so glad I did. It comprises of love letters from people all around the world to their crushes, partners and exes, on five main topics. Well, from stumbling onto my blog for even a minute, it is abundantly evident that I am a hopeless/hopeful romantic and love-letters are something I pray will come back. I feel this is a little collection I will keep flicking through now and again for inspiration, and for a little emotional-charge. Recommended for anyone in love, out of love, just loved and just love.

15. Almost Adulting by Arden Rose

 16. Golden Years by Ali Eskandarian

 17. Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
     One of our Creative Writing tasks was based on a section from Middlesex and by the end of the school day, I wanted to order the book. This is the story of a hermaphrodite, but without the ruthless science, or immature description. Eugenides puts such vivid information, as well as a complete and rounded storyline into his novels that when you finish one, it feels like you have read three! I loved his writing so much, I started The Virgin Suicides as soon as I had arrived back into the UK from my holiday. Middlesex is a ‘meaty’ book, so was perfect for bringing on holiday as I did, and interesting for anyone who doesn’t want to scan over the same storylines over and over and over again, which the usual holiday reads entail.

18. The Ice Twins by S K Tremayne 

19. The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides 

20. Moving by Jenny Eclair
     What impresses and fascinates me about novelists is the way each section of their story fits together, like a laser-cut jigsaw. How do they even begin such a mountain of planning? However it is done, Éclair is clearly the pioneer at the very peak of said mountain, because each character in this story has a purpose, and they all come together to create a stimulating read. Popular with mums, and should be given more spotlight for teens, because it is a ‘grown-up’ book without pointless romance and pedestrian plots.

21. Only Ever Yours by Louise O'Neill 

22. The Best of Everything by Rona Jaffe 

23. Whitsun Weddings by Philip Larkin* 

24. Those we Left Behind by Stuart Neville 

25. The Girls by Emma Cline* 

26. Withnail and I screenplay by Bruce Robinson* 

27. How Not to be a Boy by Robert Webb
    It must have been quite comical for fellow Tube-riders to see a girl reading Robert Webb’s new autobiography right under the poster for said book at the Tube station, but the quiet hype crept up and I know why. Boys and feelings are like chalk and cheese; it’s illegal if a boy cries didn’t you know? I love emotional energy, and to know I am not the only one who is a sloppy soppy mess, so to read of emotions through a repressed boy’s eyes is really exciting. To use up even more clichés than it should say on the tin, I can honestly say I could not put the book down (well, until I had to run off the train for school). I recommend to all who like a biography that isn’t mundane, and actually means something. People laughed, people cried, people loved. I love too. 

28. The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood 

29. Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

30. Secrets of the Mad by Dodie 

31. 1984 by George Orwell
    After studying Russian history for A Level, as soon as I began to read Orwell’s acclaimed novel, I understood the echo of a past of complete oppression and fear under leaders like Stalin. 1984 imagines what would happen if even our thoughts were controlled by the government, under ‘Big Brother’ (ring a bell?) As soon as you reach the end, you realise how cleverly Orwell structured this book, as well as appreciate that he created a whole language and rules for it! Recommend to history fans, and those who need to read more classics (me). 

32. Duchess of Malfi by John Webster* 

33. The Merchant’s Tale by Geoffrey Chaucer* 

34. Hag-Seed by Margaret Atwood

35. The House of Journalists by Tim Finch

36. Dracula by Bram Stoker* (currently reading)

* I read these for English A Level coursework, but they are still books, and I still read them, so they count!

Little Mouse's Christmas Tale - Poem

A poem about a little mouse at Christmas, initially inspired by Clement Clarke Moore's 'Twas the Night Before Christmas'...

It was the night before Christmas and all through the house

Everyone was bustling, except for the mouse

For Little Mouse had a cold, and was tucked into bed

With a cup of sweet tea and flannel over his head

As Jamie and Beth plated Santa's mince pies

Promising on their list they'd been good and told no lies

Mum and Dad poured sherry into a little glass

To help Santa's merry spirits on his world trip last

But poor Little Mouse, all bunged up in his hole

Could only listen to the joyous laughter, through his cold

He coughed and sniffed and blew his little nose

Hoping it would disappear if he had a doze

But if he did, Little Mouse couldn't leave his list!

And he would be the only one on Christmas to be missed

There will be presents for Jamie and Beth, Mum and Dad

But Little Mouse wouldn't have any, and that made him sad

The clock chimed to twelve and Little Mouse had to accept

That he would be the only one that Santa had left

As the house slid into silence, the magic of night

Little Mouse fell into sleep, his duvet pulled up tight

Stalking into the living-room came Tomas the cat

Stretching his legs, from an afternoon on the doormat

And licking his lips, after a fishy dinner from his bowl

Who did he spy, but Little Mouse in his hole

Tomas prowled over, to see Little Mouse's Christmas requests

Solemnly left, written on paper, on his tiny desk

How would Santa read it, if the list was left in there?

So Tomas pulled it out, in his paws, taking great care

As Jamie and Beth scurried down the stairs the next day

And Mum and Dad were called, to open the present buffet

Little Mouse gave a huge yawn and unfolded his paws

It was Christmas Day, but he'd missed Santa Claus!

But what was this, that had been carefully placed on his floor?

Could it be a present, outside Little Mouse's door?

He jumped into his slippers and over to the gift

Wrapped so perfectly, with a card, signed with a kiss

It was from Santa! He didn't leave Little Mouse!

He truly must be magic, to find the list in his house

And as Little Mouse pulled the ribbon, he squeaked with glee

It was the best present ever: a big block of cheese.

She's a Star - Fiction

And she fell.

Once glistening cheeks now burned in fiery pools that drew moisture from her cavernous mouth: dry coals piling onto her burning skin. Had it been moments, or millennials, that she had been falling, dying? Submerged in blackness, her luminous breath exhibited a rag doll body: waif arms, dangling like the cotton creatures that adorn a cot’s mobile; legs in another dimension to their pilot’s pleas. She was not even an idyllic beach’s grain of sand in this atmosphere, swamped under the current. More of a minute paint fleck, which no artist’s familiar eye could ever detect, even as they gazed for weeks at their drying portraits.

Yet, she was moving particles, sculpting history: one insignificant plankton, scuttling under the weight of the colossal sea, was still enough to aid a malnourished creature’s plight of life. Would her own electric form create ripples around the country from car crash collisions? Could her presence on this unexceptional night create just one exception?

Maybe someone would wish upon this falling star, as she fell to Earth.

Short piece about a shooting star, falling from a (Christmas) wish...

Ferdinand's Madness - poem

A sonnet inspired by Webster's play, The Duchess of Malfi - in particular, a brother with 'interesting' desires regarding his sister...

A sweet sister who joined me in the womb

The duchy painted with our same bloodlines

She kept me sane in unexpected gloom

That swept around my eyesight like green vines

Oh, she is a widow without a veil

The lively passion dripping from her mind

To meet the suitor to complete her tale

Yet I know someone who will be her bind

T’is I, a silent servant of her love

The times uncounted I have almost spake

To be- what would be fitting and behove?

I cannot live just in her lusty wake!

Sibling air evaporated long before

It must be the two of us, or never more.

Nativity Treats

A re-upload of my little story from last year (minus the spelling mistakes - 10 extra Christmassy tinsel points if you spotted them!) about how the Nativity would have played out if it happened today...

Mary limply groped for her phone, her eyes barely averting from Tricks of the Restaurant Trade and learning about her new obsession – the guiltily-glamorous gourmet burger – was actually costing her a whole daily salt intake as a normal woman (at just pushing 5 foot, maybe she wasn’t considered normal, but her inner model could dream) and half of her calorie intake. Her vision travelled back to the slinky dress hung lifelessly in her wardrobe, among the lumpy jumpers and jeans, where the buttons were beginning to pinch under her belly button. Maybe… she should lay off those burgers. How many had she had this month? This week?

Yeah, that dress is not going to fit in time for Christmas.

In fact, she had been feeling as bedraggled as her trusty winter turtleneck - with bobbly forearms, a questionable colour scheme and hole under the armpit – for quite a while. It can’t be the weather; she loves the big ho ho ho (since when did she turn into a nursery teacher?) and snow and Costa hot chocolates she has convinced herself is sustainable and necessary as one of her five-a-day. (Ok, so, beans are a vegetable right, and what is chocolate made from?) Maybe it’s her sudden dizziness in the middle of the night.

Joseph just doesn’t understand.

And, as if on cue, here he was, clacking at the front door. Mary prayed he had bought her a puppy, or at least a piece of carrot cake. These cravings were becoming unquenchable.

                  “Joseph, please say you’ve bought-“

Mary stopped. Who the heck was that at the door?

                  “Mary do not be afraid. I have come to bring you good tidings at this special time – you’re pregnant.”

Mary stopped. She recoiled on the sofa. Her phone fell onto the carpet, causing the cat – who had not woken up for at least twenty hours – to scatter out of the room.

                  “Mary?”

She opened her mouth, resembling her childhood guppy, Morris.

                  “Mary?”

                  “Well, how the bloody hell am I going to fit into my Christmas dress now?”

***

                  “Why didn’t you bring the bloody car?”

Mary was whaling, sobbing like a distressed donkey, braying through her sodden hair and puffed cheeks. Her waters had broken – flowing down her favourite Primark penguin pjs, of all the garments the baby could have chosen – and the car had conveniently stalled and the ambulance was probably being held up by a sodding drunk burning their house down from their connoisseur chicken drumsticks as their Christmas hangover cure (everyone knows it’s a fry-up from the non-descript café twenty meters from your front door).

                  “Mary, you shouldn’t swear, you’re carrying the sun of God’

Mary halted and took an exaggerated intake of breath.

                  “Joseph, are you carrying a baby that was thrust upon your body, forcing you to be deprived of toasted tomatoes which now make you want to vomit at the mere smell of them, and need a wee every few minutes because an eight pound lump you were not planning on having suction-cupped itself to your body and is pressing on your bladder – which is small as it is! – and making you eat so much that the dress you had been looking forward to wearing for eleven months won’t even slip over one bleeding thigh?”

Silence slammed between the couple, until Mary resumed her shrieking again.

***

“Mary, there are some visitors for you.”

The thoroughly-attractive doctor peeked through the curtain and made Mary blush with flirtation, until she remembered her whole face was still flushed from the birth. A little boy, wrapped in swathes of hospital blankets, gurgled sleepily in her arms.

Suddenly, as if in a comedy sketch – like this wasn’t one already – three heads in succession protruded around the blue curtain, one on top of the other: faces covered in beards of wild descriptions, some hairs lacquered back, a glint of bewilderment in their eyes. Who the bleeding heck were these?

                  “It’s the boy! The son!”

The one at the top of the people-mountain gasped, sliding his head down the curtain to enter the humble abode of a cornered-off hospital bed, as if he had been standing on the shoulders of the two other men. He darted for the baby, then stopped, and finally noticed Mary.

                  “And who are you? Don’t tell me, the blinking kings or something?”

A pause.

                  “But how did you guess, madam?”

This must be a dream now. I’m in a food coma or I’ve died or something.

                  “My name is Kaleb the Noble, this is Alfonso the Third and that is Kevin”

Mary peeked passed the rotund ‘King’, desperately trying to scratch off a stain on his exaggerated robe. That would be Kevin.

                  “So, I suppose you’re here to see this little bump I’ve just pushed out?”

***

Soon, the ‘few’ visitors had literally turned into a flock, with Kaleb, Alfonso and simple Kevin hurling gifts onto the duvet-cloth, modestly wrinkled around Mary’s bottom half; farmers, who at first she thought were tramps, until they announced themselves as shepherds - at least, that’s what she thought they said, through a tidal-wave of half-undigested crumbs from crisps that had been ransacked from the vending machines - and their bleating livestock; as well as the angel who brought her the joyous news in the first place (also known as Gabe, on friendly terms). Joseph was sent to buy some Waitrose éclairs or flapjack nibbles or something sugary to keep this harem content.

And all they wanted to do was coo over the little baby Mary didn’t even know she was having until a month ago. She was surprised the handsome doctor hadn’t come back to tell her that it was policy to have no more than two visitors at a time – let alone cows in the car park – but Mary suspected he was probably refraining because he found her so, unbelievably attractive, and simply felt too embarrassed to approach her again. Yes, definitely that reason.

***

Joseph did eventually come back, dishevelled that he couldn’t purchase Celebrations, due to the shelves of every shop turning bare from the scurry of last-minute shoppers.

                  “How’s the li’le guy doing, honey?”

He could act tired all he wanted; it wasn’t him who had to squeeze a watermelon out of his body a few hours ago.

                  “What be his name, foretell?” (Simple Kevin was not simple at all, and actually a wordsmith from all the way over the seas.)

Mary sighed. She gazed upon Gabe, not taking his eyes off the child, while rooting his hand into a selection tray of Cadbury chocolate fingers.

                 “Well, I guess it’s got to be Jesus, hasn’t it?”

Dear T (aka Pointers when Mingling like an Adult)

As soon as my phone’s clock flicked onto 3:30, I shut the laptop lid on the essay I had been attempting to structure under the warm light of Pret’s bakery-come-cashier lights, and walked with the London Stride (you know the one: confident that you won’t be smacked by a car, even with the red man’s warning; unstoppable, even for a girl of 5 ft 3) to the train station. My destination was Kings Cross St Pancras, where I was invited to attend a ‘taster’ talk and introduction on Warwick University’s English courses, after applying a few weeks ago to them through UCAS. (Because, as some many know, next year I have applied for English Literature & Creative Writing courses to spend the next three years of my life devoted to.) And, unrelated to my anecdote, everyone at the talk was inviting, clearly intelligent through their wit and warmness (without being snobs, to put it lightly) and Warwick University is definitely a strong contender on my five university choices. And, on a further tangent, a singular pat on the back for me, for finding the place…even if I had to rely on Google Maps, then gave up, then asked in a different building for directions, and then asked the wrong person inside to ask which floor it was on. However, as the clock’s minute hand swished past to silently indicate 6, we were all invited to another room for Drinks and Nibbles and a Bit of Chat, which is adult talk for word feared for many: mingling. Along with seven other prospective students, we silently slid down the building in the lift, then were apprehensively led to the Drinks and Nibbles and a Bit of Chat room, where more students and alumni and teachers were already. Here I managed to attempt a light dusting of conversation with a student who appeared as obviously lost and mildly distressed as I was. We grabbed non-alcoholic drinks, served in adult wine glasses because we were now considered Adults in this Drinks and Nibbles and a Bit of Chat conundrum.

As we glided through the typical questions, I learnt that he (I’ll refer to him as T, incase for some 1 in a million chance he finds this and he becomes so embarrassed he refuses to attend university and simply becomes a human hermit, lodged under the bed covers) had applied to Oxford, and was all round a smart guy. The trouble arose mid-conversation, when I realised I had not asked something very important. The question swirled in my oesophagus like a whirlpool of words, and this got me thinking (steady, steady): why not create a checklist for my future self on how to approach this new Conversations in the Nature of Adults now I had experienced it, without having a parent to rely on to take over when necessary.

1. Ask their name

A full twenty minutes into our little tete-a-tete, I realised to my horror that I had not asked this guy’s name. Was it too late? Was it socially acceptable to question what his parents had labelled him? Who knows - I didn’t at the time, so through mild anguish I blurted out ‘ah, sorry, I have just realised-‘ (note I had not just realised: this had been swallowing up my overheating brain for over five minutes) ‘-that I’ve been so rude and haven’t asked you your name.’ He said his name - T - and I said mine and all was good… until another lad, G, stood near us and I beckoned him into conversation with us and repeated the whole scenario again as if I had accidentally re-read the lines to a different scene. So, what has almost-Adult Helena learnt? Ask the person’s name as soon as possible, engrain it into your skull like a memory tattoo and don’t leave it until the last minute, unless you want to rerun through that scene again.

2. Remember what they say - especially the important bits

T, with his nervous energy peaking through his otherwise laid back character, was also immensely clever, modestly dropping in that he’d only gone and got an interview at Oxford next week. Well, I may as well have been talking to a mythical God, because everyone knows Oxbridge is where the chosen ones transform into magical creatures with protruding knowledge and swishing robes. But, again, having focused so much on striking the balance between congratulations and over-excitedness on his behalf, I promptly forgot whether it was Oxford or Cambridge he had applied for. So, for the whole conversation until G came to join us, I just kept referring to it as Oxbridge. Which was mildly embarrassing not just for me but him too, as he must have wondered why Warwick were considering a student who didn’t know that Oxford and Cambridge were different places… And so, in conclusion, try to focus on what people are telling you in a conversation, especially that which will be needed for the whole hour of chat.

3. Put your damn hands down

Apparently when I am nervous, I do two very distinct - and annoying - things: I laugh continuously and nervously, usually a high-pitched and obnoxious tone that makes people physically recoil with a series of squints; or I wave my hands around like a camp shape thrower. Whether I had a glass of water precariously sloshing about in my grasp, or just flicking them around like the sassy hair-flick emoji, I could not stop them both performing an uncoordinated and frankly unrequited jive. So next time, please remember to put your hands down once in a while. For everyone’s sake.

4. Be brave

This may be either too relatable to even warrant a comment, or you are so extroverted this one appears foreign. But, as an assumed introvert, conversations with strangers give me heart palpitations. The reason I avoid change is because I avoid having to interact with new people. Don’t get me wrong, initially I love the idea of meeting people who could be new friends, but this is suddenly followed by the soul-sucking dread of messing up in conversation. And, yesterday, I did do a fair bit of messing up and trailing off and throwing my hands and laugh around. But, T (and later G) consolidated it, kept the dying embers of the chat alive until an hour later when the three of us had to depart to go home. And, if there was one regret I have, I wish I had been even braver to ask for his number, just so I knew someone if we both ended up at Warwick.

So, dear T. Thank you for not being overtly offended when I laughed too much and forgot whether it was Oxford or Cambridge and never knew how much eye contact is too much and actually staying to talk for a whole hour, even when you could have been on your way home. Also if I had anything in my teeth, I am so sorry: I had a brownie from the food market outside the train station (which I highly recommend if you are around St Pancras International Wednesday to Friday!) but too be honest I don’t regret that bit so much. And, I hope to see you at Warwick, if we both decide on it (and secure those all-dependant grades). I promise by then I will have at least read through this check list several times. And stopped waving my arms around so much.

So many people, so many to avoid a conversation with in London!

O Tell Me the Truth About Life

Inspired by W H Auden's 'O Tell Me the Truth About Love', which I wrote last year

Some say that life is new spring chicks

Emerging from their eggs

Acknowledging the world first time

On wobbly little legs

And when I asked the mother hen

What she had created

She chuckled at what she’d just born

The opposite of hatred.

Does life all come down to one’s survival,

On this insignificant rock?

Does it hail water as our revival,

Or the food we have to stock?

Is it about caring for each other,

Or just getting yourself by?

Is it treating one’s neighbours like brother?

O tell me the truth about life.

Some say that life revolves ‘round death

The pessimistic view

Quite common to have this belief

Grim Reaper will come soon

I’ve found this rather sad to think

We live only for end

Constantly tilting on the edge

A state where we suspend.

Does it continue because of memory,

All those videos we harvest?

Could forgetfulness be our enemy,

Halting life on its bounding quest?

Is it counting on neurons in the brain?

Does it need senses to be rife?

Will it collapse without synapse’s chain?

O tell me the truth about life.

I have travelled around the world

Maybe it’s to do with time

I tried to ask the clock if his hands knew

If life demands its chime

I can’t be sure if it’s Earth’s rotation

Which keeps our lives in check

Celestial points surrounding the sun

A trillion year old trek.

Can it be defined as our DNA,

Are scientists finally right?

Is it coding that makes our life this way?

It can be laid out in plain sight

Have our ancestors shaped it for today?

Can be supported by the knife

Cutting genes and studied on display

O tell me the truth about life.

What if life is simply about living,

Bracing yourself for ev’ryday?

Taking it as much as you are giving

And all the time you lead the way

Is life really about what you make it,

To be content and not with strife?

I can’t find the guide or beginners kit

O tell me the truth about life.

The beginning or the ending?