A week of books and my queen-size bed. Stevie Smith Penguin paperbacks and strawberries. It turns out that Stevie attended the same sanatorium in Kent as my mother did. They were both seven when they were sent there, but in different eras of course. It was where they both developed an obsession with death. My mum had a pair of her knickers stolen by another girl. This is still a sore point.
My bedroom shelves are crammed with Judy Blume. I loved her, and got stupidly excited when I discovered that there is girl band called 'Judy and the Blumes', kicking myself that I didn't think of it first. Are You there God? It's me, Margaret is a particular favourite novel. A friend was convinced it was called Mister God, this is Anna, which I found weird and hilarious, and she was immediately chastised for such an error. HOWEVER, it turns out the book does exist. It's by Sydney Hopkins and on the first page it states:
"At five years Anna knew absolutely the purpose of being, knew the meaning of love and was a personal friend and helper of Mister God. At six Anna was a theologian, mathematician, philosopher, poet and gardener. If you asked her a question you would always find an answer."
I think I'm going to have to track down a copy.
This week has been books and many many cans of Stella. Which is rather lovely, as there has been an awful lot about Stella Gibbons in the literary news of late. There's nothing nasty in the woodshed round these parts, but there are very loud woodpigeons. I've learnt to drown them out while reading, just about...