Browsing the Bookshelves

I've just crossed the 1,000 books mark on LibraryThing. It's been a fascinating exercise in discovering who has the same books that I do, who reads the same books, what they think of them and what less they like reading. I still have 500 or so books to go - that's my best guess. But one thing has really struck me: about half the books I have catalogued to date appear to be unique among Library Thing users - and given that there are nearly 20,000 members, that seems odd to me. I have never thought of my own book collection as being unusual - in fact I would have thought that my reading tastes were fairly mainstream. Perhaps some people choose not to catalogue their pre-ISBN books - I have, but it is more work.  And perhaps the proportions will change as more and more books are added to Library Thing's rapidly growing database (10,000 new books were added in just the last 24 hours).  It is a figure that I will continue to watch as time goes on.

www.librarything.com  It's brilliant, it's cool, it's fun and incredibly useful. It's one of those things that the internet was meant for. A wonderfully simple idea, executed with style and efficiency, to produce a genuinely desirable tool for those people who combine a love of books with a desire to expand their reading.  If you also have even a mild obsession with numbers as well, LibraryThing will be just about your personal heaven. Librarything let's you catalogue your beloved book collection (ok, in my case read accumulation rather than collection) and compare with the collections of others. A fascinating exercise which has not only consumed all my free time for the last couple of days but which has also resulted in an astounding increase in the number of books on my wish list. Seriously, Amazon should be paying these people commission!

If anyone is interested, you can see what books I have on my shelves here: http://www.librarything.com/profile/Rivercassini

In an effort, probably a vain one, to stop the splendours of Christmas dinner at home with my parents depositing themselves permanently on my hips, we all set off on Boxing Day for a gentle stroll around the Mere in Ellesmere.

Ellesmere, a small market town in North Shropshire, has changed radically. I remember as child thinking that is was somewhat run-down and a little rough - at night in particular. It wasn't the sort of place you parents told you not to go - it was the sort of place you chose not to go without any guidance from ones elders and betters.  Prior to Boxing Day, I don't think I'd been there for 15 or so years. And what a change! Ellesmere is now an extraordinarily picturesque town, blessed with interesting buildings, nicely maintained streets, an imposing church and a canal with enormous potential - all that not to mention the Mere itself.

Boating on the Mere - not on Boxing Day!

Entering the town, we were drawn to wander through streets before heading for the Mere, starting out at the Wharf, where you can read about the ambitious plans for development which appear to be supported by the town and local authorities but which, sadly, seem to have been blocked by the Office of the Deputy Prime Minister.  I was also delighted to spot a small, specialist bookshop - always a sign of a health local business environment. I was even more pleased to note that the speciality in question was Christian Books. Should I ever wish to move my bookshop to this idyllic little town, we won't be in competition!

The Wharf, Ellesmere

As we followed the tow path, it started to spat with rain, but not enough to cause discomfort. Heading over a small bridge, we turned off the tow path and climbed up the Castle Mound.  There are no remains of the Castle to be seen now - indeed the local bowling club has two greens atop the site. I was tempted to climb the padlock gates just to catch a glimpse of the view from top green over the town and Mere, which must be fantastic, but husband and parents all frowned at the suggestion, so I behaved myself.

Ambling down the Castle Mound, heading back into the town itself, we passed the imposing Church, where a former teaching colleague of my father's is now vicar. My mother tells me it is one of the highest churches in Shropshire but unfortunately it was all closed up so we were unable to see the splendours of the interior. 

The Church in Ellesmere

Our planning circumnavigation of the Mere was cut short by the attractions of the Red Lion Coaching Inn - who serve excellent coffee. (We didn't try the food, although that which passed by heading for other tables was almost good enough to make me wish it was Christmas Day all over again).

A quick hop in the car, and were found ourselves at Whittington Castle. This has to be one of the most romantic medieval castles. Now owned by the villagers, it is currently under restoration.  It is also- when open - home to another second hand bookshop!

Whittington Castle

We wondered around the bailey and the grounds - unforntunately the reconstruction project means that the gatehouse is not currently open to the public - as my mother explained much of the history of the Castle - and the importance of the medieval garden archaeology which has been done around the castle.  What was once thought to be an old Mott is now thought to be a viewing mound for the gardens - if that proves to be the case, it will be the oldest viewing mound know in England! 

Elizabeth Chadwick has written two historical novels based on the story of the Fitzwarin family who held the castle in the Middle Ages, which are partially set in and around the Castle itself. Ms Chadwick attended a medieval festival at Whittington Castle earlier this year; my father had his copies of her books signed and has now lent them to me to read.  The books set at Whittington Castle are Lords of the White Manor and Shadows and Strongholds.

This novel is an absolute must read for lovers of american crime fiction. The Los Angeles Herald Examiner called it "the private-eye novel to end all private-eye novel" and I can do nothing but agree. The story of a near-psychotic private-eye who is dragged from the path of righteousness by his fascination with a multi-murdress.  A road novel, a love story, and a classic.  It is one of the harshest, darkest, bleakest crime novels I've read but far more satisfying than most.

Good enough to make me read another of Marc Behm's novels, Afraid to Death, immediately afterwards.

A stylish and evocative mystery thriller, set in the early part of the 18th century.  Three men, a young Lord, his tutor and his manservant, set out on a Grand Tour, destined for Italy. It's not long before Thomas Noon, Lord Stilwell's loyal and mildy ambitious servant begins to suspect that there is more to their trip than absorbing the splendours of Ancient Rome.  And it's not long before tradegy strikes the party and Noon is forced to pretend that he is something he is not.  A splendid account of falling in love, falling out of love and an intricate, multi-layered mystery make this a spell-binding read, utterly engrossing and pleasingly rounded.  I might have wished for a little more pace at times but Griffin's lyrical writing is a pleasure to read, keeping one's eyes glued to the music of the page.

The reference to Ironbridge in Shropshire annoyed me and interrupted the flow of the story. The novel is set in 1713: The Ironbridge, from which the modern town takes its name, was not erected (over the river Severn at Coalbrookedale) until 1779!  But it is a small flaw and quickly passed over.

This weekend I read Sunday by the Pool in Kigali. It had been creeping towards the top of my "too be read" pile for several weeks. Every time it reached the top I knocked it off the top and slotted in further down the pile, with mixed feeling of guilt and relief. I knew I would not enjoy this novel.

It's a beautifully crafted novel. A compelling story with an almost lyrical quality, engaging, believable characters, and a real sense of purpose from the start. So what's not to like?  A Sunday by the Pool in Kigali is a personal account of the devasting massacre that took place in Rwanda in the early 1990s. With chilling familiarity, Courtemanche tells of rape, mass murder, corruption, cruelty, voilence and international disinterest. It is uncomfortable reading for those, like me, cushioned in the relevate safety and normality of the Western world. It is nonetheless essential. Courtemanche frames his story through the experiences of real people, most of whom were visciously, pointlessly, killed with days of their introduction. He pulls no punches, hides nothing to save the blushes of his readers. The grittiness of his world provides a stark constrast to the musical quality of his writing just as the horrors of humanity are put into sharp relief by the beauty of the conjured Kigali. Read it and weep. I did. Read this book because it's beautiful, because it's horrible and because it will change the way you think the world works.

A return visit to the Laughing Gravy - a super restaurant in Waterloo - last night to wish a merry Christmas to friends Liam and Brett who will be spending Christmas itself in Texas this year. I'm not sure if I'm envious or not: the prospect of a quite Christmas at home is tempting, but then so is the idea of getting away for a while, if even only for a few days. Anyway, the evening was delightful. A number of Liam and Brett's other friends were there, only a couple of whom we'd met before but the company was perfect and the food very good.  The Laughing Gravy no longer has blackberry and apple crumble on the menu which is a shame as that particular combination really is the food of the gods.

Took the opportunity to release a few books (details of which can be found here), but I'm not sure I did the job very well: in my haste to drop them off, I forgot to put any of those wonderfully eye-catching neon labels on the outside, so it's not immediately obvious that the books are bookcrossing books.

In the end, Rod and I left as others were enjoying their coffee. I am finding it increasingly difficult to keep going late into the evening. I think it's a result of the low-level but constant pain caused by whateveritis that is wrong with my face.  Roll on the operation...

Just two releases to report today in what was otherwise a very quiet day.

Kolymsky Heights by Lionel Davidson

The Deceiver by Frederick Forsyth

If anyone fancies going hunting, both were released here.

Well, my parcels were finally delivered today. Not quite making the "before 10 am" mark, but at least they left a telephone message to let me know when they would be arriving, and they did arrive.  After all the grief we've had with parceline, and their appauling and appaulingly rude customer service, I feel some sense of victory to actually have the good in the my possession at last. Surely dealing with a delivery company shouldn't feel like a minor shirmish in the battle of life every time?  In future, I'm sticking with good ol' Royal Mail.

Interestingly, we had an order for a very heavy, rather expensive book earlier this week, when the customer attached a note to their order saying "please do not use parcelforce for delivery".  Sounds like sometime else has had bad experiences with delivery companies. The book, of course, was sent by Royal Mail.

Still suffering horribly with this nasty cold - and I am not a good patient so lovely hubby is suffering too :) Even so, managed a single wild release yesterday as I ducked out of the office for a qucik ciggie.

The Fabulous Riverboat by Philip Jose Farmer, which is the second volume in the Riverworld saga. Over the last couple of weeks, I think I have released a copy of each volume in the series, but there may be one or two left floating around somewhere.

A little disappointed that none of the books released at The Clarence last Thursday have been journalled, but Wistfuldragon, a fellow bookcrosser, did warn me that this was often the way with releases at official zones.

Today is D-day for the parceline delivery I'm expecting - we shall see.

I have been bad. I have not been updating on our wild releases lately. To be honest, it's too complicated, too much like hard work, to go back and do all the updates since 22nd November, which was when I last posted on this topic (I think).  Too complicated because I have lost my notebook where I record these things and thus would have to trawl the Bookcrossing website - which is being very slow tonight anyway - and my cold is getting worse, so I just don't have the patience to tease the information out tonight.

But time to put things on a sounder footing from now on. Here's today's forages into the wild.

The Storm Lord by Tanith Lee

To Your Scattered Bodies Go by Philip Jose Farmer

We also done a rare (for us anyway) postal release, sending a copy of Whoopi Goldberg's Book to a fellow bookcrosser, who in turn was kind enough to send me a couple of books I am keen to read.

Not sure what bookcrossing is all about - well look here - it's the perfect way to get more out of your books and to stimulate and diversify your reading tastes.  Oh yes, did I mention that it was fun too?

One of things I like doing least is walking into a group of people, none of whom I know. It's a circumstance I try to avoid, usually with some success. It is perhaps then somewhat ironic that it is also a most rewarding and refreshing experience. It happened to twice on one day this week.

The Clarence on Whitehall was the location of choice for a bookcrossing mini-meet-up at lunchtime. It's the first meet-up I've been able to make since joining bookcrossing at the back end of August and I was determined to put some real faces to the screen names of some of those I've chatted to via bookcrossing. Even so, it was with a little trepidation that I walked into the Clarence (and, unusually for me, I was late). Of course, I needn't have worried. I was made so welcome and thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to talk books and bookcrossing with some generous souls. (Bookcrossers are, I think generous by default.)  The lunch was excellent too - I can heartily recommend the asparagus tart!

As the Clarence is also an official bookcrossing zone, I went armed with a pile of books to release into the wild. The pile was somewhat depleted over lunch as others picked over it. And, despite my protestations that I already have too much on my "too be read" pile, I managed to come away with some new additions too. The rest were left in the zone.

Later than same day, clutching one of the most elegant invitations I have ever seen, I made my way to the offices of John Murray publishers on Albemarle Street to a party to mark the launch of the eighth issue of Slightly Foxed. Slightly Foxed - billed as the real readers' quarterly - is an excellent literary magazine, devoted to delving into the depths of literature and reading and thus assuaging the common obsession with the newly published. I can't pick up a copy of the magazine with thinking of William Hazlitt's protestations against readers' perennial desire for "new books". I may have mentioned it before, but it bares repeating:

"I cannot understand the rage manifested by the greater part of the world for reading New Books.  If the public had read all those that had gone before, I can conceive how they should not wish to read the same work twice over; but when I consider the countless volumes that lie unopened, unregarded, unread and unthought-of, I cannot enter into the pathetic complaints that I hear made that Sir Walter writes no more-that the press is idle-that Lord Bryon is dead. If I have not read a book before, it is, to all intents and purposes, new to me, whether it was printed yesterday or three hundred years ago."

John Murray's offices are impressive. Salted with old-fashioned elegance and spiced with a rich array of bright new literary talent in the form of displays of recent publications laid out in front of more venerable tomes, providing a hint of the publisher's venerable history. John Murray was Lord Bryon's publisher and I was itching to find out what their shelves might disgorge. With a glass of delicious champagne in hand, I headed to a far corner to begin an inspection of the offering but before my fingers made it to a single volume, I found myself chatting away about bookselling and publishing, sharing experience of on-line sales in particular, and, of course, giving the odd plug to ibooknet.

The celebration was in fact a double one. The party was also marking the publication of Tim Mackintosh-Smith's The Ghost Writer and I had the pleasure of meeting both the illustrator, David Eccles and the designer Octavius Murray (son, I understand, of the current John Murray). I couldn't resist a copy of this elegant and intriguing little book.

The blurb for the book reads: "Speaking via its ghost-writer, Tim Mackintosh Smith, the Arabic manuscript of Abd al-Latif al-Baghdadi tells its own true, if admittedly incredible, story. Set in medieval Cairo and Aleppo, seventeenth-century Oxford and 1960s London, it is a tale of cannibalism, a curse, and of an authorial voice from beyond the grave. Ghost-Writer not only redefines the meaning of a talking book; it may even make us listen to our libraries." With such a tantalising teaser, I really could resist and so my mount "too be read" received yet another contribution when I finally made it home.

Of course, I was a little too hasty in posting my rant against parceline - the story doesn't end, it gets worse.

I gave up waiting for the lady from Parceline's customer service to call back - remember she said she would call back within 15 minutes - about 40 minutes later and called customer service again myself. 12 minutes 9 seconds on hold, get through to someone else, who cuts me off as soon as she finds out it's not a standard call. Dial again - another 15 minutes on hold - only to cut off again almost as soon as the call is connected to real person.  Then I try to phone another number, this time their national customer service number. But by this time it's gone one o'clock and all I get is a message to say that the offices have closed for the weekend. So I call the re-delivery line again - this is the number which on their delightful calling card is advertised as being 24 hours - only to find that they too have now closed for the weekend.  And I'm left not knowing whether my parcels are to be delivered or not this afternoon. In total I've spent over an hour on the phone to parceline this morning already, only to be on hold for a total of around 40 minutes, rudely cut off twice, misled once and twice told that their offices are closed.  Parceline is just about the worst delivery company I have ever dealt with. Why can't people use good old Royal Mail?

By this time I'm spitting blood so much that my darling husband is driven out of the house to the shops. A quick search on the net and I come up with Parceline's head office.  I don't know who they have manning their phones at the weekend, but it really wasn't very helpful to be told to phone customer service - especially as customer service had been closed for 20 minutes by that time. I eventually cajole the number for the Croydon depot out of the voice at the other end. So phone Croydon - and eventually get to speak to a real person who actually knows something about my parcels and is genuinely helpful.  Why is it that the people trained in customer service are always the least helpful, the most officious and the most frustrating to deal with? The guy at Croyden gets me onside instantly by (i) not cutting me off, (ii) not lying to me and (iii) not saying there is nothing he can do. He knows where my parcels are and, although there is really no way that he can get my parcels to me today, he's helpful in organising another delivery time and promises to phone me on the morning of the delivery just to confirm that the parcels are on the van. Parceline's customer service could learn a lot from their guys on the ground. Just apologising for their cock-ups goes a long way.

So now, we wait til Wednesday to see if these elusive parcels will actually turn up.  I shall also be waiting to see if Parceline customer service are as good as their word and refund the fee I paid to have the parcels delivered on Saturday morning. If they don't, I think I will be making friends with the small claims court. In the meantime, I think it's only right that the company who actually contracted Parceline to deliver these parcels to me should know what a cock-up has a been made and asked to use a different courier for deliveries to me in future. And for what it's worth, I'll not be using Parceline again to send out books.

In general, I despair of delivery companies. If anything can go wrong, it usually does but my experience with Parceline this week really takes the biscuit.

On Tuesday morning, a friendly fellow from Parceline turns up with a parcel. Ok, you might think, but when I quietly ask him where the other three parcels in the consignment were - on the back of his van perhaps? - he claims no knowledge.  I pointed out that the parcel he had delivered clearly said 1 of 4 parcels, but still it seemed impossible to find out there the other three were.  Shortly after he's gone, I have to go out for a few minutes. You've guessed it, when I get back, sure enough, there's a card left saying that Parceline have tried to deliver three more parcels.

The little yellow calling card they left says that they will try to deliver for the next two days and then return the parcels to the sender, unless I make alternative arrangements.  The little yellow card says I can log onto the website to arrange for redelivery. But the it only offer deliver for the next three days, which is no good to me. And the "premium redelivery" referred to on the card isn't an option on the website.

So I get on the phone to them as I won't be in for the next to days to try to fix a convenient day with them.  The first time I call after a few minutes on hold, I get to speak to a "customer service representative" but unfortunately before we could complete arrangements, the call is cut off. So I phone back. After precisely four and a half minutes on hold, this time without the pleasure of speaking to anyone but any number of messages telling to hold on to keep my place in the queue, I am cut off again. Finally, on the third attempt, I do get to speak to a live Parceline person. I tell her I'd like the parcels delivered next Wednesday. Apparently this isn't possible as Parceline will not hold the parcels for that long. So I tell her I'd like them delivered to an alternative address. Apparently that isn't possible either - unless I send in a signed form by post; but by the time that's reached them, the parcels will have been returned to sender. So, the only option left is to book a Saturday morning delivery for which Parceline charge me the princely sum of £10.00 plus VAT.  Well, at least it's convenient and I'll get my parcels although in all honesty fail to see why I should pay for their cock-up in the first place. If all four parcels had arrived when they should have done on Tuesday morning, none of this would be necessary.

So I wait in on Saturday morning. And wait, and wait. Finally, at about 11.45 I log onto their website to try to find out where my parcels are.  Horror! Not only are all three parcels marked as "held at depot" but the website says that they tried to deliver on Wednesday and Thursday and left a yellow card on each occasion. Utter bosh. No further yellow card has been left since the initial delivery attempt on Tuesday. So on the phone again to the most inappropriately names customer service again. And yes, my parcels really are still in depot in Croyden. They will try to get them out today and the lady at customer service will phone me back within 15 minutes to confirm. Well, guess what, half an hour later, I'm still waiting for that call.... Am I surprised? Am I heck. But I am very p***ed off.