Doppler, by Erlend Loe

Erlend Loe's Doppler is definitely the quirkiest book I’ve read all year, and I absolutely loved it.

This is the story of a man - Doppler - who decides he has had enough. He has had enough of playing the game, of toeing the line - enough of being ‘nice’. When we meet him, he has already shirked his responsibilities and is quite contentedly living in a tent in the forest above his home city, Oslo, in Norway. It’s not exactly remote, or cut off, but it’s peaceful and he’s able to mind his own business. The question is, though, how long will things remain this way?

Let’s not be shy about this, Doppler does what he needs to to survive without becoming a part of the capitalist machine. This involves a bit of minor breaking and entering, a bit of bartering and, on page one, the killing of an elk, the main consequence of which is that, following a hilarious game of chase and tag, the elk’s baby moves into Doppler’s tent with him. Now, I’m not too familiar with elk. I have never met one, but I generally imagine them to be pretty big creatures, so either Doppler has an unusually large tent, or baby elk are quite tiddly. Either way, though, Bongo - as Doppler names him - quickly becomes an integral part of Doppler’s life.

As for Doppler’s shirked responsibilities, these soon come calling, namely in the form of a pregnant wife, a teenage daughter and a young son. The miracle of this story is that despite the fact that Doppler has, to all intents and purposes, abandoned his family, I cannot look down upon him for it. I think at first they - and I - have a little trouble understanding it, but ultimately it’s impossible to not accept it: this is simply the way that Doppler is. He means no harm by it, but he just cannot live the way he used to any longer. His son, Gregus, joins Doppler in the forest, cold-sweating his way through kiddy-TV withdrawal, and his wife simply says, go, do what you need to do, and there is a beautiful simplicity to these words and actions, the trust and love inherent within them.

Of course, things are not quite that simple - otherwise Doppler wouldn’t have a tale to tell. First there is the brilliant scene where he is captured breaking into his regular ‘theft’ house, and the scene where on a rare night in his family home, he awakes to find someone breaking in there too. How does Doppler react to his intruder? Offers him coffee of course. And gradually, as Doppler spreads - intentionally or unintentionally? - word about the simplicity of forest life, he finds the very things he went there for being subtly removed from him. This is perfect irony: he wants everyone else to understand what he is doing and to acknowledge that its the better way to be, but if they’re going to follow suit, he’d really much rather they did so somewhere else, please.

And all the while in the background is a running theme of fatherhood. Doppler is grieving the death of his father and, whilst questioning his own fathering abilities, becomes a father-figure not only to Bongo but to the others who follow him into the forest. What conclusions is he ultimately going to come to? What does being a father mean? And what does being alone mean?

The tag line on the front of my copy says, “An elk is for life - not just for Christmas,” and I’d say the same for Doppler. A simple fable that works perfectly.

Skin Deep, by Laura Jarratt

Jenna.
It is eight months since the car crash that tore apart Jenna’s village, killed her best friend, and left her face with an angry burn scar. In her mind, she is ugly; she cannot bare to look in the mirror and when she leaves the house it feels like everyone is staring. She misses her friend and doesn’t know how to be herself anymore. And Stephen, the boy responsible, the boy who was driving, is walking around as if nothing happened.

Ryan.
A new town, new people. Again. Ryan is used to upping sticks and moving on: he and his mum are travellers, living on a boat and moving from place to place. When they moor near to Jenna’s house, he and Jenna strike up a friendship that is set to change them both. Used to being looked down upon and judged, Ryan finds in Jenna someone who can see him for the person he truly is. But as their relationship develops, circumstances out of their control seem set to tear them apart.

This was a surprising story that ran deeper than I was expecting. Instead of being a simple teen romance, the plot develops in all sorts of directions - including murder. After the accident, Jenna’s dad set up a campaign group for traffic safety - he wants to bring reckless drivers to justice, but Jenna hates the attention it brings on her, especially when the family becomes a target for harassment on top of everything else. Why won’t he just leave things alone? And Ryan has a knack for attracting trouble too: protecting Jenna’s honour gets him into a fight with Stephen. Can he protect both Jenna and his sick mum, or will he have to sacrifice one for the other?

Skin Deep is a good read and covers several different issues in a calm manner without making a big deal out of them - bullying, sexual harassment, low self esteem, bipolar disease, child carers. This sounds like a fairly grizzly list when written out like that, and could make it seem as if this is a misery-filled book, but it is not. Far from it. These are simply the everyday sort of things that the various different characters encounter during the story, and they deal with them as and when they need to in a positive and healthy manner. In this way, author Laura Jarratt writes in a very natural manner. Neither the writing nor the storyline come across as contrived or constructed; instead it feels very much as if these could be real people going through just these same things somewhere in a sleepy little English town. All credit to Jarratt.

Ultimately, Jenna and Ryan both manage to find a way through their problems - or, at least, begin to learn how to live with their circumstances - and there are a few real live truths tucked away in their story. Skin Deep is not likely to attract a cult following to the extent that authors such as Stephenie Meyer and Suzanne Collins have, but it is a strong offering in a sometimes indifferent teen market that will sit well alongside authors such as Jenny Downham.

Lovely, Dark and Deep, by Amy McNamara

I was thinking about being a grown-up and reading an ‘adult novel’ this week, but instead found myself irresistibly drawn in by the beautiful cover and the poetic title of Amy McNamara’s debut teen novel Lovely, Dark and Deep.

This is the story of Wren, who has fled her New York home to hide away in her father’s house in the Maine woods. All she wants is to be alone, to not talk, to not have to answer to everyone’s expectations. She wants to be cold and hard, to block out the person she was before and the accident that changed everything. But the world has a way of slipping its way back in - will she let it, or how far is she willing to go to block it out?

McNamara’s portrayal of Wren’s grief is immense and realistic, a story that clearly comes from her heart, and there is some essence of beauty wrapped up within the book that struck deep within me. Some people expect Wren to just get up one day and be better, an attitude that simply drives her deeper, until she quietly, gradually, gathers people around her who inspire subtle changes - handsome Cal, who has his own difficulties to work through, her quiet father, and Zara, who has, perhaps, the best kind of words Wren could hope for.

I was pulled into Wren’s drowning world right from the beginning, but what I loved best about Lovely, Dark and Deep was the symbology interwoven between the cover, the title, and the story within. The image of a snow-covered tree speaks firstly of the cold desolation Wren is feeling, secondly of a particular event in the book where she becomes lost in the dark woods surrounding her father’s home and, thirdly, of the perfectly scripted title, a quote from Robert Frost’s poem, Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening. And then there are the papercut snowflakes scattered around the girl in the picture, referencing a second event in the storyline that is itself incredibly symbolic: after being pushed into reading a set of her friend’s letters, thereby being forced to retread a period she’s trying to move away from, Wren rebels by grabbing a pair of scissors, folding the letters up, and cutting them down into paper snowflakes, an act of turning something ugly into something beautiful and a transformation similar to that which Wren is seeking to perform on herself.

McNamara ties all these elements together with a seemingly effortless ease, subtly entreating Wren - and me - to consider the importance of being true to who you are and how you feel, an idea that is not always easy to adhere to, but one worthy of remembering. Wren must navigate the title, the deep dark woods of grief; the miles to go before she sleeps, but she’ll get there. Wonderful.

My Best Friend and Other Enemies, by Catherine Wilkins

This book is brilliant; I absolutely loved it. The title alone is utter genius, and the story inside is perfectly balanced, completely living up to expectation.

My Best Friend and Other Enemies tells the story of Jess. She and Natalie have been best friends for ever, but since new girl Amelia came along, Jess finds herself increasingly pushed to the sidelines. This, understandably, is pretty hurtful, especially when she learns that Natalie and Amelia have started a secret club to which Jess is explicitly not invited to join. What do you do when your best friend suddenly stops being particularly friendly? And, worse, when she starts hanging out with someone who is only capable of being nasty?

God, this is such familiar territory. I can remember pretty much exactly the same thing happening to me at school, as I am sure it has happened the world over to girls of the ‘tween’ and early teen age. Jess suddenly has to endure taunts in the classroom, being ousted from after-school activities, and even has dirty tricks played on her. While these events get Jess down she manages, somehow, to not actually let them get her down. Not only does she bite back, developing tentative friendships with some other girls and forming their own club, but she remains upbeat and positive about herself throughout the book. “I am brilliant,” is an Jess’s oft-repeated refrain, both in good times and bad times, and is really something I should learn to tell myself more often. It certainly seems to work for Jess.

“I knew this would be brilliant,” she tells herself. “I should listen to myself more often. I’m brilliant. I knew I was. What was all that worry about glasses being half full and half empty before? The rule is: I’m brilliant. That should just be a rule.” (pg. 68)

Jess is not big-headed, though, far from it. Surrounded by her quirky family - overactive little brother Ryan, anti-capitalist older sister Tammy, and parents on an economy drive - by being herself and sticking to her guns she makes friends with a whole variety of people, girls and boys alike, ultimately making a name for herself through amusing cartoons as well as sorting things out with Natalie and Amelia without too much of a massive and hideously unhealthy showdown. Everything works out in the end, though it is a bit of a struggle along the way.

It probably helped that I really, really related to Jess, but I do think this is one of the most awesome girls books I’ve read all year. I don’t imagine for a moment that either Jess or I are alone in feeling the things we do and having the friends trouble we’ve had; as such it’s a book that is likely to appeal to a huge number of readers. Let’s face it, girls can be really mean. It’s also incredibly funny, with a style strongly reminiscent of Louise Rennison, except aimed at younger readers and with more focus on friendships than on boys. It was so natural, with a beautiful flow, and it really made me snigger. Cartoons scattered through the pages are a nice touch, but the positive attitude that Jess maintains throughout - and the positive ending - are what really stands out. Catherine Wilkins is definitely an author to watch out for.

Geekhood: Close Encounters of the Girl Kind, by Andy Robb

(1) a circus freak or sideshow performer.
(2) a strange or eccentric person.
(3) a creep or misfit.

This is my dictionary’s definition of the word ‘Geek’. It seems a bit harsh, really. Creep? I think not. That 'geek' was originally used to describe the circus ‘freak’ is familiar, but today I think the term has a much, much wider remit; one that my dictionary clearly cannot put its finger on. What is a geek, after all?

In Archie’s world - the star of Andy Robb’s Geekhood: Close Encounters of the Girl Kind - being a geek means being a gawky teenager with a particular obsession in fantasy and fantasy realms such as Lord of the Rings, intricate role-playing games, and the painting of model figures to be used in the playing of said games. It represents that difficult period of trying to figure out who you are and where you fit in - and, of course, how to talk to girls.

At its heart, Geekhood is a story about figuring these things out. There’s a lot going on in Archie’s life, and he keeps most of it hidden underneath the surface. Coping mechanisms include delving into fantasy land and a slightly bitter but amusing interior monologue:

“I’ve developed a VERY LOUD interior monologue that works completely independently from from what my face and body are doing. For example, at the moment, while Tony is examining my prized goblin warrior, my face has crinkled into the approximation of a sleepy smile, while my hand scratches at my head in a pantomime of tiredness... However, at the same time that my exterior is sending all these signals of muzzy cheeriness, my Interior Monologue is saying something along the lines of: Put that bloody thing down, you Tosser! It’s not there for you to laugh at; it’s there as an expression of my need to escape this world and embrace a realm where anything is possible!” (pg. 11-12)

But then a gorgeous goth girl walks into his life - and, low and behold, talks to him. Sarah acts as a catalyst for change. In his slightly blundering but well-intentioned attempts to woo her, Archie introduces the reader to the scary and often hilarious workings of the teenage boy’s mind...

Exhibit A: The smallest glimpse of female flesh and any mention of the word ‘bra’ results in complete mental breakdown.

Exhibit B: The various meaning of the word ‘dude’, depending on its use within a sentence and the type of emphasis placed on it during pronunciation.

Exhibit C: The art of teenage conversation. “The Golden Rule of Non-Specific Conversation: You NEVER refer to the heart of the matter. I know he knows what all the clothes and aftershave are for and he knows I know that he knows what it’s for - but you NEVER refer to it.” (pg. 126)

But what is the deal with Archie’s nightmares? Will his mum’s boyfriend ever stop trying to ‘bond’ with him? And is his interior monologue getting out of hand?

Geekhood was a big hit with the teenage reading group in the Waterstones store where I work, and it fits in well with the John Green generation, steering away from the vampire/dystopia tendency of many of today’s teenage authors. Plus it’s British, and it’s original in the perspective that it doesn’t involve girls swooning over some boy with movie-star good looks. And another gold star goes to it’s bittersweet ending which, like most of the book actually, is reassuring in its basis in reality. Overall, an amusing and enjoyable read that both the male and female of the species will relate to equally well.

And the geek factor? Well, although Archie is perhaps a little more overtly geek than the average teenager, personally I think there’s a little geek in all of us, and we shouldn’t shy away from it. While some may argue that being a geek can make life more difficult, as Archie discovers, it’s much better to be true to yourself.

The Enemy, by Charlie Higson

Zombie time.

Around a year has passed since a deadly disease decimated the population. Everyone aged fourteen and above has either died, or has become one of the diseased grown-ups wandering the streets looking for fresh meat. They may not be zombies per se, but they’re as good as. And the fresh meat they're looking for? Well, survivors, of course. Children.

In the year since the disease struck, a group of kids have banded together, taking refuge in an empty supermarket, older kids looking after the little kids, keeping watch, and scavenging for survival. But as the grown-ups become more threatening and the food starts to run out, a decision has to be made: to stay or to move on? And when Jester turns up on the doorstep promising a place of safety and abundance, the decision is as good as made. Now, they just have to make their way through the streets of London, avoiding rabid grown-ups and escaped zoo animals as they go.

The Enemy is the first in a series that currently stands at four books. It imagines a world turned to terror and destruction, where survival of the fittest is more than just a Darwinian theory. It’s action and fear and adrenaline.

A lot happens during the story, but what stood out most strongly for me was the power vacuum created by the loss of the adults. Somebody needs to take charge, but who will that person be and what kind of power will they choose to yield? One character, Ollie, says that there are two kinds of leaders, peacetime leaders and wartime leaders, but author Charlie Higson shows that there are also dictators and democracies. It made me think of the old adage, ‘absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ There are the leaders who seek power, and those that don’t, and - generally speaking - the ones that don’t seek it are the ones who are better at wielding it. And so our group from Waitrose meet the power-hungry David, whose ‘best intentions’ are quite different to their own.

This is a new world, and so calls for a new world order, but this in itself raises a lot of questions. How do you avoid losing sight of right and wrong when simply surviving each day is a battle? If we lose our morality, who are we; are we just animals? A world without adults is a premise repeated by the equally popular ‘Gone’ series by Michael Grant, Gone being a book that I really disliked (boring and badly written), and remain shocked at the extent of its popularity. The Enemy was considerably better. What prevents The Enemy from being really good, though, is Higson’s style of telling the story from multiple character viewpoints. While there are three main lines to the story (Maxie, Callum and Sam), Higson jumps the viewpoint around between a bunch of different characters. There are five or six who we hear more from, but the constant jumping drew away from the flow of the story, and prevented the reader from getting to know any one person really, really well.

After battles against grown-ups and battles against each other, by the conclusion of The Enemy the kids are more-or-less in the same position as they were at the opening of the book, with one key exception: they have hope. They are moving on again, but things are changing, and they have garnered more strength. A number of questions hang in the air, and I suspect that Higson will drag these out as long as possible for they drive the bigger story and encourage the reader to read on. Where did the virus come from? Is it in the air or in the people? Why are those under fourteen immune? And when they turn fourteen - what will happen then?

The Feral Child, by Che Golden

The combination of the cover and the title of this new children’s book immediately grabbed my attention: “A stolen child. An ancient evil. The quest of a lifetime,” reads the tag line. What more does a girl need?

Faeries, elves, and especially the idea of the changeling - whereby a human child is stolen away by the faeries and replaced with one of their own - have long since fascinated me, and the recent success of Amanda Hocking’s ‘Switched’ series suggests I’m not the only one. In The Feral Child we have a version for younger readers that incorporates all the standard adventure elements of a good children’s book: unhappy orphan embarks on risk-taking quest to rescue the one friend she has, successfully thwarting various challenges along the way, and ultimately finding her way, or her place, in the world*. And then, thrown in for good measure, there is also the faerie land, dryads, an evil queen, an ice castle, and some turncoat talking wolves. Its a bit like a cross between Tolkien’s Middle Earth and C.S. Lewis’s Narnia. It also fills a similar niche to Cathryn Constable’s The Wolf Princess, which I recently reviewed on this same blog.

Meet Maddy. She lives with her grandparents in the Irish town of Blarney. Her grandfather spends much of his time telling her ‘absurd’ faerie tales about Tir na n'Og, the Land of Eternal Youth, where the faeries live; her grandmother just wants her to be happy, but her cousin is a bully, and so, apparently, is her aunt. But then she meets a strange boy, John, who tries to kidnap her; when she escapes, he follows, taunting her through her window at night, and ultimately stealing away Stephen, the little boy who lives next door. But John is not just any boy: he is Sean Rua, a faerie famous for luring mortal children into the Faerie realm, and Maddy, like her Grandad, has the Sight, meaning she can see him for what he really he is. When her Grandad refuses to go in search of the lost Stephen, Maddy decides the only way is to enter the Faerie realm and rescue him herself.

Che Golden, who hails from the very same town as Maddy, has presumably constructed her book around the stories and myths of Tir na nOg and its occupants that she herself was told as a child, myths that have been passed through time, written and published around the world. The idea that many of these tales originate around the town of Blarney brings to mind the saying, ‘a load of old Blarney,’ used to refer to ‘rubbish’ or lies, perhaps because of the faerie tales and the modern assumption that they’re untrue? But I can’t help wonder whether there is an element of truth in them somewhere - as there surely are in most mythologies - and so applaud Golden for trying to bring these stories a little more to life.

The Feral Child starts off exceedingly well. The beginning is incredibly creepy, to the point where I - thirty two years old - actually considered sleeping with the light on. Overall, its a good little book, with much that children (particularly girls) of this age (8-12) will enjoy, and be gripped by. I, however, didn’t feel it really lived up to its potential, or its auspiscous beginning, predominantly because parts of the background story were quite confused and difficult to follow, and because of what I felt was some slightly dodgy characterisation.

For instance, when Maddy first enters Faerie, she learns that the ruling race are the Tuatha de Dannan, spiteful and power-hungry faeries, immersed in some sort of civil war to determine who rules overall. Yet, a short while later we discover that the land is currently under the grip of the Winter Queen who is in fact not Tuatha de Dannan but an Elf named Liadan. Liadan, being an Elf, is not strong enough to bear the weight of the Winter crown; it has changed her, creating an ugly being both inside and out. To me, this made her a sympathetic character, somebody who is burdened and in need of help, and so I thought that - ultimately - Maddy’s role would be to save her from herself, and thus also save the kingdom. This idea was cemented by the Fionn, a dryad who, at the risk of her own life, offers to help Maddy in her quest because she wants the grip of the Winter Queen to be lessened, and believes Maddy is the one destined to do so. This, though, is not the ending that Golden chooses. Not only was this disappointing and not entirely satisfactory, but so was the fact that I didn’t really understand the ending Golden did choose.

In addition to this, not only are Maddy’s companions rather two-dimensional, Maddy herself is at times questionable. For starters, she often uses turns of phrase that I felt were too adult for her. Then there is the part where half way through her journey she is made out to be suicidal. This is not explicitly written, but it is implied. In terms of characterisation, though I understand that she was unhappy and troubled, I thought suicidal was a bit of a leap. And then there is Fionn. After helping Maddy to a certain destination, Fionn tries to leave, explaining that she needs to return home, but Maddy and her friends talk her around, convincing her to stay. This is clearly done for their own selfish reasons which fail to take into account Fionn’s situation. Ultimately, this results in Fionn being caught by Liadan’s second in command, and told to go home and await her punishment, which is implied as likely to be rather brutal. And this is the last we hear of her. Not only does Maddy never mention Fionn again, but she shows little sign of remorse in being responsible for this innocent’s sufferings, even after having talked her into helping them further. Really, shouldn’t Maddy have done more to save Fionn?

And the title? Well, at the end its revealed that the feral child is Maddy herself, though I’m not really sure why. I think it’s a poor choice of title compared to the engaging image on the cover (a faerie), and the fact that much of the story is centred around faerie mythology - something that captures the adventure and the sights and sounds of Tir na nOg would be more catching and tie in stronger with the storyline.

Despite of all these reservations, it should be remembered that I am an adult and that most children who read The Feral Child are not going to be entering the experience with a critical mind. They will enjoy the idea and the adventure, the ice queen and the drama - that is, as long as any parents out there don’t mind their child reading the morally out-of-tune episode with Fionn. Ultimately, while there is an essence of Narnia in the book’s construction, it lacks the rounded outcome.


* Actually, thinking about it from a writer’s perspective, Che Golden has surely read Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces, which is a standard storywriting text, outlining all the key elements that classic myths and tales tend to follow.

Torn, by David Massey

Torn is a book that I am finding quite hard to quantify. It turned out to be much better than I had thought it was going to be. This was a very pleasant surprise, especially when several books I’ve read lately have started off really well and then lost momentum toward the end.

The story follows Private Elinor Nielson on her first tour in Afghanistan. She’s nineteen years old, has just qualified as a medic, and has been sent to an FOB - Forward Operating Base - in the Helmand Province. Not only does her first patrol go badly, but her immediate officer in charge, Heidi, quickly takes a dislike to her for no real, discernible reason.

I found the first couple of chapters difficult because I couldn't help questioning the authenticity both of Ellie’s behaviour and of the behaviour of others around her. Would a newly minted soldier on her first patrol really take the sort of actions that Ellie does? Would her superiors really put her in the position where she felt the need to behave in this manner? And would Heidi really talk to her captain the way she does? I had to wonder what research or experience the author, David Massey, had. Before picking up the book, I assumed that in order for him to write realistically about modern warfare he must have served in Afghanistan himself, but quickly found myself questioning this assumption.

Yet Torn develops in the most intriguing of ways. Who is the little girl in the blue dress Ellie keeps seeing? I she a displaced, lost child? A ghost? Or perhaps even an angel? Rather than just trying to represent the daily grind of life on the front, Massey develops this subtle and revealing plotline which takes the reader closer to the heart of the Afghan war and builds in a mystery that forced me to keep turning the pages. Ellie and her team are tasked with identifying a group of fighter children who call themselves the Young Martyrs - where they come from and why are they here? Aroush, the girl in the blue dress, is somehow tied up with them, as is a western journalist, and what looks set to be quite a conspiracy, likely to turn many heads and pose many ethical questions back home in Britain.

Through the medium of this story, and the search for the truth of what happened to the Young Martyrs and their village, Massey introduces a number of different aspects, complications and horrors of war, particularly the manner in which all the different factions are pitted against one another, with everyday civilians stuck in the middle, unable to escape and unable to determine their own destinies. There are scenes of death and warfare, but he treats them respectfully, drawing the reader in to feel the adrenaline of the moment and the sorrow of the loss without overdoing it or sensationalising it. It is a subtle and effective form of writing well refined for the teenage age-group. A love story is there too, but it is a quiet, tantalising love story that does not overshadow the main focus of the book, instead just adding that little extra contrast, helping to keep the reader in tune with the other events.

Overall this is a bittersweet book, with a dramatic ending. Ellie and her team cannot undo what happened to the Young Martyrs, but they can help to make amends. This, of course, is a truth of war. It’s not pretty, but if you can create hope, then perhaps there can be light at the end of the tunnel. Massey does not and cannot solve the greater problem, especially as we continue to have people out there fighting as I write, but he leaves us feeling hopeful that these are people trying to do the right thing and see their way through terrible circumstances.

My Grandpa, by Marta Altes

My Grandpa is a very sweet and simple little story about a little bear and his grandpa bear. Grandpa bear is getting on a bit in years, and has trouble with one or two things, like feeling lonely or forgetting what an umbrella is for. Little bear takes all of this in his stride, simply accepting his grandpa for who he is and adapting his behaviour accordingly. And just because Grandpa bear isn’t as nimble on his feet as he used to be doesn’t mean that he and little bear can’t have fun together anymore.

One of the loveliest things about Marta Altes’s picture book is the give and take nature that Grandpa bear and the little bear have. In each part of the story, one thing is balanced out by another - for instance, sometimes Grandpa bear needs little bear to be his eyes, but sometimes Grandpa bear’s eyes see things that little bear doesn’t. Altes’s illustrations are as simple as her words - essentially using just three tones of colour that are muted without being washed out - and successfully add that little extra to the story by their presence.

Overall, My Grandpa is a nice way of introducing the concept of people growing old and that it's nothing to be afraid of. Gentle is the word that comes to mind. It also shows that just because at times they can be a little ditzy and may even get things mixed up, older people are still valid and to be valued; they still have love and enjoyment to give, just as it is important for us to give them love and appreciation in return. The book’s final words sum things up just nicely: “My Grandpa is getting old... But that’s how he is... and that’s why I love him.”

Archie, by Domenica More Gordon

When I was little my mum and I both loved a series of books that featured the two characters of Ernest and Celestine, a father bear and his adopted daughter mouse and their gentle little adventures together (which, incidentally, has just been made into a film). Written by Gabrielle Vincent, they featured gorgeous illustrations and lovely, peaceful stories. Domenica More Gordon’s first book, Archie, reminds me quite a bit of Ernest and Celestine. The story is quite different, as are the illustrations, and yet she has somehow managed to capture a similar essence with both.

Archie is a picture book in the absolute purest sense. The entire story is told just in pictures: other than a few sound effects, such as ‘ring ring’ for the phone, or ‘snip snip snip’ as a pair of scissors cuts into fabric, there is no dialogue and no ‘this happened and then that happened’. I love this. While there is a clear story/plotline running through the book, the lack of words simultaneously allows the reader - whether adult or child - to add their own, individual interpretation to the images on the page. You could read it aloud to your child using your own descriptions of what you see on the page, or read it together, discussing between you what you see; or you could simply leave your child alone with the book and let their imagination roam free, making their own story up to go along with the pictures.

The story that I saw in Archie is of a dog inspired by the gift of a sewing machine to make a cosy winter coat for his own pet dog. When he and the little ’un go out walking, the other dog owners see the new coat, and soon Archie is inundated with requests from his friends to make coats for their dogs. Both the coats and the dogs themselves come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, colours and patterns, and before he knows it, Archie is even making coats and dresses for the owners. These go down a treat; so much so that Archie even gets a request from a rather special Corgi... Is this the Great Aunt Betty who sent Archie the sewing machine in the first place?

The only slightly odd thing about Archie is the fact that the dogs have dogs for pets. But, looking at Gordon’s website, it is clear that this lady has a particular thing for dogs - her main income seems to come from creating little woollen or felted dogs, and her site is filled with doggy sketches. I like the book though. It’s simple and sweet and different.