Hero on a Bicycle, by Shirley Hughes

I grew up on Shirley Hughes’ picture books - Dogger, Alfie, and her illustrations for My Naughty Little Sister (I was a naughty little sister, so this series was particularly appealing to me). So, when I heard that she had written her first novel for older children (for 9-12s) I was eager to give it a go. With hindsight though, perhaps this particular author should stick to picture books.

Hero on a Bicycle is set in Italy during the second world war. The country is occupied by German forces, but the allies are on the horizon, and during the course of the story the allies invade, weakening the German hold with a little help from Italian rebels. Paolo yearns for a bit of action to interrupt his monotonous life, and that is exactly what he gets when his British mother is forced to harbor an escaped prisoner. How will their problems resolve themselves? Are they going to get caught?

It’s a fairly typical sort of war-based adventure story, but is sadly lacking in sophistication. The writing is a bit stilted and really quite desperately in need of a lot less ‘tell’ and lot more ‘show’. I found myself rushing through it as quickly as possible simply so I could get to the end, be able to say I’d read it, and thus move on to something more gripping. Because that’s what was missing: grip - that edge-of-your-seat, oh-my-goodness-I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening sort of scenario. And, I think, this is especially important when it comes to young children and their reading. It’s why books like Skulduggery Pleasant and writers like David Walliams are such a massive success.

On the flip side, my mum also read Hero, and she likened the style to Enid Blyton, an author who I have never actually read. Enid Blyton is still one of the most sought-after authors in the children’s department. Given my lack of experience with her writing I am not really in a place to comment, but I imagine her style is quite old fashioned, and this is perhaps why my mum has drawn this particular analysis. Given Blyton’s continuing popularity this, in turn, suggests maybe there are plenty of children out there who will enjoy reading Shirley Hughes’ new offering.

Never read Enid Blyton? Why on earth not? you may ask. Well, actually it’s because my mum doesn’t like her, so as a child I was discouraged rather than encouraged to read her books. Perhaps it’s time to remedy that and find out for myself what she’s really like. I think I’ll pass on any more novels by Shirley Hughes though and avoid another disappointing afternoon of reading.

The Boy in the Dress, by David Walliams

Eager to find out why everybody loves David Walliams, and to discover for myself if his writing is as funny as I’m told, I decided to start with his debut, The Boy in the Dress. Verdict? His writing is everything it is reputed to be.

The Boy in the Dress tells the tale of Dennis, a twelve year old boy living an ordinary life on an ordinary street in an ordinary town. Or, as Dennis would put it, living a boring life on a boring street in a boring town. But Dennis is neither ordinary nor boring, of course, and this book is all about accepting those differences both in oneself and in others.

Walliams’ voice is clear and friendly, using simple language and simple story-telling, but without talking down to the reader. In fact, sometimes he talks directly to the reader, very unusual but very effective, and adding to his humorous style. Although the main character is twelve, this book would definitely be suitable for younger readers as well. And - of course - it’s funny. Walliams writes like I imagine young boys think. It is full of little asides, jokes, even irony and sarcasm, and the humour is well balanced - as well as the obligatory fart jokes, there are smart ones too. I don’t often laugh out loud at books, but this one had me sniggering at the breakfast table.

“You poor boy, expelled just for not wearing the correct school uniform. Darvesh never told me, what exactly were you wearing?”
“Erm, it really doesn’t matter Mum...” said Darvesh. He attempted to hurry her out of his room.
“No, it’s OK,” said Dennis. “I don’t mind her knowing.”
“Knowing what?” asked Darvesh’s mum.
“Well,” Dennis paused, before continuing in a serious tone. “I went to school wearing an orange sequined dress.”
There was silence for a moment.
“Oh, Dennis,” she said. “What a terrible thing to do!”
Dennis paled.
“I mean, orange is really not your colour Dennis,” she continued. “With your light hair you would probably look better in a pastel colour like pink or baby blue.”

I liked that Walliams set the bigger story up by introducing the differences between Dennis and his best friend, Darvesh; and I liked that although Dennis liked looking at designer clothes, this didn’t mean that he is gay. Its particularly interesting to note that there’s no use of that term, or any of the slang associated with it, anywhere in the book. The focus is on the fact that he likes clothes, and this interest is not used to infer anything greater. In the end, doing something different doesn’t solve all of Dennis’s problems, but it makes life a little more interesting and brings a little more colour to his days. It tackles similar ideas as R. J. Palacio’s fantastic Wonder (the acceptance of others), but in a completely different, and perhaps more child-friendly, way.

The Fault in Our Stars, by John Green

Beautiful. Intense. Heart-rending; heart-warming.

These are just a few of the things left floating around in my story-scarred brain after completing The Fault in Our Stars. I thought it was going to be one type of book, but it turned out to be something else entirely. Within the first chapter or two I had made a whole list of assumptions about where the story was going to lead me, only to have those turned upside down by the end of the book.

I knew it was going to be good - a whole raft of customer and bookseller recommendations couldn’t dispute that - but I didn’t expect it to be this good. I didn’t expect the writing to blow me away. I didn’t expect it to be so full of world-changing thoughts and wise words. I didn’t expect it to be so immensely beautiful, and now I regret rushing through it in my desperation to finish the story, to find out how it ends; to experience all the emotions in one intense day. How does he do it? The conclusion I have swiftly reached is that there’s no better role model for the world than a book written by John Green.

The story is this: Hazel has cancer. She lives with it and it lives with her. Depression, she says, is not a side effect of cancer, it is a side effect of death; it is a side effect of being consumed by your own, out-of-control cells. But, worried about depression, Hazel’s mother sends Hazel, much to her disgust, out into the world to attend a teen cancer support group. And so Hazel meets Augustus, which is, of course, the real beginning of this story.

Augustus is not all that he might be cracked up to be, given the premise of this story. He is not perfect. He has ideals that, as far as Hazel can see, neither he nor she can live up to, and it is heart-rending to see him fall apart in their pursuit. Hazel, in contrast, has a very simple set of requests for life, only to discover that life can offer a her lot more than she thought possible. I’m not going to lie: only the most hard-hearted and callous reader will be able to complete The Fault in Our Stars without shedding a few - or a bucketful - of tears. It is just that powerful.

The title references a Shakespearean quote that Green himself refers to about half way through the book: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves.” The character is talking about ‘hamartia’, the idea that every hero has a fatal flaw, some unconscious weakness that reveals itself at the worst possible moment, creating their downfall. It’s a concept that crops up again and again in literature, and is particularly resonant in Greek tragedy. Thus, we cannot blame the stars for what goes wrong in our lives, but only ourselves. Green seems to turn this around in his title - it’s not, after all, called ‘Not the Fault in Our Stars’, but ‘The Fault in Our Stars’. Does this mean he disagrees with the concept of hamartia? Or is it simply that the overriding fault in his characters' lives - cancer - is not of their own making? My mind flip-flops through a whole series of contradictions and ideas while I think about this - hamartia versus stars, stars versus hamartia. Because where cancer is concerned, while it’s not our fault, it is something our bodies do to themselves without our choice, which is much how hamartia works. So perhaps cancer isn’t a fault in our stars, but in ourselves. Either way, hamartia is definitely something Green gets me thinking about. Are we to blame for the mistakes we make, or are they simple written in our stars?

Another theme riding through the story is the idea of how we as humans commemorate or remember people after their deaths. This is brought to the reader most directly through another Shakespeare quote, this time from the fifty-fifth sonnet. “Not marble, nor the gilded monuments / Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; / But you shall shine more bright in these contents / Than unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish time.” The character  then points out that despite the sentiment of this verse, the fact that it exists to commemorate a particular death, today we actually know virtually nothing about the person for whom it was written. The idea of living on after we die, of wanting to make our mark on the world, consumes Augustus much as it does many people. Often, the need to achieve things with our lives, whether to prove that our lives have not been wasted, or whether to somehow make sure we won’t be forgotten after we’ve gone, spurs us on. Peter, who writes these lines in The Fault in Our Stars, tells us that we cannot immortalise the lost by writing about them. Ironically, this is exactly what he has tried to do and, I suppose, it is what Hazel is doing too. But, Hazel reminds us, Nothing gold can stay, wrote Robert Frost.

Overall, what I take away from this book is that love is transformative. It is transformative in every way imaginable, whether that is love for a lover or for a child. But death and loss, and the fear of dying are transformative too. It is a sad story, but it is an uplifting one too. It feels true, and it leaves me feeling wistful, and mindful, and with heartache.

“It seemed to me that I had already seen everything pure and gold in the world,” Hazel writes. “And I was beginning to suspect that even if death didn’t get in the way, the kind of love that Augustus and I share could never last. So dawn goes down to day, the poet wrote. Nothing gold can stay.”

It leaves me with a wish to be able to write as John Green writes. To be able to evoke beauty. To be able to find that essence of the human soul.

Second Chance Summer, by Morgan Matson

I dream of summers like this. Of the summer house with wooden floors, the porch to sit on and watch sunsets, of sand and water, of best friends and boyfriends. It’s like my youth - or an ideal version of how I wish my youth had been - wrapped up in a book. I don’t recall ever having summers that were actually like this, but I still hope that one day it’ll happen. Second Chance Summer may be, like its narrator Taylor says, the best of times and the worst of times, but its essence just encapsulates what a great summer should be.

Taylor is the difficult middle child. Her older brother is the smart one, her little sister the talented one. All she seems to be any good at is running away when things get tough. That’s exactly what she did five years ago, and it’s exactly what she wants to do right now. Her dad is sick and wants to spend one last summer all together as a family at their summer lakehouse. It’s been five years since they last went and five years since Taylor threw away the most important friendships of her life. How is she going to face Lucy and Henry again, and how is she going to face her dad’s illness?

I really enjoyed this book. I found it to be a really calm reading experience, yet I raced through it barely realising how much of the story I’d read. It has everything that I enjoy in a book of this ilk, evoking not only that summer setting I dream of, but also all the characters’ various emotions, and Taylor’s especially. I’m a big fan of Sarah Dessen and Second Chance Summer reminded me very much of her style and approach - a teenage novel with real people in real situations. Morgan Matson was actually shortlisted for the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize earlier this year for her first book, Amy and Roger’s Epic Detour, a book I haven’t yet read but have heard endless praise for - it is definitely going on my reading list now.

Ultimately, Taylor discovers she has a lot more to offer than she thought she did - she’s the one who keeps her family together, helping her shy little sister to make friends and her socially inept brother get a girlfriend. She is the heart. But when things start to get really tough can she stop her legs from twitching, can she stop herself from running away from all that makes things too difficult?

I’m itching to talk more about this, but can’t without giving the storyline away, so get out there and read it now!

Wonder, by R. J. Palacio

However much praise I attempt to heap on this book is not going to be sufficient. It is - simply - wonderful.

August (Auggie for short) wants the same things that every other 10 year old wants: friends and the ability to run around and play freely. To be normal. But other people find him scary to look at. Born with a severe facial deformity, in and out of hospital for most of his life having reparative surgery, until now he has always been home-schooled, but his parents have decided: it’s time he went to proper school. This asks one very big question: how are his new classmates going to react to him?

Wonder is told from the perspective of a small handful of different characters, Auggie and his big sister included. Each and every one is funny and smart, real and brave, Auggie especially. The story has a good balance of ups and downs, and I think the different points of view lend to this admirably. One thing that really stood out was the adult responses to both Auggie and the events of this story. Tellingly, a certain group of adults were the ones mostly responsible for Auggie’s problems: their negative, ignorant attitudes, and how they chose to pass that on to their own children. I was incensed by the injustices directed at Auggie and overwhelmed by his spirit at dealing with them.

There is really not much else to say other than to urge everyone to read this one for themselves. It is so well-formed and well-executed I am left almost wordless. Absolutely one of the best books around at the moment, for children and adults alike.


(visit R. J. Palacio's website)

Shadow of Night, by Deborah Harkness

Since reaching the end of the last sentence on the last page of Deborah Harkness’s debut novel, A Discovery of Witches, I have been itching to get my hands on the sequel - Shadow of Night - to find out what would happen next.

A Discovery of Witches
In A Discovery, we meet Diana, descendant of a powerful family of witches. She, however, has always had trouble with her innate magics so instead of following the family footsteps she chose to become an academic. But it seems that magic is not going to let her forget quite so easily - whilst researching the history of alchemy she discovers a lost text that sets a series of life changing events into motion, and introduces the reader to a world of daemons, vampires, and mystery. Pursued around the world by daemons and vampires, and other witches, Diana is not only forced to face her past, but also deal with quite a bit of trauma in her present.

Reading part one was like peeling the layers of an onion - mystery after mystery, layer after layer revealed themselves the further in I got, and the more intrigued and hooked I became. Harkness introduces so many different ideas and concepts, weaving and binding them together into a compelling and warm story. Its not often a writer manages to combine scientific concepts, history, magic and folklore all in one space.

Shadow of Night
Unwrapping the parcel that my copy of part two arrived in was very exciting. My first impression of Shadow of Night was of heft: this sequel has a pretty serious 768 pages. It begins where A Discovery finished: Diana and her paramour Matthew have travelled back in time to Elizabethan England in an attempt to (a) escape their pursuers, (b) find someone who can help Diana harness her powers, and (c) attempt to uncover the secrets of the book that started everything and that is, of course, the key to everyone’s future. But this, sadly, is where Harkness gets lost.

Harkness, much like Diana, is a history professor, and the result of this is most of the first half of the book basically seems to be an exercise in putting as many famous Elizabethans on the page as possible, from Christopher Marlowe and Walter Raleigh to Queen Elizabeth herself. Consequently, very little happens with the progression of the real story - not until 400+ pages in do they (a) finally meet someone Diana can trust with her magic, and (b) get a sniff at the location of the book they’re hunting. Up until this point it was almost as if they’d forgotten why they’d gone back in time in the first place - they pootle along, finding their feet, alternately making love and arguing with one another. It’s a bit trashy, actually. There are hints of political issues and discussions of witch trials, but none of this is ever explained fully enough to be really effective, which was also a little disappointing. Compared to A Discovery, instead of a dozen lines of thought and intrigue, there is only one, and it’s not particularly intriguing other than in its account of Elizabethan life. A Discovery was full of questions, mystery, the old ‘what’s going to happen next’ in every paragraph, and this is sorely missing from Shadow of Night. What happened to the spider’s web of layers, ideas and action from book one?

As the book progresses, it does pick up, but never quite finds it way like A Discovery of Witches does. Harkness has written in glimpses of what’s happening in the present time, and these work well, showing a set of small ripples that Diana and Matthew have created in time as a result of their travel to the past. There are quite a few ‘timeslip’ novels around, and these always raise the question of cause and effect. Aside from these ‘future’ glimpses Harkness has steadfastly avoided all discussion of such concerns, which is probably wise given the hornet’s nest of problems it can create, though I did feel that she made Diana a bit too blase about the whole thing.

By the end of the book, where are we? Have Diana and Matthew achieved what they set out to do? Yes, although in a rather roundabout way, with just the odd bit of drama here and there. Shadow of Night is worth reading, especially for anyone who loved A Discovery and wants to find out what happens next, as well as for anyone who loves Elizabethan history - just don’t expect the intricacy of book one. And I definitely plan to read part three when it comes out - (a) because I still have a whole load of questions from part one that Shadow of Night hasn’t answered, and (b) because the final ‘future glimpse’ chapter of Shadow indicates a lot of drama and intrigue has yet to be revealed. Fingers crossed that Deborah Harkness has got her yen for Elizabethan history out of her system and part three quickly catches up with the stride and standards introduced in A Discovery.

Lunchtime, by Rebecca Cobb

Rebecca Cobb is my new favourite illustrator. She has previously worked with Orange prize-winner Helen Dunmore, illustrating two of her books, The Islanders and The Ferrybirds, and later this year will be releasing a book with the Waterstones’ Children’s Laureate, Julia Donaldson.

Lunchtime is lovely. The little girl who stars in the book is far too busy to eat her lunch - she’s not really hungry and she’d much rather carry on with her important work than go and eat. But her mother insists, so she sits at the table but steadfastly refuses to touch her lunch. While she’s sitting there, being all stubborn, zoo animals star to appear under and around the table, a bear, a crocodile. At first she thinks they’re sniffing out her, but it turns out they’re much more interested in sniffing out her lunch.

The pictures are simple but engaging, and I’m guessing they are pencil drawn as they exude basic lines and brushstrokes. The animals in particular are lovely and very expressive. I can just picture it all happening in real life. The story is simple and effective, but also a bit ambiguous. The little girl lets the animals eat her lunch, seeing as they’re so keen and she’s so determined that she doesn’t want it. From my boring adult perspective, I took this to mean that the girl actually ate it herself, thanks to the animals persuasiveness, but that she used the animals as an excuse to maintain her initial refusal. But, later on, there are consequences to her duplicity: by the time supper comes around, she is starving, her tummy grumbling. Presumably, if she had eaten her lunch, this wouldn’t be the case? Which makes me wonder if her lunchtime visitors weren’t so imaginary after all...

Adorkable, by Sarra Manning

Here is the text conversation I had with my friend Claire about Adorkable:

Monday morning
me at 10.07: I just started reading new Sarra Manning book ‘Adorkable’ - reckon you’d probably get a kick out of it...
Claire at 10.27: Great title. Sounds awesome. Maybe distracting books about boys and make up are a good thing
me at 11.17: This one has boys, feminist dorks, jumble sale dresses and twitter
Claire at 11.21: It sounds proper awesome. Published or still proof?
me at 12.03: Its out now. Just read some more and revise my previous statement to totally awesome.
Claire at 12.17: Just downloaded to Kindle.That’s tonight sorted.
me at 1.33: Am now about half way through. Not often books make me laugh out loud.

Tuesday morning
Claire at 9.30: Read all of Adorkable last night. I loved it vair muchly. Proper fabby. Was awake till 2 reading

This pretty much sums up how awesome Adorkable is. ‘Proper fabby’ is probably exactly what Jeane Smith, star of Adorkable, would say if she was reading a book like Adorkable, and its my sentiment too.

The Essence of Adorkable-ism
I’d tell you its a good old-fashioned romance, but there’s very little that’s old-fashioned about it. Jeane, 17, is pretty angry about a lot of stuff. Like how apathetic most of her generation are, and the injustices being done to women around the world. But she’s also pretty lonely: as an emancipated teen she lives on her own, and as a dork she doesn’t have many friends at school. What she does have is half a million followers on twitter and a lifestyle brand, Adorkable. Started as a blog to talk about “all the wierd, wonderful and randm things I was into,” she says, “but very quickly Adorkable became a mission statement, my USP, a call to arms...”

Jeane is a dork and she’s proud of it, and she doesn’t plan on letting anyone tell her what she can and can’t do. She’s against corporations selling “us a whole bunch of crap that we don’t need or want,” and is for “ripping the logos off all your clothes or inking them out with Magic Markers.” So how is it that she keeps finding herself kissing the biggest anti-dork of them all, Michael shops-at-Abercrombie-and-Fitch Lee? She’s on a roller-coaster to finding out who she really is, what she really wants, and she’s taking Michael along for the ride. Can she avoid the temptation to sell out and let Adorkable become all that she despises? Can she find a way to be true to herself when the pressure gets too high?

There are lots of really great things about this book. The first is that its British. Woo hoo! I actually can’t remember the last time I read a really a good teenage book of this ilk that wasn’t American or set in America. In fact, I had to keep reminding myself that it was British, so accustomed am I to assuming everything is told from the trans-Atlantic perspective. Secondly, I love what a complex character Jeane is. There’s a customer review for Adorkable on waterstones.com which says they had trouble connecting with Jeane and criticises the character for being hypocritical. The fact is, Jeane is a little hypocritical. She doesn’t always practice what she preaches, and she changes her spots quite quickly - but this is the whole point. It’s an epiphany for her toward the end of the book when she realises that simply the act of telling other people how they should be, how wearing brands etc is wrong, is going against her belief that everyone has a right to dress or to believe in whatever they want. She realises that instead of trying to get dorks as accepted as anti-dorks, trying to show that everyone, dork or not, is equal, she’s actually just been trying to make everyone into a dork. And with this realisation she’s able to accept both herself and everyone else’s choices. Now that’s empowerment.

The Adorkable bug
Sarra Manning sees modern teenagers - Generation Y - with a critical but sympathetic eye and she has hit the nail on the head; she has pinned the tail on the donkey. The only thing I wasn’t really sure about with Adorable was some of the language. There is a lot of ‘totes’ and ‘whatevs’. Do teenagers really talk like this, I wondered, or do adults just think that teenagers talk this? I suspect it’s a little of both, and I suspect that it depends what area of the country they’re in. London may be a bit more than my southern corner of Cornwall. What did hit me hard, though, was Manning’s analysis of the state of teenagedom and their prospects. This is a definitely a book of today.

 “Generation Y are everything you feared,” Jeane says. “They’re lazy, apathetic, unoriginal, scared of innovation, scared of difference, just plain scared... Shallow. Narcissistic. Self-involved. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, Gen Y knows the cost of everything and the value of nothing.”

Sounds a bit harsh at first reading doesn’t it? My first thought was that, well, this is a bit of a sweeping summary, but when I stop and think about how everyone - teenagers and adults alike - spends so much time on their smartphones, twitter-ing and facebook-ing, and how full the TV schedules are with programmes like The X Factor and America’s Next Top Model, it does start to make me wonder at the blandness of it all. But then it goes on:

“The thing is,” she says, “ unless [teens] do get hurled into the arms of that bitch called fame, the future for Gen Y is pretty darn bleak. They’re the first generation who’ll earn less than their parents. They’re the first generation who won’t be expected to better themselves by going to university, because what’s the point in running up thousands of pounds or dollars in debt for tuition fees and student loans when there’s little chance of being able to find a job at the end of it?” It’s no wonder we’re all a little bit scared.

But Sarra Manning/Jeane has hope. There is a flip side. This really got me thinking. “And as the recession continues and our prospects look bleaker and bleaker, I’m excited. I look to the past to see what our future will be like. And in times of economic hardship and harsh governments, of pointless wars and mass unemployment, there was pop art and there was punk, there was hip hop and grafitti, there was acid house and riot grrrl.
“There was art and music and books that could bring you to your knees with their utter perfection. Because, when everything else is gone, all we’re left with is our imaginations.
“So, you know what? I’m not ready to write Gen Y off just yet and neither should you., because I think we’re going to grow up just fine. Yeah, it pains me to admit it, but the kids are all right.”
Dorks like Jeane stand out from the crowd because they dare to think differently. They dare to raise the stakes. They dare to make us wonder at what else could be, and this is amazing.

I heart Adorkable
Sure Jeane is outspoken, and sometimes this means she doesn’t always see everything that’s going on around her, but at least she knows how to stand up for herself. And sure she can be kinda selfish, but when she’s always had to fend for herself that’s pretty understandable. What Adorkable says to me is that there’s a little bit of dork in everyone. There’s a little bit of that need to conform in everyone too, and both of these things are ok. Being true to yourself is what counts. Standing up for what you believe in is what counts. And not putting others down for daring to be different is what we should look for in our future. We should all be reaching for the stars.

I heart dorks and I heart Adorkable.

Gold, by Chris Cleave

I was recently reminded of the Robert Frost poem, Nothing Gold Can Stay. The idea that what we value most is impossible to grasp hold of permanently is strongly resonant of a lot of things in life. Gold: a soft, yellow, precious metallic element that is highly valued. We fight for gold - for the achievements it represents, for the monetary value, for the idea of perfection - but once we get there, what does it mean? And what do we have to sacrifice along the way?

Chris Cleave’s new book is the story of two athletes fighting for gold. They are at the top of their sport, Britain’s number one and two in track cycling. Zoe has already won twice at the Olympics; surely it is Kate’s turn now. Over three simple days, Cleave builds up the story and all its tangled threads, all its tensions, lining us up for the starter gun on day four, the race, the climax, the question: who will win, who will lose. It is outstanding. Reading in every spare moment I could find, I was completely caught up by the rhythms of the race, by the rhythms of the lives of these two women and the others caught up with them, their trainer Tom, Kate’s husband Jack and their poorly eight year old, Sophie.

What do they race for? Are they racing toward something, toward their future, or are they racing away from their past? How far are they willing to go - do they put themselves first every time, or are they able to put others first when it really matters?

Cleave’s writing is astounding. A race in itself, page by page he increases the momentum, until the wheels are spinning and the adrenaline is pumping. The story itself and the way he lays out the chapters resemble the strategies his cyclists use in their races, powering forward, hanging back, using the slipstream, the juxtaposition of storylines and character crises, then the final push to the finish line. Even Cleave’s language embodies the rhythms of the race. And, just when you think it’s all over, another battle is there, waiting at the sidelines, ready to pounce.

Gold begins in 2004, at the Athens Olympics, before jumping ahead to 2012 and preparations for the London games. Kate and Zoe, best friends and best rivals, look set to be winners, but as the days unfold Cleave starts to undo the assumptions I initially made: this is not the story of a simple rivalry - their lives are tangled together in more ways than one and they’re headed for a fall. Zoe is the selfish one, the one who puts winning above and beyond everything else, while Kate has sacrificed winning in the past for the sake of her family. Will she have to do the same again? Her daughter, Sophie, is fighting leukemia and, not wanting to worry her parents, is hiding just how much pain she’s really in. Kate, Zoe and Sophie are zooming towards crisis point and its anybody’s guess who will come out the other side, if anyone at all. Is it all worth it, in the end, for that one moment, that one instance, that one small piece of gold?

The blurb for Gold says: “Gold is about the limits of human endurance, both physical and emotional. Gold is about what drives us to succeed - and what we choose to sacrifice for success. Gold is about the struggles we all face every day; the conflict between winning on others’ terms, and triumphing on your own.” The truth is, Gold is all of these things and more. It’s painful, it’s heart-pounding, and it will take your breath away.



Here is a short interview with Chris Cleave talking about why he wrote Gold:

Skulduggery Pleasant, by Derek Landy

The first in a series, this is the tale of Skulduggery, a ‘wise-cracking detective, powerful magician, sworn enemy of evil’ (as the blurb on the back of the book states). The twist is that dear Skulduggery is a skeleton.

Actually, I tell a lie. Really, this book is about Stephanie Edgley. As a twelve-year-old girl aching to get out of her small home town, circumstances lead her to a meeting with Skulduggery, during which he saves her life and she discovers not only his status as an undead skeleton, but also that magic exists, and in the most unlikeliest of places too.

Sound a bit odd? Well, yes, but then odder things may happen, especially in this particular world. Stephanie and Skulduggery embark on a detective mission that ends up with them saving the world. Very fortunate for us ignorant mortals. There are lots of good things about this book, the most outstanding one being the constant wit and humorous banter between the two leading characters:

Stephanie: “So you won’t keep anything from me again?”
Skulduggery: “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Stephanie: “Ok... Though you don’t actually have a heart.”
Skulduggery: “I know.”
Stephanie: “ And technically, you’ve already died.”
Skulduggery: “I know that too.”
Stephanie: “Just so we’re clear.” *

Peopled with vampires, monsters and magicians, this is not one for the innocent of heart, but it is a romping good adventure, full of fast-moving fight scenes that wouldn’t be amiss in a Hollywood action movie. The non-magical inhabitants are typically two-dimensional and stupid, with the possible exception of Stephanie’s parents, though even they’re portrayed as fairly ditsy and judgemental. I think this is quite standard fare for children’s books - that the children know better than the supposedly mature adults - and one I found fairly amusing. I had a couple of writing quibbles and found the ending a little rushed and a tad unrealistic, but really the only significant thing I felt was missing was a bigger emotional storyline - sure its an adventure filled with magical mayhem and jeopardy, but I never really felt terribly worried about any of the characters. I expect, though, that this is my adult perspective getting in the way, that I am used to the emotional maturity seen in books written for teenagers. I doubt that those who are younger would be aware of the difference, nor that it would concern them.

Lastly, one massive thing in Skulduggery’s favour is that it can be enjoyed equally by girls and boys. A lot of fiction written for children is quite biased toward boy brains or girl brains (think Daisy Meadows and Steve Cole), and understandably so given the scientific evidence showing that there are significant differences in the way that boys and girls, men and women think, react and behave, but it is refreshing when an author is able to bridge the gap so succinctly. A strong female heroine for the girls, action and skeletons for the boys. What more could anyone want?


*Please note: the wording is this quote is changed slightly from the book (I left out the actions that were written so as to highlight the banter between the two characters).