Review: One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson

I have only read one of Kate Atkinson's books before, but I really enjoyed it and often thought that I must read more.

Well, I say I enjoyed it - I enjoyed the language, the insights, the wit. Behind the Scenes at the Museum is one of those books that doesn't really have a plot as such. It's just a story about life and some aspects of it were a bit depressing, in that they pinpointed some elements of human relationships with unromantic accuracy. But it was a good and memorable read, so when I spotted One Good Turn in the bookshop, I remembered Atkinson's previous work and snapped it up with great expectations.

And I enjoyed this one too, but in a very different way. One Good Turn definitely has a plot and quite a complex one at that, all about how one bizarre incident of road rage brings a number of diverse lives together in unlikely fashion. Before you start thinking it's just a rehash of Crash, it's not the same idea - this story links the witnesses to the attack, with the two feuding figures that open the action turning out to be the least interesting characters in the book.

There are elements of the murder mystery to it, though it is the investigations and adventures of the witnesses which take centre stage over the police procedures. In this way, One Good Turn seems more lightweight and unsubstantial that I had expected. The story takes its time introducing all the characters, by which time you begin to fear that threads picked up by the reader in the first few pages are already being dropped, but Atkinson soon picks up the pace and the story held my interest until the final page.

But I wouldn't say that I was gripped by it. Despite murder being at its heart, the story is more about the machinations of human emotions and the way life sometimes deals you a duff hand. For although the general tone is quite lighthearted, no one in the book is happy. Those who have become wealthy are living with loveless marriages, or no marriages at all; those who are fulfilled in their work have no home life; those who seem to have it all really have things which turn out to be charades. In this way, Atkinson continues to pick apart the human condition and although the story ends on an upbeat note for at least two of the characters, it left me feeling that the sweetness was tinged with a sour note.

I suppose that's just the reality of life and maybe I am too naive, wanting my literature to make that reality different. But isn't that the point of fiction, sometimes?

The Game Is Nearly Afoot

So, here we are. After our big demonstration of democracy in action, after all the hoohah about this election being so important and our vote really, REALLY counting, here we are. Standing impotently on the sidelines while the politicians decide amongst themselves who's going to be in charge.

Is it me or does it all feel a bit like being back in the playground, picking teams for elastics or that sadistic version of dodgeball they used to make us play at primary school? David Cameron stands on one side of the court, his swaggering pals resplendent in shiny new squash shorts, jeering and quaffing swan juice while he looks thoughtful and tries to make that nylon Ken hair move a bit when he turns his head.

On the other side, the Labour party languishes against the wall, expressions sullen, dirty socks bagging around their ankles. They are fat, spotty and on the losing side already. On the edge of the crowd, Gordon Brown dangles hopefully and tries to catch David Milliband's eye, before having an empty Dr Pepper can lobbed at his head with a cry of 'sod off Fatty, we missed that goal coz of you!'

Between the two factions, Nick Clegg and his hyperactive cohorts jog on the balls of their feet, yellow tabards glistening in the sun as they twist excitedly from one direction to the next, awaiting the shrill whistle blast that will signal the kick-off.

Because they might not be team captains, but they know they're going to be picked first. For them, there'll be no dawdling about, one leg twisted behind the other, almost dying of embarassment as the crowd thins around them and they are left wondering who will be chosen last - them, the Green Party or the I Eat Chickens In The Bath Party.

As poor old Brown (whom the sublime Charlie Brooker once described as 'a haunted elephant' and no other description can possibly surpass that) drags his sorry ass away from the match and roots about in the stinky Lost Property box for a decent pair of trainers to wear on the bus home, the fit kids get ready to play nicely and show just how co-operative and mature they can be. While secretly working out how to kick each other in the bollocks the moment Teacher's back is turned.

Frocking Around The Clock

Blimey, it's been a long day.

From 11am to 7.30pm, I have mostly been in a state of undress. Not in the street you understand - I haven't yet taken to roaming the town in just my undercrackers. But today has been the latest Mini Event in the series of Mini Events that build up to the Big Event of 2010. My Sister's Wedding.

Yes, today was the latest phase in The Hunt For The Bridesmaid's Dress and it was a knackering one. Having rootled through the limited retail offer of my own home town and my sister's home of Hicksville, UK, we decided that a trip into London was the next sensible move. Surely, we reasoned, we would find something suitable in the teeming metropolis that is our capital city. With six trillion shops, at least a third of which seem to be branches of Coast, something acceptable was sure to rear its chiffon-smothered head.

You'd think so, wouldn't you? But no. After eight hours of almost non-stop rack rifling, zipping up, zipping down, hoisting, wriggling and doing that thing of holding a dress up against yourself and trying to stare it into being longer, shorter, nicer or a better fit, this damn dress is still eluding us.

It was fun enough though, as I am never averse to a bit of dressing up, plus we tried on a few bits of ludicrous upper class headgear and spent a few thousand Dream Pounds between us in Christian Louboutin. Honestly, I can't say I've ever wanted to lick a pair of shoes before, but that shop could turn a girl's head. I really hope the Devil doesn't decide to tempt me one day when I'm out walking the moor with my other half - all he'd have to do is wave a pair of Louboutin's classic black pumps at me and I'd be claiming single person's council tax discount before the day's end.

The problem we had was two-fold - my sister's pickiness and my pickiness. My sister has chosen an incredibly expensive and proportionately beautiful wedding dress, but it is of a very singular appearance which cannot be accessorized by just any old frock. Her bridesmaid needs to be wearing a dress that is just as ruched, ruffled and frue-frued as hers, or at least boasting complementary features. Also, she set her heart on a particular colour scheme some time ago, but the two elements just refuse to make love and spawn the perfect dress.

Add to this the fact that I hate wearing above-the-knee garments and the field of possible candidates is narrowed even further. I should stress that this is not just me being contrary, this is a public health notice, as my knees should not be exposed under any circumstances. They look as if they've been borrowed from Big Bird, broken a few times and then stuffed with handfuls of boiled rice for good measure. Also, I am completely unable to pull off the short, puffy, cutesy dresses that are all the rage these days. You need to be tall, svelte and sylph-like to wear those things and unfortunately I tick none of those boxes.

I have an hourglass figure. It took me many years to accept that, as all I wanted was to be waif-like, straight up and down just like the models. I didn't want a bum and hips, I wanted a figure like Rachel from Friends. I wanted to disappear behind lampposts and slip down cattle grids. It took a very long time for me to accept that I was more a figure of eight than a number one, but I finally have accepted it. And what's more, I embrace it. Sadly I don't have big enough funbags to complete the look totally, but I know that dresses of a certain shape flatter me far more than floaty, puffy numbers. Being short and stumpy, I know that long, Grecian-style dresses swamp me, while prom dresses with massive skirts make me look like a sack of turnips wrapped in taffeta.

The best thing for my figure are tailored, fitted dresses that finish on the knee, or those slinky, fishtail gowns as worn by 30s starlets. And that's perfectly fine by me, as I love those looks and I'm very much hoping to land an outfit like that for the wedding. But sadly, it looks like my sister's dress - you know, the unimportant one - might scupper my hopes by refusing to go with it. So I fear I will end up shoehorned into some wafty maxi dress that makes me look like a bullfrog in a nightie.

But if so, I'm determined to make up for it by wearing a fabulous pair of shoes. Perhaps Louboutins. It only means I'll have to eat baked beans for, ooh, the rest of my life. Totally worth it.

Review: A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

Although the book was recommended to me by a dear friend whose opinion I trust and respect, I confess that I approached A Clockwork Orange with not a little trepidation.

Both the novel and subsequent Stanley Kubrick film are notorious for their scenes of violence and rape, neither of which turn me on as a reader or a film fan, so it was something I had chosen to avoid on the assumption that it would take all value away from the story. But I have to admit that I was wrong and A Clockwork Orange turned out to be a highly intelligent and thought-provoking novel.

There are two things that hit you about the book straightaway. The first is the language, some sort of youth slang which appears almost impenetrable at first glance, but never underestimate the power and versatility of the human brain. Built for code-breaking, my little straining grey cells grasped it surprisingly quickly and although there were some words and phrases which I'm still not sure about, I was astonished at how easily I was able to follow the story.

The second thing is the violence. Within the first few pages, our lead character Alex and his cronies get up to some truly appalling antics, yet strangely enough it was not as nausea-inducing as I had assumed it would be. I put that firmly down to the use of this strange language, as it somehow muffles the horror, like watching the acts through obscured glass, or catching a conversation in French when you have only a beginner's grasp of the language and so can only pick up the general gist. Whether this was a deliberate ploy by Burgess to soften the blow of this revolting behaviour or not, I don't know, but it is somehow effective and leaves the reader feeling less soiled by the experience.

Alex, a 15-year-old delinquent who enjoys 'ultra violence', rape and classical music, is the stuff of nightmares. Yet he is also horribly real. Clearly an intelligent and articulate boy, you can't help feeling the same frustration with him as you would with a real-life promising child who goes the wrong way and, true to form, he dissolves into remorseless self pity the moment the tables are turned.

God knows when or where the book is set, but Burgess transports the reader there effortlessly. Without a word of background explanation as to what this dystopian future is like or how it got that way, the reader understands Alex's world very quickly. It sounds like a horrible place with little in the way of stimulation or warmth, which prompts the usual questions about whether nature or nurture is to blame for producing such a horrendous little arsehole.

I don't think I'm giving anything away when I say that fairly early in the book, Alex is caught and submitted to a radical new treatment in which he essentially has a conscience forced upon him in the only way he can understand. And this is really the crux of the story's message - ideas of conscience and whether it is possible, or indeed desirable, to take away someone's free will for the sake of the greater good. Also, it raises uncomfortable questions about the conscience and its purpose. Do the majority of us avoid doing atrocious things to other people simply because we do not wish them to be harmed, or because we know we'll feel terrible if we did? Is all generosity, consideration and altruism simply a mask we wear, a facade that is more designed to protect the person within than be of benefit to the people around us?

When Alex - initially devoid of this burden - is forced into caring, it sheds a rather unsettling light on the true nature of human understanding and motives. Even when an unexpected ray of kindness enters Alex's life, it turns out that this person has their own motivations and is not above a little cruelty if it serves their purpose.

Like all the best endings, A Clockwork Orange leaves you wondering just what has really happened and quietly debating the story's themes with yourself long after you have turned the final page.