My Sunday

Yesterday I finally sat down and did something I've been meaning to for an embarrassingly long time. No, it wasn't getting my hair cut (although your comments have been noted) or finally reading another Harry Potter book (how could you all, when you haven’t even made it through Anna Karenina yet?), it was sitting down and devouring, in one sitting, a rare copy of the recent reprint of BS Johnson's The Unfortunates. Loyal PP fans may remember Helen's excellent article on Myddelton Square’s most famous ex-resident (counting myself as its most famous overall, given my recent definitive piece on the British tomato industry, currently available from all good newsagents) from the first issue, but those tardy to our fine publication may enjoy it here.

One of our fine and upstanding readers was kind enough, some shameful months ago, to lend me his prized copy of this excitingly unbound tome, which comes in 25 sections, to be arranged as the reader wishes, plus a beginning and an ending. As the preface, by his biographer Jonathan Coe points out, Johnson himself was aware that this was a bit of a cop out – any kind of run-on text, particularly when it runs on for 12 or so pages, imposes a certain narrative structure upon the reader, and I was surprised that the beginning and end were similarly proscribed, but, such carping aside, it was a cracking good read. Allowing myself a slight lapse into wankiness, the 'random' structure successfully evokes the fragmentary and unreliable nature of memory, although I did have a slight problem with regard to this and the overarching narrative (meta-narrative?): I found reading about his plans for lunch some pages after I'd read about him eating it slightly ... if not confusing, then vaguely distracting or perhaps unsettling. Saying this, I'm not quite sure how it could have been avoided.

If you can get hold of a copy (join the British Library or something), then it's a couple of hours well spent; it's the kind of book that reminds you why one OUGHT to read things other than Harry Potter and D Steele (my own personal weakness). Now I just need to find myself one so I can re-read it in a different order ...

National Short Story Prize

Thank you again to all of you who reeled up to the launch of Pen Pusher Five on Thursday night; it was delightful to see so many new, if slightly blurred, faces (a haze of enthusiasm and champagne has made my memories of the evening rather attractively impressionist). Photos are now up on the site under PP Social. The shame.

Now, I’m rather behind on this one, but, in conjunction with their support for the competition, last week Radio 4 broadcast the shortlisted entries for the National Short Story Prize, alongside interviews with the authors. The winner was announced this morning. Unfortunately, as they were on air mid-afternoon, I missed them, but if you’re quick, you can listen to the shortlist here, before making up your own mind as to the justice of the decision.

Short stories are just about our favourite things ever, and the form deserves more attention in its own right, rather than being dismissed as mini, somewhat inferior novels. Further, more intellectual thoughts on this subject to follow at some point.

En vacances

While awaiting the return of the shiny new PP5 from the printers, resplendent with dancing hares and all things springlike, two thirds of the Pen Pusher team have quit the country, patience being an elusive virtue for the eager editor. One is schmoozing poets in New York, and no doubt living the Paul Auster dream, and the other is watching the rain in the Var, and thinking that this is definitely not the gospel according to Marcel Pagnol.

For those unfamiliar with (arguably) Provence's most famous literary son (arguably because he came from Marseilles, and also because such luminaries as Voltaire and the Marquis de Sade also hung about the area de temps en temps), he is the creator of the world's second most famous hunchback (after Notre Dame, but before Gillian McKeith), Jean de Florettes (which you may remember from French lessons), as well as some magnificent autobiographical work describing his childhood, and the beginnings of his lifelong passion for the hills of south-east France. Even now, as the rain splatters the olive trees outside, they evoke long dusty days in the aromatic scrub and baking rocks of a Provencale August. If you're new to Pagnol, you can find translations on Amazon, but I'd recommend starting with Yves Robert's two film adaptations of La Gloire de mon Pere and Le Chateau de mon Mere, which are fab. Just the thing to wile away a stormy day, both in France and London.