C took the Book People catalogue to bed last week to have a look, as he tends to when it arrives. He was instantly enamoured of the Alien Invasion set of five books by Max Silver (if that's his real name). He had noticed that it said "for fans of Beast Quest" in the description. There has been a great deal of excitement since they were dispatched, and today they finally arrived.
I was less excited. Truth be told, I don't want anything else toppling Beast Quest from its current position on the pedestal. I like Beast Quest. It's all action and excitement, and characters battling forces of nature and evil wizards and the like. Sometimes I allow C to have two chapters, just so that I can see what happens next, because the cliff-hangers are genuinely interesting.
Alien Invaders, however, is all high-tech equipment, lasers and people posturing in shiny space suits. There are lots of hand-held communication devices, where in Beast Quest there are magic shields and a map where the landscape is 3-D and has real rain and snow etc. In Beast Quest they have either normal names like Tom or obviously magical names like Malvel the Dark Wizard. What's not to like? So far, the characters in Alien Invaders are called G1 and Kaos. What sort of a name is G1? That's not a name! And Kaos is an abomination against spelling.
I am trying to pretend that I am excited about how Alien Invaders will turn out, as I don't want to rain on C's parade. However, it has nicked the idea of a boy saving humanity from Beast Quest, and it has unashamedly nicked all of the aliens from Ben 10. As the mother of a 6 year old boy, it is obvious to me that the charcter of Rockhead is based on Diamondhead. Mr "Silver" needs to get some of his own ideas.
I am hoping to encourage C to read these on his own; but he is so far unconvinced.
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
Sunday, 11 March 2012
The Enemy by Charlie Higson
From a book that had a very self-conscious "this-is-a-children's-book" vibe to it, to one which would have scared the living daylights out of me if I'd read it as a child. To be completely honest, I am still pretty scared, and I finished reading it over an hour ago. And I am 33 and in a room with my husband, who I keep sneakily looking at to make sure he is not showing any symptoms of disease.
The Enemy is completely brilliant. The premise is brilliant. It's set in central London and follows the fortunes of young people who have been left to fend for themselves. A horrific disease has struck everyone over the age of 14. Most of the adults have died, but others are still alive, but reduced to child-slaying animals, stumbling around killing and eating any children they can get their hands on. There are many groups of children who are doing their best to survive in the increasingly dangerous surroundings of London.
Over the course of the story we are introduced to several groups of children, but we begin with those that live in Waitrose on Holloway Road. A good choice of hide-out. I think I would have gone for Fortum and Mason, however. Aim high.
The characters are skillfully drawn and the action is electric and often shocking. There is some blood and gore, but there are also moments of phsychological terror. Not for the faint hearted. Although I was scared when I read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets at the age of 22, so I may not be the best guide.
There are several more in the series, and I will definitely be reading them. It is most emphatically not the sort of book that I would normally read, but I will have no qualms in recommending this to my students. Mainly because it is a brilliant story, but also because it will provide them with survival tips should this disease actually come to pass, and instead of providing them with pastoral and literacy support at school, I suddenly start to attempt to bundle them into a sack and take them back to my filthy den to cook. No harm in being prepared for all eventualities.
The Enemy is completely brilliant. The premise is brilliant. It's set in central London and follows the fortunes of young people who have been left to fend for themselves. A horrific disease has struck everyone over the age of 14. Most of the adults have died, but others are still alive, but reduced to child-slaying animals, stumbling around killing and eating any children they can get their hands on. There are many groups of children who are doing their best to survive in the increasingly dangerous surroundings of London.
Over the course of the story we are introduced to several groups of children, but we begin with those that live in Waitrose on Holloway Road. A good choice of hide-out. I think I would have gone for Fortum and Mason, however. Aim high.
The characters are skillfully drawn and the action is electric and often shocking. There is some blood and gore, but there are also moments of phsychological terror. Not for the faint hearted. Although I was scared when I read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets at the age of 22, so I may not be the best guide.
There are several more in the series, and I will definitely be reading them. It is most emphatically not the sort of book that I would normally read, but I will have no qualms in recommending this to my students. Mainly because it is a brilliant story, but also because it will provide them with survival tips should this disease actually come to pass, and instead of providing them with pastoral and literacy support at school, I suddenly start to attempt to bundle them into a sack and take them back to my filthy den to cook. No harm in being prepared for all eventualities.
Wonder by RJ Palacio
It's been a lazy weekend at home, so I have read a couple of young adult books, as I like to recommend reads to the students at school, and feel more confident doing so if I have actually read them!
The first was Wonder by RJ Palacio. The age guideline says 10+ but I am going to let A read it, as there was nothing in there which I thought was unsuitable for her.
I have seen quite a lot of hype about this book, mainly on my twitter feed, so bought it when it came into the Red House catalogue for a measly few pounds.
The subject matter is interesting - it's about a boy, August, starting middle school in 5th Grade (yes, it's American). He has never been to school before, as his parents have kept him at home due to medical issues surrounding his facial abnormalities. The story revolves around August's struggle to be accepted as just one of the kids at his school. It's told from several different perspectives, which makes it somewhat more multi-faceted and interesting.
However, some of the characters were far too one-dimensional for me. August's parents were just sickeningly perfect - no couple is really like this. In fact, this would be the only thing that would put me off letting A read it. Mr M and I would not come off well in a comparison with the young, intelligent, attractive, funny, empathetic, understanding and charming Pullmans. I bet she never screeches "BECAUSE I SAID SO!" in response to a question from her child, whilst shuffling round the kitchen accidentally pouring milk on the work surface and wearing her husband's old jogging bottoms and a t-shirt she bought when she was in Year 9.
Anyway, although it was a well-thought out enough tale, to my mind Benjamin Zephaniah's novel Face is a much better read with a similar subject matter. I read that over a decade ago, and yet I can recall that the characters were much more sharply drawn and there was less of children's book vibe about the whole thing. Wonder is definitely not a bad book, but didn't live up to the hype, in my opinion.
The first was Wonder by RJ Palacio. The age guideline says 10+ but I am going to let A read it, as there was nothing in there which I thought was unsuitable for her.
I have seen quite a lot of hype about this book, mainly on my twitter feed, so bought it when it came into the Red House catalogue for a measly few pounds.
The subject matter is interesting - it's about a boy, August, starting middle school in 5th Grade (yes, it's American). He has never been to school before, as his parents have kept him at home due to medical issues surrounding his facial abnormalities. The story revolves around August's struggle to be accepted as just one of the kids at his school. It's told from several different perspectives, which makes it somewhat more multi-faceted and interesting.
However, some of the characters were far too one-dimensional for me. August's parents were just sickeningly perfect - no couple is really like this. In fact, this would be the only thing that would put me off letting A read it. Mr M and I would not come off well in a comparison with the young, intelligent, attractive, funny, empathetic, understanding and charming Pullmans. I bet she never screeches "BECAUSE I SAID SO!" in response to a question from her child, whilst shuffling round the kitchen accidentally pouring milk on the work surface and wearing her husband's old jogging bottoms and a t-shirt she bought when she was in Year 9.
Anyway, although it was a well-thought out enough tale, to my mind Benjamin Zephaniah's novel Face is a much better read with a similar subject matter. I read that over a decade ago, and yet I can recall that the characters were much more sharply drawn and there was less of children's book vibe about the whole thing. Wonder is definitely not a bad book, but didn't live up to the hype, in my opinion.
Friday, 9 March 2012
Go Tell it to the Toucan by Colin West.
Back in the day, when A was 4, I had the obligitary panic-about-precious-baby-starting school. I was worried that A was going to already be behind the other children, having spent an inordinately large amount of her early years in front of CBeebies. TV acted as a sedative on A. She was an extremely energetic child. I think if I were to have had toddler A now, she quite possibly would finish me off. Nowadays she has swimming, running, dancing and drama group to burn off some of the excess exuberance, but back then CBeebies was my saviour on wet days, days when I was poorly, or the four months of my pregnancy with C where I had to stay at home because I threw up pretty much constantly. Motherhood is just pretty much non-stop glamour really.
Anyway, I remember mentioning my woes and worries about A's possibly stunted development to a friend who is a primary school teacher. "Can she recite nursery rhymes?" asked the friend? "Erm, yeah!" "She'll be fine". I remember nodding politely whilst thinking "WHAT?" However, after googling things like "what does my child need to learn before school", I found that others agreed with my friend. Apparently (and it makes perfect sense to me now), children who know nursery rhymes have a better sense of rhythm, a better understanding of patterns, and a better awareness of how words fit together in stories. This makes learning reading and maths much, much easier f0r a child, however many times they watched the same episode of Balamory three times in one day because Mummy was too busy vomiting to provide rich and varied educational experiences.
Anyway, this book is one of those lovely repetitious stories which encourage children to provide the last word or phrase of the sentence. All of the jungle animals are looking for the toucan so that he can spread the news about the elephant's jungle jamboree. There is a nice little twist at the end. A and C worked it out, which was nice for them. Although C is now a good reader, it is good for him to listen to a story where he can guess what is going to happen next, as this can only help to develop comprehension skills.
A has reached the age where books where lions and zebras interact without eating each other irritating. I explained to her the concept of "willing suspension of disbelief", and she seemed happy enough with this.
Incidentally, C watched much, much less TV than A. He still does. He was a toddler who was quite happy to potter around and play with toys whilst I did necessary tasks such as cooking, washing, ironing, or reading just a couple more chapters of whatever book I had to hand. I probably would have JUDGED mothers like I was with A had I just had C. In fact I judged myself. But now, looking back, I forgive myself a bit. She can recite nursery rhymes after all...
Anyway, I remember mentioning my woes and worries about A's possibly stunted development to a friend who is a primary school teacher. "Can she recite nursery rhymes?" asked the friend? "Erm, yeah!" "She'll be fine". I remember nodding politely whilst thinking "WHAT?" However, after googling things like "what does my child need to learn before school", I found that others agreed with my friend. Apparently (and it makes perfect sense to me now), children who know nursery rhymes have a better sense of rhythm, a better understanding of patterns, and a better awareness of how words fit together in stories. This makes learning reading and maths much, much easier f0r a child, however many times they watched the same episode of Balamory three times in one day because Mummy was too busy vomiting to provide rich and varied educational experiences.
Anyway, this book is one of those lovely repetitious stories which encourage children to provide the last word or phrase of the sentence. All of the jungle animals are looking for the toucan so that he can spread the news about the elephant's jungle jamboree. There is a nice little twist at the end. A and C worked it out, which was nice for them. Although C is now a good reader, it is good for him to listen to a story where he can guess what is going to happen next, as this can only help to develop comprehension skills.
A has reached the age where books where lions and zebras interact without eating each other irritating. I explained to her the concept of "willing suspension of disbelief", and she seemed happy enough with this.
Incidentally, C watched much, much less TV than A. He still does. He was a toddler who was quite happy to potter around and play with toys whilst I did necessary tasks such as cooking, washing, ironing, or reading just a couple more chapters of whatever book I had to hand. I probably would have JUDGED mothers like I was with A had I just had C. In fact I judged myself. But now, looking back, I forgive myself a bit. She can recite nursery rhymes after all...
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness and Siobhan Dowd
I have a big problem with corn dollies. Whenever I see a corn dolly, I am no longer a happy, settled and reasonably together grown-up woman. The hidden part of my heart takes over - the part where a frightened, lonely girl who still really, really needs her Mum cowers. Inevitably, I cry. This is almost always embarrassing, particularly when in mixed company, or when I am not expecting to see one, and not in the mood for dealing with those feelings (which is most of the time, since I generally prefer being a happy adult to a pathetic wreck).
I channel the blame and anger for the fact that my Mum died towards corn dollies when I encounter them. When my Mum was very ill, she bought a corn dolly. She told me (although speech was hard for her then) that corn dollies were meant to heal. I was really very angry that it didn't heal her. Who else was there to blame? Mum herself, lived a normal, healthy life. It wasn't a person that killed her. Blaming God seemed unhelpful, since my relationship with God is already fairly dysfunctional, and His minions here on earth often bat away specific questions about why this good person had to die with unsatisfying fridge-door triteness, along the lines of "The Lord moves in mysterious ways". Hmmm. The corn dolly mocks me with the stark reminder that there is nothing crueller than hope, when all hope has gone.
I bought A Monster Calls on the recommendation of a friend whose opinion on books I trust. It arrived yesterday in a delivery from The Red House, and I finished it this morning, having stayed in bed for longer than was really wise in order to finish it. I then had to wait for a further time in bed wiping the tears away, since the ending was really quite sad.
Sad, but not devastating like the end of The Time Traveller's Wife, which left me feeling cheated and distraught. Sad, but also feeling like the story had taught me something. A Monster Calls is the story of Conor. Conor's Mum is ill with cancer, and he is being bullied at school. A monster which takes the shape of a yew tree in the back garden starts to come and visit him. Far from being frightened; Conor is fascinated by the monster and interested in what it has to say. Conor starts to hope that the monster has come to cure his mother, and this hope becomes more pronounced when Conor's Mum reveals that her latest medication is formulated from the yew tree.
The tree tells Conor several stories, of people who he has visited in the past. The stories all serve to show Conor that people's motives and personalities are rarely easy to read or assess. The final story, Conor's story, reveals that the monster has come, not to heal his mother, but to heal Conor himself.
As I sobbed my way through the last few pages, I realised that this tale could also hold a message for me. The corn dolly didn't heal my Mum. She was beyond help by then. Perhaps she bought the corn dolly to help to heal those of us that were left. I think something changed within me when I had children, with regard to my feelings about death. I no longer really fear death, since I have seen that it can bring blessed relief from suffering. However, I do fear, in a gut-churning terrified way, what might happen to those who are left behind. This story is not afraid to tackle this very, very difficult issue. What happens to those who are left? How do they carry on living? I am sure Mum must have spent some very long, lonely hours worrying about the rest of us. I wish I could tell her that she didn't need to. That even though I find it difficult to look at displays of mother's day cards, I am OK. That the love she gave me every day of the 24 years of my life that I had her was enough to see me through centuries, let alone decades. That even when I play back the horror reel in my head of all the times I made her cry or the rows we had, that the length of that is about a millionth of all the times we laughed, or chatted, or I threw my arms around her and just drank in her Mumness.
Fittingly, but also heart-breakingly, the very fact of the book's existence fits in with its theme. Siobhan Dowd came up with the original idea, but died of cancer before she could write it. Ness was handed the baton to run with the story and "make trouble". For this particular reader, however, he failed to do this. For me, he made some peace. A much more difficult and fulfilling thing to have done, to my mind.
I channel the blame and anger for the fact that my Mum died towards corn dollies when I encounter them. When my Mum was very ill, she bought a corn dolly. She told me (although speech was hard for her then) that corn dollies were meant to heal. I was really very angry that it didn't heal her. Who else was there to blame? Mum herself, lived a normal, healthy life. It wasn't a person that killed her. Blaming God seemed unhelpful, since my relationship with God is already fairly dysfunctional, and His minions here on earth often bat away specific questions about why this good person had to die with unsatisfying fridge-door triteness, along the lines of "The Lord moves in mysterious ways". Hmmm. The corn dolly mocks me with the stark reminder that there is nothing crueller than hope, when all hope has gone.
I bought A Monster Calls on the recommendation of a friend whose opinion on books I trust. It arrived yesterday in a delivery from The Red House, and I finished it this morning, having stayed in bed for longer than was really wise in order to finish it. I then had to wait for a further time in bed wiping the tears away, since the ending was really quite sad.
Sad, but not devastating like the end of The Time Traveller's Wife, which left me feeling cheated and distraught. Sad, but also feeling like the story had taught me something. A Monster Calls is the story of Conor. Conor's Mum is ill with cancer, and he is being bullied at school. A monster which takes the shape of a yew tree in the back garden starts to come and visit him. Far from being frightened; Conor is fascinated by the monster and interested in what it has to say. Conor starts to hope that the monster has come to cure his mother, and this hope becomes more pronounced when Conor's Mum reveals that her latest medication is formulated from the yew tree.
The tree tells Conor several stories, of people who he has visited in the past. The stories all serve to show Conor that people's motives and personalities are rarely easy to read or assess. The final story, Conor's story, reveals that the monster has come, not to heal his mother, but to heal Conor himself.
As I sobbed my way through the last few pages, I realised that this tale could also hold a message for me. The corn dolly didn't heal my Mum. She was beyond help by then. Perhaps she bought the corn dolly to help to heal those of us that were left. I think something changed within me when I had children, with regard to my feelings about death. I no longer really fear death, since I have seen that it can bring blessed relief from suffering. However, I do fear, in a gut-churning terrified way, what might happen to those who are left behind. This story is not afraid to tackle this very, very difficult issue. What happens to those who are left? How do they carry on living? I am sure Mum must have spent some very long, lonely hours worrying about the rest of us. I wish I could tell her that she didn't need to. That even though I find it difficult to look at displays of mother's day cards, I am OK. That the love she gave me every day of the 24 years of my life that I had her was enough to see me through centuries, let alone decades. That even when I play back the horror reel in my head of all the times I made her cry or the rows we had, that the length of that is about a millionth of all the times we laughed, or chatted, or I threw my arms around her and just drank in her Mumness.
Fittingly, but also heart-breakingly, the very fact of the book's existence fits in with its theme. Siobhan Dowd came up with the original idea, but died of cancer before she could write it. Ness was handed the baton to run with the story and "make trouble". For this particular reader, however, he failed to do this. For me, he made some peace. A much more difficult and fulfilling thing to have done, to my mind.
Monday, 5 March 2012
Ten Little Ladybirds by Laura Huliska-Beith
C was 6 yesterday. When A was 6, she seemed so exceptionally grown up. C is still (in my head) resolutely my baby. He still looks like a baby to me. This may be because his sister is an exceptionally tall 8 year old, and because I spend my days teaching teenagers, some of whom are taller than me, but I have a sneaky feeling that C will always be my baby, and that no woman will ever be good enough for him.
He is firmly into a chapter of Beast Quest every night for his bedtime story at the mo. I fear that their formulaic nature may start to grate on me by the time we get into double figures, but at the moment I am quite enjoying reading them to him. I was lucky enough that A was not in the least bit interested in the Rainbow Magic books (you know the ones: Fenella the Feeble Fairy, Ginerva the Gender-Stereotyping Fairy, and their ilk.) In fact the only one she ever got out of the library was the one which contained her name, and she pronounced it "just like all of the other ones" after about four pages. Formulaic can work if the original book is good. I know this to be true, because I loved Sweet Valley High. However, the original Rainbow Magic book was trite and dull, and so it followed that the 563 others are also trite and dull. I know, because, having read one, I've read them all.
Anyway, I decided to write today's post on a book that made C like books. He was always interested in his Buggy Buddy books, but was much more keen on emptying shelves and lining Thomas trains up than on sitting on my lap for a story. However, when he got to about 16 months, I found that he would sit and listen to a story, as long as it was Ten Little Ladybirds by Laura Huliska-Beith. It wasn't a particularly thrilling story, but it did have the attraction of ten little plastic bugs built in to the book, which C could faff about with whilst I was reading.
Some evenings when I go up to check that A is not still sitting awake reading Jacqueline Wilson's latest tome in bed until 10pm, I find that C has been reading Ten Little Ladybirds and stowed it at the end of his bed. This always makes me smile. Clearly, it still has a special place in his heart, as it always will in mine.
He is firmly into a chapter of Beast Quest every night for his bedtime story at the mo. I fear that their formulaic nature may start to grate on me by the time we get into double figures, but at the moment I am quite enjoying reading them to him. I was lucky enough that A was not in the least bit interested in the Rainbow Magic books (you know the ones: Fenella the Feeble Fairy, Ginerva the Gender-Stereotyping Fairy, and their ilk.) In fact the only one she ever got out of the library was the one which contained her name, and she pronounced it "just like all of the other ones" after about four pages. Formulaic can work if the original book is good. I know this to be true, because I loved Sweet Valley High. However, the original Rainbow Magic book was trite and dull, and so it followed that the 563 others are also trite and dull. I know, because, having read one, I've read them all.
Anyway, I decided to write today's post on a book that made C like books. He was always interested in his Buggy Buddy books, but was much more keen on emptying shelves and lining Thomas trains up than on sitting on my lap for a story. However, when he got to about 16 months, I found that he would sit and listen to a story, as long as it was Ten Little Ladybirds by Laura Huliska-Beith. It wasn't a particularly thrilling story, but it did have the attraction of ten little plastic bugs built in to the book, which C could faff about with whilst I was reading.
Some evenings when I go up to check that A is not still sitting awake reading Jacqueline Wilson's latest tome in bed until 10pm, I find that C has been reading Ten Little Ladybirds and stowed it at the end of his bed. This always makes me smile. Clearly, it still has a special place in his heart, as it always will in mine.
Friday, 2 March 2012
Puffin Post
A and C's Puffin Post for Pufflings magazine arrived this afternoon. They were very excited, as they always are on such an occasion. A has been a "puffineer" for about 18 months, and C since last Spring. Initially I bought membership for A as she was slightly slow to get excited about independent reading, so I was prepared to try anything which might enhance her enjoyment. The initial membership pack comes with a free cuddly puffin. "Puffy" as he is known has become A's favourite cuddly toy. Before Puffy came along A was not really interested in "acrylic fur stuffed with industrial waste" (as Jeremy Clarkson referred to a soft toy earlier in the week), but Puffy is now her lifelong and well-travelled friend. So she was now obsessed with a cuddly puffin, and still not particularly interested in reading. Fail (as "the kids" say).
As well as your very own Puffy (or outfit for Puffy after the first year), a year's membership entitles you to 6 bi-monthly magazines and 6 free books, which you choose from those listed in the magazine (one per magazine). The people at the Puffin Post recommend Puffin Post for Pufflings for children aged 6-8 and Puffin Post for those aged 9+. However, I really think it depends on the child. A has only just really begun to order anything other than the "easy readers" from the Free Books Bounty (as it's known), despite the fact that she reads very well. I don't think she would really have been able to access the books offered or the magazine effectively when she was 6, because of her lack of confidence and reading stamina. C is not yet quite 6, however, he has enjoyed reading the magazine for quite a while now, and has ordered a book which he has been able to read and enjoy since joining the Puffin club. He is more about the reading than the cuddly puffin. Like all of these things, I think it depends on the child.
The magazine has kept the two of them quiet for most of this evening. C has treated us to a "comedy show" of all of the jokes. I was able to do quite a convincing impression of a laugh for the first few, but it became quite a desperate and melancholic ghost of a guffaw by the time we got to "What force can you put on a chicken? Graveity". Boom. C enjoyed it greatly though, which I suppose is the point.
Each magazine contains a snippet, interview or article based on each of the books in that issue's giveaway, so that the reader is able to make an informed choice about which book they are going to choose. Both children use this to decide which book might be best for them, and now that she is more of a reader, A has discovered some books that she really, really loves through the Puffin Post, which she might never have read otherwise.
The club costs £39 per year to join. For six books, six excellent magazines, the excitement of perceived "freebies" and, potentially, a lifelong friend, I think this represents good value.
As well as your very own Puffy (or outfit for Puffy after the first year), a year's membership entitles you to 6 bi-monthly magazines and 6 free books, which you choose from those listed in the magazine (one per magazine). The people at the Puffin Post recommend Puffin Post for Pufflings for children aged 6-8 and Puffin Post for those aged 9+. However, I really think it depends on the child. A has only just really begun to order anything other than the "easy readers" from the Free Books Bounty (as it's known), despite the fact that she reads very well. I don't think she would really have been able to access the books offered or the magazine effectively when she was 6, because of her lack of confidence and reading stamina. C is not yet quite 6, however, he has enjoyed reading the magazine for quite a while now, and has ordered a book which he has been able to read and enjoy since joining the Puffin club. He is more about the reading than the cuddly puffin. Like all of these things, I think it depends on the child.
The magazine has kept the two of them quiet for most of this evening. C has treated us to a "comedy show" of all of the jokes. I was able to do quite a convincing impression of a laugh for the first few, but it became quite a desperate and melancholic ghost of a guffaw by the time we got to "What force can you put on a chicken? Graveity". Boom. C enjoyed it greatly though, which I suppose is the point.
Each magazine contains a snippet, interview or article based on each of the books in that issue's giveaway, so that the reader is able to make an informed choice about which book they are going to choose. Both children use this to decide which book might be best for them, and now that she is more of a reader, A has discovered some books that she really, really loves through the Puffin Post, which she might never have read otherwise.
The club costs £39 per year to join. For six books, six excellent magazines, the excitement of perceived "freebies" and, potentially, a lifelong friend, I think this represents good value.
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