Thursday Murder Club – A Book Review

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Yes, I’ve started a new book. The mystery never ends.  The novel is the first in a very successful mystery series by Richard Osman (four at last count).  The stories revolve around a group of  grey-haired sleuths  who live in a retirement home in Kent, England.  I mean what else do you do when you retire? Screw knitting, right?

In this novel, a dude is murdered in his home, smacked over the head with a blunt object. Beside the dead body is a picture of two other dudes with a ton of cash surrounding them.  How did the picture get there? And who took it?

A  group of seniors are on the prowl, lead by Elizabeth with her suspicious police and government connections.  She also clandestinely worked outside the Isles in her past. Holy MI-5 or 6  Batman (we are not totally sure which agency  – as any good spy would nurture).  Next is Joyce, a kindly old chatter box. She worked as a nurse, previously. We have journal entries from her, exposing  information about the murders but also her very humorous naivety in contemporary issues;  for example the surprise when she finds out you can send photos on your phone.  We also have Ibrahim, the psychologist and Ron, an ex-union thug to round out the club. A very interesting and diverse group.

On the cop side we have Donna, who left the London Met due to a romantic spurn  and Chris the overweight, junk-food addict who can’t seem to get his physical being on the right track. Donna is starting at the bottom of the police pecking order in Kent; she was higher up in London, so the reboot is difficult. There is a love / hate relationship with the two groups, but the amount of information Elizabeth gleans assists the police enormously. Both coppers see (however grudgingly) the  benefits an ex MI-6 or 5  agent brings to the table.

Then we have another murder, Ian Ventham, a pure asshole who only cares about financial gains. He’s murdered during a protest at the Cooper’s Chase retirement home.  He leads a group of bulldozers and diggers early one morning with the intent of ripping up a century old graveyard. The senior’s protest sends a strong screw you corporate vibe.  Suspicion hangs in the air.

Excellent read – not too heavy and not too bland. I never thought a group of seniors in a retirement home for detectives, but it works well. We also have some strong social comments – loneliness and grief among our seniors. And  how shitty it is when your kids don’t visit (I’m going to call my parents right now). We are NEVER too busy, right? And memory loss, another aging issue. I learnt a very neat trick from Elizabeth who jots down a question two weeks ahead in her journal – what’s the license plate number of the car seen outside the retirement home ? In two weeks she must answer the question correctly (not sure if it’s a spook trick or senior aid). It’s a great memory test and I’m considering employment, if I remember

Early Out – The New Year Exercise Plan

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I missed summer. I spent the entire season in my basement treadmill running. The paved paths get so busy with the nice weather, and death is close under the wheels of an elderly dude on an e-bike. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against e-bikes. Many people would not get out if not for this novel invention. But the traffic increase is noticeable. 

However,  winter is here. Although I have a winter bike, I can’t ride it consistently – bikes on ice, nope. So I’m back to running and walking outside on slippery, quiet paths with a few considerations.   First, winter is about time not speed (longer / slower pace) and my outside activities  are weather dependent – nothing colder than -20 and no blizzard running and even then, wait until the paths are cleared in a couple of days (snow removal is amazing here). Too much snow hinders my ability to see hidden ice –  the evil black glaciers are so dangerous, just ask anyone who’s fallen, broken an ankle and are laid up for weeks. 

The new plan is get up, drink some lemon water, stretch and bolt out the door – before nine and within an hour of waking. During winter, the sun doesn’t even rise before eight-thirty, and I am not walking or running in the dark. Getting outside in the early morning has so many benefits from mental health to gut health. It also triggers the correct timing of cortisol and melatonin rhythm (for all the wonderful benefits – just google benefits of getting outside early morning. Or listen to this  Huberman podcast.

Perhaps the greatest benefit of early morning activities is the life around you. My oh my, hitting the panoramic ridge near my house, and watching the sun come up over the majestic Rocky Mountains is breath taking (literally). A few mornings ago, I stood in splendour,  watching two eagles wrestling in the sky. On another day, I felt a Chinook breezing into the city – warm pockets of air gently stroking my face like a warm sock out of the dryer. The best way to start your day. Forget the cortisol,  beauty is the greatest reward.  

Anyway  here’s the new plan:

Monday

55-60 min run (slow pace – winter is about time not speed and the outside runs are weather dependent – nothing colder than -20 and no blizzard running and even then wait until the paths are cleared after a couple of days – say hello to treadmill and Icelandic videos.

Tuesday

40 min, early morning walk (apparently, you only need 30 min for the health benefits) 

Afternoon 45 min stationary bike with HIIT intervals ( 15 min ride / 3x HIIT / 10 min 3 x HIIT / 10 min 3xHIIT / 10 min warm down / stretch).

Wednesday

55-60 min run outside before nine  (again conditions apply)

Thursday

40 min, early morning walk – rest day (or possible mountain hike day)

Friday

40 min, early morning walk / afternoon 45 min stationary bike with HIIT intervals.

Saturday 

55-60 min  run outside (again conditions apply)

Sunday

30  min, early morning walk – afternoon 30 min  treadmill run and weight training

I’ve missed running outside so much – the air, the trees, the water, the people – an outside morning gallop sends happiness through my bones. It’s like you lose part of your soul on a treadmill. Even the YouTube videos can’t replace the loss. Flexibility is the key – check the conditions.  It is winter and I don’t need a broken ankle and weeks of recovery.  As Vivaldi says: 

Walking on the ice with hesitant steps,
By being careful, lest you fall … 

Lost Brother

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Two nights ago, I lost my brother. He  vanished into darkness.  I must find him.  Anxiety raging inside me  like a  bowie knife slash.  I check his email, but I can’t read anything. Symbols in awkward positions – upside down, left when right, nothing in a regular pattern. I listen to his voice messages and realize  he’s a character in a play.  Where is the stage?  I just arrived –  new town soul. I need direction. I don’t know any streets or landmarks. The town only names and numbers. 

I go into his bedroom. The sheets crisp, never slept. Along the wall under a dark window  is an ornate desk, lion carvings on the corners,  a green banker lamp on top. The light points to a drawer. I pull it, but it’s stuck. I try harder. It opens, but I nearly send  the contents flying across the room. Inside I find torn map pieces.  A jigsaw puzzle. I put the map into coherent order, but I can’t read the symbols.   I finally decipher the theatre’s location. A red circle around two intersecting lines. A northern cross. 

I get in my car and drive. The radio blasts, “I am just a rat in a cage.” I desperately need to find my brother. Something is wrong. I don’t understand what. The knife cuts deeper with every lost second. I drive but the weather conditions are horrible. Snow and ice slashing through the air.  I can’t see the road in front of me. The car slides down a hill. I’ve lost control. I crank the wheel hard.  The vehicle glides into a linear course. It stops,  facing an ornate door with lion carvings. A cross facing north.

I go inside the theatre, but it’s empty. Rows of cold mahogany seats. I yell, Where is my brother? My fear echoes around the silence like a phantom twister. A tap on my shoulder,  a man with no face. He tells me in a whisper, the theatre is closed because the weather is so awful. Where’s my brother? I ask. I imagine the blank stare on his features. Everyone left for the Yukon. Where? I ask. I dunno, the voice shakes,  go north. 

I must go. I fear the repercussions. I leave the unknown town and drive with the blizzard. The signs on the road draw a blank. More unknown direction. Undecipherable language.  I keep driving. My compass says north. I’m getting tired. I turn up the radio, “What is lost can never be saved.” I pull over. The snow is pounding the car. I can’t see. White out. I close my eyes.

When I wake the sun is beaming. The car is warm, cozy. The road ahead is clear. A Kodiak points the way. I find the theatre. Where is my brother, I shout. A voice comes over the speaker, “What is lost can never be found.”

 

Two Novels, a post

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Right now, I am reading two novels. The first is “Yellowface” by Rebecca Kuang. Holy shit. My first reaction is I will never publish a book on the traditional road. What a nasty, horrible process. How does one keep their sanity? As a theme in the book, it’s not always possible. If I were ever to publish, it will be self-published. I will be my own team.  I never want to go through all that shit. What a horror story.

And social media, my goodness, the novel makes we want to delete  all my socials (again).   Professional online people are packs of blood thirsty  animals dedicated to destroying the lives of others. Who  would want to deal with that crap?  How do these predators wake up and look in the mirror every morning.

Ethnic quotas?   Only one Asian story a year, please. And do not criticize the white  authors, so says the right wing cancel culture groups. Holy limiting Batman. So much for writing about whomever and whatever.  However,  I find it ironic that an Asian girl is writing about a white girl who stole a book from an Asian girl. But that’s the point,  right? It gets across very well. 

I know the book is a satire,  but at one point we find out for many authors themain reason for writing is immortality? Are you serious?  The need to live forever through your art.  A lasting impression should be through the people you love not through some nasty assholes on the internet. Is this where we are as a society? 

A great eye-opener. A shocking read. However,  whenever I feel the need to publish,  I’m going to pull out this book – motivation indeed. Thank goodness Faulkner or Woolf or any early twentieth century writer were never around to experience this mess. Or maybe they were, but we never heard about it.

And if the publishing industry wasn’t horrible enough, the other book on  my night table is “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy. I’ve read many of his works and if one idea threads through his work, it’s the belief humans are horrible, blood thirsty creatures (see above article).  If destructive social media isn’t bad enough, how about storing people in a basement so you can eat them later. Or is there a relationship here? Isn’t this what the internet is all about – eating people alive.

The dystopian novel takes place after some horrible catastrophe. A boy and his father are travelling across a landscape filled with ash and destruction. All life destroyed except for a few dogs and travelling bands of nasty people who are ready to kill, steal or eat you. The pair are attempting to make their way to the coast where it’s warm and hope possibly lives.

The dad is dying and the boy was born into this decaying world. He knows about birds, but he’s never seen one. The journey leaves you  feeling cold and damp.  They camp, eat food from tins when they can, pull a shopping card filled with their few life possessions (I love the mirror on the cart – not a bad idea for all shopping malls). Not a happy novel,  but one that makes harsh comments on the nature of society and where we are heading.

Even though hope runs through the novel – the boy is hope. The major question is, who wants to live in a world where we are afraid to help people and human creatures are ready to devour us?  Why are we so horrible to one another?

 Ok, I gotta go and plant a tree or hang a decoration on one. 

Oh strange food

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Food, Food, Fooood, wonderful food, wonderful food. Food. Food. Food. I love food. Making food. Ordering food. Going out for food. I don’t care how it comes. I’ve even had dreams about food like the time I was chased by a giant purple lobster. As a result, I am not afraid of food. I’ve had many strange experiences with food. But I’ve never spat out anything – how rude.

A while back, I was working for the Cosmo-Demonic-Telecommunication company when they sent me on a trip to Thailand. When you travel to Asian countries on business, the company hires a guide to show you around town. The first night we went out and had traditional Thai food. I can’t remember everything we ate, but I do remember rice cooked in pineapple and giant lobsters without claws. I also learnt that Thais do not use chopsticks.  I’m not sure why, but the next time you order Pad Thai … 

However, the next night, the guide asked if we wanted to try some more dangerous food. I was travelling in a group with five or six other dudes. When we got to the restaurant, the first thing I saw was a giant snake dangling from a hook. An employee was running a knife down its belly, guts slopping on the floor. But not to waste, he gathered the innards and threw them in a pail. Ok, this looks promising (not).

Inside, we gathered around a table. Menus, of course were useless. I’m not sure if they were written in Thai or Chinese. The restaurant was the latter, I think. The guide ordered for the table. We had ant eggs – giant white pill looking objects. Then we had snake (not sure if it was hanging buddy downstairs).  Not too bad – tasted like dry pork ribs. However, the weird thing was the wine glass of blood brought to the table. The guide got angry when the waiter brought the drink, but we said don’t worry. Down the hatch. Warm and thick like a metallic milk shake. Apparently good for men. I felt my bicep increase. The food wasn’t too bad, but I don’t think I’d eat it daily and I don’t think the locals did. 

My next interesting delicacy was in New Zealand. We were invited on to the Marae (a meeting place for social and religious celebrations), a great privilege. Every day, behind the meeting house, We had a wonderful “happy” hour. We were talking and drinking excellent wine when this dude brings out these spiny looking creatures, cuts one open and the guts fall in his hand. He threw it down his gullet as though he were kicking off a jandle at the front door.  Sea urchin or Tuhinga o mua in Māori.  He looked at me, you want some, brother? I sure do. It tasted like swallowing a giant hoark left over from a bad cold. But I’d defiantly do it again. Yep, I’d eat just about anything. Once. Scorpion pizza. Sheep eye-ball soup. However, my only rule is it can’t be moving. Dipping my spoon into a bowl of crawling baby snakes, just isn’t my cup of tea. 

Ok, I gotta run upstairs and cook some grub. I’m thinking pineapple pork ribs, rice and cucumber.

Handy Man – haha

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I was asked, are you handy? I just laughed. Oh my, no. I am the most “unhandy” person in the world. When I look around my house I think, man I should’ve hired a professional. When we bought our house, it was a fixer upper. The basement became a swimming pool every June, our rainy month. The carpet in the living room smelt like a cat litter box. The hot water tank was hours away from an explosion. Our entire backyard was exposed because the fence collapsed like a broken teenager on tic-tok. I said, no problem, we can fix it.

Ok time to fix – her -up. I tried to put a fence in and I’m so glad it’s in an area that no one can see. Five years later and it’s leaning more than that tower in Italy. At least in Pisa they have the excuse that it’s a natural process. The only thing natural about the fence I built is natural incompetence. Then I tried to tile the floor in our downstairs bathroom (luckily only used by me). It looks like a pitcher’s mound. Then there’s the bedroom door. We took it off to paint, but it wouldn’t go back on correctly. We couldn’t close the door for a year. Then one morning I looked at the door, walked over, replaced the missing screws and voilà the door closes. We now have privacy. So many other dysfunctional projects. I’m surprised the house is still standing. 

However, I am glad I know people who know what they are doing. I have a great neighbour. She’s so good at handy-person things. We are renovating our kitchen, and she’s done a fantastic job patching and painting the kitchen walls. I can only stand by with my jaw dropping and pour more wine. I have another handyman friend. He’s European, so all projects are done with care and precision (me – measure once and cut again and again and again). More than once, he’s come over and repaired my horrible mistakes. He did great job with our bathroom. Now he’s going to help put with our kitchen renovations. We exchange dog-sitting for reno- skills although my Czech pal is on the losing end.

Another section of our privacy was falling down, but this time exposed to the world. Luckily another neighbour came to the rescue. I did very little (thankfully) except call the “Bobcat” dude to come and drill holes for the posts. But only after hours of a manual auger attempt that required a bathtub of Absorbine Junior the next day … and following week. Our privacy intact, I am very grateful for the assistance.

Yes, I have learnt after many years of attempted home improvement to call a professional. One may watch all the tv programs and youtube videos you want, but if the aptitude is not there you are screwed.  I have other qualities, like … well I dunno. I can write poetry, always a useful skill. 

Street Songs

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Last night I was in an unvisited room – white brick walls, very open, but warm with verdant carpets covering a cold floor. A blond dude stood on a small stage, with a guitar and microphone. He was releasing his only album.  I had no idea who he was. An invitation came in the mail. I responded with a presence.

The music was soothing and mellow,  reminding me of a golden California sunrise  –  yellow with so much hope and promise in the skies. I felt the sunrise in the words as they flowed through me like warm bath bubbles. Every song was great.  Folded cardboard sheets  were passed around. I saw them on a golf course. A sign-off was mandatory.  Beside every track was an approval box.  I put a check mark beside every song.  But not all the songs were present.  I heard more than I saw. I had to tell the producer. We need the warmth. Panic. Action.

 I got on my bike and headed down a street lined with dirty grey buildings and greasy round porthole windows, so thick light couldn’t escape. The air was cold as I glided down the unknown pavement. I passed a relic with a dome shaped roof covered in green metal.  So many poor people along the route –  leaning, squatting, and laying down on the cracked sidewalk The citizens starving with their skin peeling and falling off the bone.  Eyes so dark and sunken like buried seeds in winter.  I wanted to help, but I couldn’t stop. The producer calls.

I got to a shopping centre with a tall glass office tower. The windows were  shiny and mirrored. In the reflection were the starving people on the sidewalk,  behind me.  I turned right, but as I did a large dump truck pulled out in front of me. I was struck. I fell down and couldn’t move. More panic.  The music must get out. The road was blocked. I thought about the sidewalk, but it was covered in people. I sat on my bike, wondering what I should do. I shook. Rivers ran down my face.

A bearded man rose from the sidewalk and walked towards me. He held out his hand. I reached into my bag – slung over my shoulder and hanging on my right side – and took out a bundle of  scorecards. I gave it to the man. He took it and smiled. He went back to the sidewalk  and raised the scorecards with a holler. People rose, gained weight, and were covered in the most glorious gold clothing. They danced and sang the warm songs.

I turned my bike around and headed back down the street. The street people were gone. The green roof was now bronze and shining in the morning sun. The buildings were clean and new. A warm gust flew up the alleys and the streets. Lights glowed in windows and people moved inside, busy. The smell of rich and savoury food filled the street. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I sang.

Arizona – the good, the bad and the ugly

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A fantastic trip to the land of Saguaro (suh–gwahr-oh – a pronunciation botched so many times –  I’m flushed as I write), dynamic red rock parks and canyons. The most important question to judge a successful vacation  is  – would you go back? The answer is a very emphatic yes. I’m counting the days (pennies first) until I gloriously return.

Now the review. The good – the climate was amazing (we came back to -30, so in hindsight it was bloody tropical) although it was cool in the morning by afternoon it was time to  slip on the shorts and flip flops only to replace them when the sun went down with a sweater and pants (still didn’t stop people from using a hot tub). The Phoenix area was awesome,  especially the free hiking (suh–gwahr-oh national park in Tucson charges twenty-five bucks to hike and the state parks charge seven). So many trails in great condition although a bit rocky and busy (do not go on weekends). But most importantly – the people were fantastic. Everyone we met was so nice and friendly, you’d think you were in Canada. We soon found out nobody is from Arizona – met a dude from Bellingham and another person from Billings and many from Minnesota.

The bad.  It was much more expensive than I remember (except gas). Wine prices were the same as in Canada  but in American dollars. A nice bottle of La Crema from California was twenty bucks at Trevor’s (I bow to your greatness wonderful wine store mecca). It’s the same price here but thirty percent more expensive in the Canyon State. Food wasn’t cheap either. We didn’t go out for any evening meals, but lunch was a consistent one hundred US although we did have drinks with every meal. One luxury dining experience was at a wonderful  cocktail bar called Parlay where the bill was well over a hundred US. However,  I got many excellent drink ideas and I’ve never had a mezcal cocktail (ok more than “a” cocktail – it was happy hour after all). But even going to Safeway and grabbing a few food items like chicken wings (they were massive) eggs, bread, coffee and greens was fifty or sixty bucks US  (ok and maybe wine and beer a few times). I just remember the States as food and booze cheap, but not anymore, I guess.

The ugly.   Some of the highways were very dirty, especially the Interstates (I learnt to stay off them). Garbage everywhere. Another ugly – it was so hard to recycle. Accommodations had no recycling bins. Not in the rooms, or outside with the garbage containers. I saw one recycling bin in Sedona but if we hadn’t stumbled on it, our many dead soldiers would’ve been lost on the battlefield. We also had car rental issues (holy extra charges Batman) and at one AirBnB, if I heard the “five star stay” one more time, I was going to puke – property developers (the same group wanted me to copy and paste a review they prepared, really!). But developers are everywhere like blood sucking mosquitos.

The state is wonderful from the red rocks of Sedona (the  brightest stars ever) to the desert of Tucson and the rugged parks of Phoenix. However,  next time we will  drive our own car and fill it with cheap gas.

Bookstore

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A couple of nights ago, I was in this bookstore. Slate grey roof and ceiling with dark mahogany shelves stacked with scattered tomes, big and small. I have a reading list, but I can’t see the titles on the page. I scan the shelves trying to find matching titles. Paper shaking in my wet fingers. I walk over to a table stacked with books like a three-D puzzle. I look under the table and resting on top of a broken wooden crate is a copy of Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch. The spine is broken. The book rests in two pieces.  I’m not sure the novel is on my list, but I’m glad I found it. I leave it hoping to come back.

I move around the bookstore checking my list with words I can’t see. Behind me I hear a famous voice, but I can’t see the face. The man is yelling at someone in the distance behind a closed door. He is upset the other person is closing the bookstore. It’s doing well, he says, so why close it. The female voice says, because it’s time. The raspy voice mutters incoherency as I hear his footsteps move away.  A door opens with the tinkle of a bell and then closes without a sound. No faces, only sounds.

I pull a book off the shelf. I can’t read the title, but on the cover is a dark woman, dressed in regal purple with gold trim. Her hair beehive style adorned with sparkling geometrical figures like a castle tower with golden windows. Her beautiful head crowned in gold and rubies.  I know her, but her name falters.  I look ahead. She is standing stair top between two dark wooden posts, carved with intricate male heads-  dark, shiny and bald. The Queen touches the figures and raises her eyes.

I am no longer in the bookstore. I follow dignity down the stairs. She glides. Her feet don’t touch wood. My bare feet feel the hard, slick wood as I move behind her. When she reaches the bottom, she turns and goes into a magnificent room, filled with ancient books.

The room is dark but  graceful – rich cherry wood, a piano covered in books.   Maps adorn the walls – yellow and crisp and ready to fall into pieces. I see a large golden globe in the centre of the library and a statue of a famous man.  The women turns and hands me a book. It’s very heavy, bound in leather and on the cover a map with river indentations and rising mountains. Both are cold to touch.

I take the book and walk out of the room. I go up the stairs and I walk until I’m back in the bookstore. I know exactly where the book goes. I put it on a shelf. The book glows golden. Anyone who enters will see the book and they will know.

Night by Elie Wiesel

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A student gave me a copy of “Night” and it sat on my book shelf for many years. I was scared to read it. Then my niece was assigned the book for her high school English course. I pulled the book off the shelf, blew the dust off  and pealed back the cover. I wish I had jotted the student’s name in the cover.

I have to say this is one of the hardest books I’ve ever read. Right now, I am sitting in my comfy chair with a cup of coffee, knowing I could go into the cupboard and grab a snack or I could put on my warm winter coat and  walk out the door anytime I want.  But  the pages show me a sixteen-year-old kid, running twenty kilometres in freezing temperatures with only a thin musty snow-covered blanket around him, fearful that if he steps out of line an SS solider will shoot him in the back. And if he falls, he will be trampled to death. We should be so thankful for all we have.

While reading the book, it is hard to imagine how a group of people could treat others so horribly. Packing them like cattle into train cars with no room to sit, standing for hours with no food or water. The train stops. Bodies are thrown out like garbage and then the train moves on – lives forgotten. It is hard to imagine the cruelty because I have never experienced anything close to the lack of humanity carried out by the Nazis. And I wish I could say that society has learnt, but we have not. One only needs to look at the Chinese treatment of the Uyghurs to realize the lessons of the holocaust are silent to some governments.

The book follows the sixteen-year-old author from his home in Sighet (a part of Hungry in 1944), to Auschwitz in Poland then to Buna also in Poland and finally to Buchenwald in Germany where he is finally liberated by the Americans. So many horrors along the way. A major take away for me is I hadn’t realized that initially the Hungarian Jews were not worried about the Nazis. In 1944, news radio kept professing that the Red Army was close at hand. No need to worry, they thought, the Russians are on the doorstep. The Germans will be defeated. It’ll be all over before we are rounded up but it was not to be.  Soon the ghettos arrived and then the trains.  Once transported these degraded humans were starved and dying and then it was too late to fight back.

I am so glad the book is taught in high school. I am equally glad I’ve had the opportunity to read the book after so many years. It is an important reminder what can happen when an egomaniac takes power and uses the destruction of a group to obtain power. Wow sounds familiar even today. When will we learn?

And finally, Happy Hanukah