Some resolutions

New Year's Resolution time. Last year I only had one: get better at Scrabble. I'd say I'm a 'words' person, but I've always been abysmal at this game. After a particularly pitiful showing last Christmas when my brother beat me by about a million points to ten, I decided it was time to take action. Cue a year of playing Words with Friends on my mobile phone, and a few moments spent learning some of those two-letter words that the pros have handy ('Qi' anyone?). Did it work? Well, this year I came second. That'll do for me.

My resolutions list for 2013 is still at the compilation stage. It seems like a good idea to keep them concrete – I'd say that getting better at Scrabble was the only resolution I've ever kept; I've never managed vague ones like 'be more efficient/more positive/healthier'. And although meet my Mr Darcy/Ryan Gosling* is on the wish list for 2013 (I mention this just in case they're reading), is that something I can 'resolve' to do?

So, here's the first draft. In 2013 I will:

1. (a) Stop being a compulsive book buyer. I'm not going to buy any new books until I've read all of the unread books in my house (Oh, the piles of unread books! I've started hiding them under my bed: it's getting desperate.)

(b) Stop being a book flirt. As in, reading lots of books at the same time but never getting to the end of any of them. I never used to be like that. In 2013, all books will be read from beginning to end. (Although if it's dreadful, I'll allow myself a veto. But if it's a good book, well, what's the excuse, eh?)

2. Learn to do front crawl properly. I can do the front crawl stroke, but can only keep going by stopping every two lengths. I'd never escape the Loch Ness Monster swimming like that.)

3. Blog more often. Yes. Say twice a week.

4. Savour the outdoors. I've stolen this one from Simon Barnes in The Times. He suggests taking a moment each week to enjoy something outdoors, or to look at some wildlife. Anything from ladybirds to Loch Ness monsters.

5. Be more adventurous. This probably comes under the category of vague at the moment. The plan is to refine the concept which I want to cover everything from trying raw fish (sashimi) (can it really be tasty? Raw fish?) to something like climb a mountain. TBC.

*Not so much meet 'my' Ryan Gosling as meet Ryan Gosling.

Cheddar Gorge

Saturday. The sun was shining, the sky was clear. Five of us squidged into my little car and we were off, to Cheddar Gorge. We took the scenic route – and only with one minor detour. Plus a pause to admire the breathtaking view from Dundry Hill across Bristol. A road closed sign that all the drivers seemed to be ignoring didn't stop us either, as we meandered down the bottom of the gorge, past smashed-up bits of tarmac suggesting recent rockfalls, until we reached the outskirts of Cheddar itself.

The huge limestone slabs loomed above. There, at the bottom it felt quiet, ancient. And just a smidgen further down the road, it felt a bit like a ski resort. Tacky gift shops, and little tea shops lined the road. A huge Costa coffee sign dominated the scene, its only competition being an illuminated 'Merry Christmas Happy New Year' above it.

Our walking route took us straight up through scrubland, trees and coppiced woodland. Coats came off, scarves unwound as we climbed higher and higher, to the top of the near-400 foot gorge. Unspoilt views across the Somerset Levels were our reward, and a picnic lunch, eaten huddled in a shallow dip away from the chilly wind, which included morsels of Christmas cake and sugary dates. The West Mendip way led us back down, to where the valley bottom had been flooded by recent rains, adding a spice of adventure to the walk. Drystone walls edged the fields above and the rogue river below; it reminded me of the Yorkshire Dales.

Another steep climb took us to the top of the other side of the gorge. Walking along the top, this side's edges are uncovered by trees. But, looking over, you can't see the road at the bottom. It looks deep. Looking out, there's another great view, only marred by the impossibly round manmade Cheddar reservoir. Wild goats roamed, munching the grass.

At the end of the walk are Jacob's Tower - a lookout tower - and Jacob's Ladder, the steps back down into Cheddar. Information boards on the Ladder told us about the Gorge's formation: we have the meltwaters of the Mendip Ice Cap to thank for this natural wonder. Stand at the top of the 274 steps, one board instructed, and imagine a piece of paper being placed there. The paper would represent how long humankind had been alive, the 274 steps the 'immesurable chasm of time'. With such profound thoughts on our mind, we headed to Derrick's Tea Rooms for a cream tea.

A resolution...

Oh dear. Over the past few months I've had so many things that I wanted to write about, and I haven't posted a jot. It's particularly annoying that all of the plays, films, books and concerts have slipped by, as well as some of the places I've seen. So, I'm going to a leaf out my younger diarist's self and use the time between now and Christmas to catch up. According to my blog archive, I've only posted 23 times this year, compared to 53 last year, and 114 times in 2007, the first full year of blogging. That's not the best record, so time to pull my socks up, although I'm not sure I can manage 30 posts by 31st December! Oh, and I'm going to resolve to blog twice a week next year.

A brief memory of Patrick Moore

Mention the name Patrick Moore, and most people probably think of astronomy, or, perhaps, monocles.  I think of both of these, but I also immediately think 'fax machine'. An odd association, I grant you. Let me explain. One of the magazines published by the company I work for is Sky at Night. When I started working  there the star-gazers were situated just round the corner from my desk. Right next to me was the fax machine. It was a rather ancient thing, temperamental and tetchy, prone to giving up halfway through sending, and it never provided any assurance that the fax had ever sent. Sometimes it would ring, as if the caller had expected it to be a phone number. By 2007 most magazine contributors were up to speed with using email to send in their words. Not Moore. He insisted on using the fax machine. Which is how, in my first few months of working there, I had on several occasions the rather surreal and gently amusing experience of hearing Patrick Moore's familiar, diesmbodied voice addressing the office as if he were putting a call out into space to find out if there was life beyond our planet: 'Hello. Hello? Is there anyone there?'

The sky ablaze

The sky was ablaze on Saturday. Luckily I had my camera to my hand and snapped this photo from the train carriage as I hurtled from Bristol to London.

Photo: Rebecca Franks

This is Life

Every so often you need to read a cheer-me up kind of book. It’s generally to help escape those moments when life isn’t quite doing what you hoped it might, and all you feel like doing is curling up under a duvet. These kind of books are hard to find though, at least it seems that way to me. I don’t just want the instant sugar-rush of chick-lit happy-ever-after inevitability, but neither do I want profound complexity that’s going to leave my mind feeling more stretched than after listening to In Our Time or the Moral Maze. Striking that balance is no mean feat. But the other day, when I was (physically) in the Bristol Foyles and (emotionally) under the duvet, I found the perfect book for this task: This is Life, by Dan Rhodes. No, I’d not heard of him either. But this book had a cheerful picture of Paris on the front, a splendid fold-out street-scene cover, and lots of chirpy quotes, including one from Hilary Mantel: ‘Dan Rhodes is a true original, with a fresh, funny, quirky style’. Given that I’d just put Wolf Hall aside on the grounds it might be moving away from cheer-me up territory, Mantel's quote was the clincher. Sold.

Well, it was money well spent. This is Life is a charming, superbly constructed novel, in which characters do the strangest things but are wonderfully engaging. Over one week we follow the improbable adventures of art student Aurélie Renard when a stone’s throw, quite literally, leads her life to turn topsy-turvy and she ends up looking after a stranger’s baby. Meanwhile, Paris is about to host the controversial Life, an exhibition in which Le machine, a contemporary artist, lives on stage for three months, collecting all of his bodily excrements in expensive glass jars. The host of colourful personalities we encounter include Aurélie’s stunning best friend Sylvie Dupont, who’s looking for her ideal husband by working in seven different jobs, and leaves hordes of heartbroken hommes in her wake. Professor Papavoine is Aurélie’s day-dreaming professor; Jean-Didier Delacroix is a brilliant but insufferably smug art critic who was trained to be expressionless from childhood; and Monsieur Rousset is the owner of the Le charmant cinema erotique, now past its glory days. And let's not forget the French-Japanese translator Lucien who helps tourists around Paris, and falls in love with a photo of his latest clients' daughter. Add to that countless cameo roles, and you’ll have an idea of the bubbly world Rhodes has created. Funny then, that when I googled him to find out more, it seems that his previous novels have been dark, twisted. In this one there are dark undertones and goings-on, but Rhodes's light touch and deft exploration of what may or may not be the meaning of life, makes it a truly pleasurable read. This is Life made me smile, it made me think. And it had a well-earned happy ending. What more could you want from a cheer-me up book?

Bristol hustings: a 10-minute sketch

Trinity Church, Hotwells. 7pm. Monday 29 October 2012. Time for a mayoral election hustings. Packed church. One woman has even nabbed the beanbag in the children’s play area. A human-sized teddy bear sits next to another couple. It all feels a bit the Thick of It here at the back of the room. 11 of the 15 candidates hoping to be Bristol’s first elected mayor are at the front. Only one woman is standing for mayor. Just one.

First the wannabee mayors are given one minute each to introduce themselves to the voters, and say what they stand for. Unless, of course, they ignore the stopwatch alarm and have two minutes. Political tricks are alive and kicking, it’s clear. Every question is, for the most part, answered by every candidate, which is a time-consuming affair. What will a mayor actually do? Should we worry that they’ve snaffled all our power, or that in fact they’ll just be a ‘fig-leaf’ for power? It makes me wonder, does Bristol really need its own Boris?

There are personalities aplenty here. George Ferguson, independent/Bristol First: red trousers (always worn), persuasive speaker, wants to make Bristol England’s second city; Marvin Rees, Labour: smart-suited, clear-talking Bristol born former BBC reporter and NHS manager; Neil Maggs, Respect: doesn’t need a microphone to be heard; Dave Dobbs, Birthday Party (really): describes himself as: ‘political activist, puppeteer and writer’. Puppets and politics seems like a telling juxtaposition.

Earlier this year, only 24 per cent of Bristolians turned out to vote on whether they wanted a mayor. Only 53.3 per cent of that 24 per cent voted for one. With those kinds of figures, it looks like Bristol's sleep-walking to its first mayor rather than being engaged with the changes going on. On 15 November, I suppose we’ll find out just who really cares. 

Striking stairs

Down the stone steps, past the bus stop to nowhere, before idyllic peace is shattered by traffic – heralded by passing through a gloomy passage in an unprepossessing block of flats – there are two striking staircases that I'd like to know more about. They are both, I believe, fire escapes for the St Peter's House flats. And while the flats themselves are nothing special to look at, I love the clean lines, bold design and chunky proportions of the stairs. Here's a picture taken on my phone, and a link to a rather better, dramatic photo by Derek Rigg.

Sunday snippets

Good evening all, on this rainy Sunday evening. I've lots to update my blog with – trips to France and Switzerland, thoughts on some films, exhibitions and concerts, even some photos. But for now some superb and strange assorted facts to amuse you:

Did you know?

1. Beijing is the same size as Belgium in terms of area. 

2. When Bristol's iconic Clifton suspension bridge was built, it was going to be Egyptian themed. One suggestion to help complete the look was to transform the Avon Gorge into the Nile by hanging a painted curtain from the bridge. (Thanks to Shipshape magazine for this gem.)

3. There are only four bridges in the world fully lined with shops on both sides. (I'm not sure I believe this fact myself.) They are: Pulteney Bridge, Bath; the Ponte Vecchio, Florence; the Rialto Bridge, Venice and the Covered Bridge, Lovech in Bulgaria.

House guest

Meet the latest resident in my house: Makin the penguin. I've always had a soft spot for these often comically cute creatures. Perhaps one day I'll get to go to Antarctica to see the Emperors in their icy home.

Rainshine

... and so the rain continues. Grey skies, a clinging drizzle, a constant drip from a gutter. It can feel like a sort of drudgery. But it looks like the rain is here to stay for a while, so I've made a Pollyanna-like decision to look for the good in the rain. I'll be doing that by posting poems, pictures and bits of music that might offer a glimmer of rainshine.

Here's the first, a poem I've just read for the first time, by Langston Hughes. He's an American poet who was big in the 1920s. This poem, April Rain Song, is direct and can almost be a mantra for these waterlogged days:

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you.

Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.

Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.

The rain makes running pools in the gutter.

The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night—

And I love the rain.

Langston Hughes

Jubilee snapshots

Two views of the Jubilee from my road, encompassing the royalist and the republican. A welcome sentiment on the banner, shame about the spelling...

Creative links

Evening all. As a post-Jubilee weekend treat, here's a quartet of fantastic creative people whose work I've recently discovered, which you might want to investigate. They are all friends and acquaintances; I love it when you find out people's hidden talents. Here they are, in no particular order.

First up is Alice Brazier, a Bristol-based artist and illustrator whose lively, deft pen captures everything from people and pets to boats and buildings. I love her sketchy, easy and warm style. Here's her website, and here's her blog.

Next is Jenny Price, founder of Dandylion Jack design. If you're after a bright and beautiful nature-inspired greetings card, this is the place to go. Jenny's cards are currently on sale in the pop-up shop in Cabot Circus.

Third in line is Leopold Tobisch, a musicology student, and, judging from his blog, a photographer with a strongly artistic, sharp eye. What a great range of moods and lighting.

And last, but not least, here's a writer I enjoy reading: Little Girl Lost in London: Trials and Tribulations of a Northern Journo in the Big Smoke. I think I'm right in saying her real name doesn't appear on her blog, so I won't give it away, but head here for writing that's both wry and poetic.

Unexpected finds

Cliftonwood is a hillside in Bristol that’s packed with multicoloured painted houses, hidden steps and winding alleyways. All these treasures make up for the fact that, whichever way you go, you’re faced with Everest-like slopes. Going out inevitably involves an up-hill. After a year living here, I’m pretty much reconciled to this. I know the shortcuts. Or, so I thought. Until about a month ago, when I found a new one. Tucked away on a hairpin bend, the top end starts at the profoundly named ‘Worlds End Lane’; the bottom begins in a block of flats on Jacob's Well roundabout, mosaic tiled hot air balloons the only sign that this is something more than a private entrance. The wending pathway turns into the ‘White Hart Steps’, passing ‘Worlds End House’ (built in 1650, and thought to be the oldest house in Clifton), the small ‘Cherry Garden’, and, rather strangely, a bus stop. Halfway up a hill, and nowhere near a road. That’d have to be quite a bendy, narrow bus to get up there. Does anyone know how this sign ended up perched in this odd location?

Beautiful thought

This engraved panel is in the gardens of St George's Bristol. I've been going there for the best part of four years, but only just noticed this beautiful quote, by the Czech composer Janácek. It comes from one of the love letters he wrote to Kamila Stösslová, the younger woman with whom he became besotted after years of marriage, and who inspired many of his greatest musical works.

Coincidental chat

I do like a coincidence. Especially one involving friends and strangers. I should perhaps warn you now that this is something of a self-indulgent blog post. So, a couple of Saturdays ago I was in London for a concert by the Orchestra of St Paul’s (OSP). This classy chamber orchestra played Bartok, Beethoven, Lipatti and Mozart, in a concert in LSO St Luke’s. If you’ve never been there, then go. A peaceful, musical oasis on Old Street, it’s a gorgeous former church in which the modern concert hall fittings are juxtaposed with the old bare brick walls. You can see the trees through the large windows. But I digress. I was there for OSP, out of both musical curiosity and friendship. I know the orchestra’s principal cellist, Morwenna Del Mar, and the conductor and OSP founder Ben Palmer. Personal ties aside, this classy chamber orchestra is definitely worth a listen.* One of the several young ensembles around at the moment – the Aurora Orchestra and Spira Mirabilis are just two others in the limelight – OSP’s calling card is playing with ‘pure tone’, that is no vibrato, on modern instruments. No surprise then that the orchestra’s patron is the man who pioneered this practice, Sir Roger Norrington. And there was an intriguing item on the programme that night: the UK premiere of the Concertino in the Classical Style by Dinu Lippati. It turned out to be a rather fun suite-like work with touches of dreamy Bach and playful Haydn, all played with sparkle by pianist Alexandra Dariescu.

Cut to the following weekend. Victoria Park, Hackney. It’s Field Day, an alternative festival packed with hipsters. The line-up included Metronomy, Sleigh Bells and Beirut. As the sun came out, people lounged in front of the main stage, drinking beer and cider. Quite a different crowd from last Saturday. You can probably see where this is going, although perhaps not the surreal twists. Off we go. In the queue for the toilets with my friend Orla, a Prince-William-mask-wearing man asked if I would be his Princess. Hmm. Well, no, I said, smiling. But then we got chatting – it was a long queue – and it turned out he was French, with a wacky sense of humour: ‘I’m Clement, like the weather; you’re Orla, like the Mexican wave; and you’re Rebecca, like the Mexican wave as well.’ Readers, you might have possibly guessed from this blog, that I have a soft spot for all things French. But that’s not the coincidence. Nor is the ‘surely-not moment’ the fact that it turned out one of his French friends worked for the same Bristol-based animation company that Orla used to work for. No, the real coincidence was odder than that. We went over to chat to his friends in French/Franglais/English. ‘What do you do?’, Alexandre and Yann asked me. ‘I’m a classical music journalist.’ ‘Wow. [I might have imagined that bit.] Actually, we went to a really good concert last week…’

Thank you for indulgence. 

* It seems to me a good rule of thumb not to review concerts given by your friends – even if you keep your professional distance, how does the reader know that you have? Is that glowing review genuine? Or have you gone the other way and become overly-critical in the name of even-handedness? And that’s before considering your friendship and the effects a review could have on that. Acknowledging this, and given that this is a personal blog and not a professional review, let me just say, honest, guv, this orchestra, its conductor and principal cellist are definitely names to watch. 

Culture vulture

Tra Nguyen (piano)
At the 1901 Arts Club, Exton Street, London

A tiny shoebox-shaped salon with a Steinway grand piano at one end; heavy gold curtains, and chairs upholstered in plush red; the strains of Waterloo Station in the background: the 1901 Arts Club is an intimate, nostalgic venue. Schubert, Schumann and Raff – not spot on datewise, but at home in this intimate settting – were on the programme, performed by the thoughtful, warm and moving – if not always dazzling – pianist Tra Nguyen.

Nico Muhly • Owen Pallett
Barbican, London

I’m clearly not New-York-kooky-cool enough for this ‘alternative-classical’ evening. Missy Mazzoli’s sea-inspired orchestral opener washed right by me; Owen Pallett’s Violin Concerto had its hypnotic moments; Nico Muhly’s Cello Concerto: piquant, energetic, but shouldn’t composer John Adams get a credit? And all those fabulous musicians left underused by the song-led second half, which became more hyperactive teenage-boy-in-a-bedroom exploring sounds than anything more profound.

Death of Klinghoffer
ENO, London 

John Adams’s opera tackling the true story of a disabled American Jewish man who is pushed overboard by Palestinian terrorists, hijackers of a cruise ship. Controversial for giving both sides of the story, the London premiere only took place this year, 11 years after the world first saw it in Brussels. Yes, I agree it’s an important work, it’s important for composers to tackle tough, contemporary subjects. But where was the drama? It might be more in the Passion or oratorio tradition than an operatic one, but JS Bach’s two Passions are gripping and compelling. There was snoring in the seat next to me at ENO.

Into the Abyss
Watershed, Bristol 

Another controversial subject: the death penalty. The always-fascinating filmmaker Werner Herzog turns his telling eye to this thorny matter, exploring a case of triple homicide. He’s anti the penalty, so am I. Yet this was a well-balanced documentary, and it was hard not to believe the woman, whose brother was a victim, when she said, somehow, on his murderer’s death, there was a sense of closure. Disturbing.

In Darkness
Watershed, Bristol

Too many dark films lately: this is another film based in truth, the story of Polish Jews who end up hiding in the sewers, kept alive by one man. A shocking story, but somehow the film was less than the sum of its parts.

The Kid with a Bike
Watershed, Bristol

Beautifully made, superbly paced film from the Belgian Dardenne brothers. A young boy, Cyril, is rejected by his father and sent to a home. Cyril asks a local hairdresser to look after him at the weekends, and a poignant relationship unfolds, bringing hope in the face of violence and the human capacity to inflict cruelty. Unsentimental and clear-eyed. One of the best films I’ve seen this year.

Aurora Orchestra
St George’s, Bristol

The youthful, dynamic orchestra-of-the-moment on tip-top, ear-opening form. Strauss’s Metamorphosen was the showstopper: rich, heartfelt and turning those note-spinning passages into something inexorable and devastating. Mozart’s grave C minor Adagio and Fugue opened the concert; his chic Parisian symphony followed the Strauss. Bernstein finished it all with a flourish.

King Lear
Tobacco Factory, Bristol

Shhh. Don’t tell anyone. This was the first time I’d ever seen Shakespeare’s King Lear. (Spoiler alert.) The Earl of Gloucester’s eyes are gouged out?! Unbelievably gruesome. After a slow first half, the Shakespeare at the Tobacco Factory’s cast picked up the pace, giving a moving, grim performance.

Death’s Cabaret
Bristol Old Vic 

I liked the unusual concept: two halves featuring first a mini-concert by a string quartet, who then, in the second part, play in a ghost story told by a single narrator, who also stars as a solo cellist. Shame then that the story was so cliché-ridden. Distinctly un-spine-chilling.

Life and Fate

I'm just about to start reading Vasily Grossman's Life and Fate. It's 855 pages long, with a battle map to start, and an 8-page list of the 'chief characters' at the end. On the backcover, Tolstoy's War and Peace is recommended as further reading. I could be a while.

Knowing it all

The Encyclopedia Britannica is to breathe its last in print form. From henceforth, the many-volumed reference bible will only be available online. Will it survive the effects of the omnipotent Wikipedia? Or did it gain something from its very physicality? Its unignorable presence on the shelves of schools and libraries? I had a wonderful Russian flatmate when I lived in France who always said that, when she had her first home, her first child, she'd make sure that she had an Encyclopedia Britannica. It'd be a symbol of aspiration, of hunger for knowledge and learning, a demonstration of the breadth of human understanding. From A to Z, it'd give her child the skeleton of what a grown-up should know, an appetite for exploring elsewhere. I wonder if you can get that sense of knowing what you should know from an online version? Or will its two-dimensionality hide it from us, leaving only a vague sense of what it is that we don't know?

Fraught memories

Time for some homework for this month's BBC Music Magazine podcast. Top of the list is a fabulous new recording of Beethoven and Berg Violin Concertos from violinist Isabelle Faust, the Orchestra Mozart and conductor Claudio Abbado. Berg's luscious, hyper-Romantic piece was written in 'The Memory of an Angel'. Commissioned by the violinist Louis Krasner, its emotional world has a tragic inspiration, the death of an 18-year-old friend of Berg's, Manon Gropius. Berg himself died just eight months after finishing it; he wasn't alive for the premiere, in Barcelona with Krasner. Here's an old recording of Krasner with Anton Webern conducting:

My other blog...

Sometimes, when I'm not blogging here, I'm bundling up my thoughts for a blog with a different purpose - work. Writing about music is of course a pleasure, although it can be pretty hard work too. Here are links to a few of the posts I've written for BBC Music Magazine.

Violinist Alina Ibragimova made a wonderful impression with her Js Bach/Vivaldi/Biber concert in Bath; The Plight of the Page Turner: one of the most nerve-racking tasks in music?; My top nine symphonies; a review of Mozart's Don Giovanni from the Met; the glorious Gould Piano Trio at St George's Bristol; Mozart's La Clemenza di Tito from Aix-en-Provence; Natalie Dessay stars as Violetta in Verdi's La traviata; the First Night of the Proms; Stephen Hough's strange sonatas recital; Beethoven from the Budapest Festival Orchestra; Cellophony: what do you call a group of eight cellists?

That's all for now folks!

I wish it were me…

A hammock on a balcony; a woman with long brown hair lounges in February sun of genuine warmth, reading her book, listening to the strains of music playing inside, every so often gazing at the panoramic view from Royal York Crescent over Bristol. A little moment of contentment.

The Transfiguration Window

What does a window do? It keeps us warm. It lets us see. It shows us what would otherwise be hidden. It lets in the light.

I’m not religious, but even to me the sacred metaphors seem to echo pretty loudly. And I also know that the stained glass of churches and cathedrals are some of the most beautiful windows around, mesmerising creations in glowing colours. Think of the breathtaking medieval glass at King’s Chapel in Cambridge, the Rose window in Notre Dame. Or, my new favourite, the stunning arch window in Durham Cathedral unveiled just over a year and a half ago, made by Thomas Denny.

The first thing that hits you is a bright burst of white light, a brilliant strip that runs down the centre of the window. Glass in orangey amber hues edges it, with purple-blue at the edges. Peer a bit closer, and you see people. Small figures with delicately edged faces populate the window, scenes from the Bible played out in flickering light.

Like Van Gogh's paintings, The Transfiguration Window has a compelling power that comes into its own when you're standing there in front of it – it's a piece of art that's full of vivid life. Perhaps it's because the confluence of religious meaning and artistic means couldn't be more apt. This window depicts Christ becoming radiant; it quite literally transfigures the light.

Park Street, Bristol

The Artist

*Smiles*, *waves*, *winks*. *Thumbs up* for The Artist!

The Birthday Boys

Where and when is it set? The chilly climes of Antarctica, 1910-12.
Who is in it? The five main characters are the real men who lost their lives on the fateful expedition to the South Pole: Petty Officer Edgar (Taff) Evans; Dr Edward (Uncle Bill) Wilson; The Owner: Capt. Robert Falcon (Con) Scott; Lt. Henry Robertson (Birdie) Bowers; Capt. Lawrence Edward (Titus) Oates
What happens? You already know the ending:  the trek was doomed, the Norwegians beat the Brits to it, Oates goes outside 'and may be some time'. The magic of this book lies in the telling.
So how is it told? Five narratives, each from a different perspective, each compelling in its own way. We don't know which is the most accurate, but then when do we in life?
What are the best bits? Apart from its wonderful blend of fact and fiction (the imagining of the 'truth' behind some of the famous photographs from the voyage, for example), it is Bainbridge's gift for description, and her metaphors that are captivating.
Here's a touching, vivid moment, amid the slog of a three-man, 19-day trek to Cape Crozier. Undernourished, frostbitten, weary, the explorers still found time to appreciate the surroundings, writes Birdie:
'It wasn't all misery. On one of our halts we lay spread-eagled on the ice and stared up at a sky blazing with the glory of the most wonderful aurora I'd ever witnessed. I groaned beneath the splendour of those silken curtains, yellow, green, and orange, billowing at the window of the heavens.'