Book Review: Career of Evil, Robert Galbraith's Gory New Chiller

He had not managed to scrub off all her blood. A dark line like a parenthesis lay under the middle fingernail of his left hand. He set to digging it out, although he quite liked seeing it there: a memento of the previous day’s pleasures.

As first paragraphs go, the latest Cormoran Strike novel has one of the best.

Atmospheric (not to mention some wicked tricolonic syntax) Robert Galbraith’s Career of Evil fires readers straight into the mind of a killer with all the propulsive force of a bullet.

Calling this character a killer, however, is something of an understatement. Galbraith (ok Rowling) has created a serial murderer with far more than a grudge against private investigator Cormoran Strike. And his sociopathic mind exists in a landscape more warped than many found in fact or fiction.

It’s darker as a novel. Less genteel but a lot more bizarre than either the Cuckoo’s Calling or The Silkworm. Dealing with paedophilia, serial murder and Body Integrity Identity Disorder (BIID) with equal amounts of candour and indulgence, the plot takes us across country and into the past, fills pages with macabre details and grisly redherrings.

Reading Career of Evil after attending its launch event, however, makes the departure from the previous two novels stark and strange.

Because the event I went to was almost the set for an Agatha Christie. It was positively Sherlockean, a puzzle game, intentionally similar to one of those tightly plotted, third-person omniscient mysteries.

Let’s put this into context.

Just a few photos. #MakeMeADetective @RGalbraith pic.twitter.com/iQtetxAjUf

— Harriet Allner (@TheScribbleBug) October 21, 2015

On Wednesday, Little, Brown hosted something like a dozen teams of mystery lovers (and Potterheads, lots of charming Potterheads), who they’d invited to become ‘a detective for the day’. With my crime writing finally on track, I of course leapt at the opportunity to feed my inner mystery solver.

It took place at London’s Time Run.

The first challenge was to find the place – which took me a good extra twenty minutes because I kept walking past it (not surprising given it’s not signposted and even the front door has buttons misdirecting you to people who don’t exist). Once inside, however, the 'Crystal Maze But Better' adventure space is all about immersive experience, and Little, Brown used it to recreate elements of The Silkworm. This meant that after a coffee and a short briefing, we were ushered to a door and into the reimagined halls of Roper Chard – the publishing house of Galbraith’s second novel. Distant sounds can be heard upon entering, tinned laughter and clinking glasses. We’re at the drinks party attended by Cormoran Strike (who infiltrates it during the novel to discover more about the publishing house and its authors). However, in this version, Owen Quinn is still missing and it’s up to us – a motley team of five – to find a manuscript that might uncover his whereabouts, hopefully alive.

The odd mix of Victoriana, curiousity shop and publishing house made for an exciting trip into Galbraith’s fictional world, and as we solved one clue after another, racing against the clock, we were filled with a childish, gleeful excitement.

Team 5 challenge complete! #MakeMeADetective@RGalbraith Had so much fun, can we do it ag… https://t.co/v1xsevzdtNpic.twitter.com/ZMmNzYookZ

— Jax Blunt (@liveotherwise) October 21, 2015

We did pretty well. For about an hour we were even in the running for the signed and dedicated copies of the book by Robert Galbraith "himself".

The success was totally a team effort. We were brilliant together – each of us with a different way of thinking and problem solving. We had the eminently logical and the creatively minded. The type who know every twist and trope in crime fiction and therefore know exactly where we need to be looking, and then the kind who understand puzzles and games and how to solve them. Together we worked well and it was great to play the detective with them. (Read More from Jax, who was on the same team here)

Yet this quintessential crime narrative, the Sherlock style solving of clues, the ‘shut-room’ mystery, is a farcry from the topsy-turvy morbidity of Career of Evil. In fact, the only real similarity is the ever-building chemistry between Robin and Strike, and the exuberance of the writing.

Cormoran Strike & Robin Ellacott

Plus, though this may be because I’ve read an awful lot of Ian Rankin and McIllvanney the Elder and Younger, compared to either The Cuckoo’s Calling or The Silkworm, this novel is decidedly more akin to those of the Tartan Noir clan.

Whilst set in London much more time is spent bombing around the United Kingdom, including a jaunt around Scotland in a Mini. Galbraith also spends longer constructing personalities - beyond the sensationalistic elements, the shifts of the narrative voice into that of the serial killer himself attempt to capture something of that coy, insightful type of profiling familiar to any reader of Val McDermid. Then there's the sort of 'Tony Hill / Carol Jordan', 'Will Trent / Sarah Linton' sexual tension thing that we're all so used to seeing in today's crime fiction.

Admittedly, there's something of the romantic comedy in this pair compared to McDermid's most famous partners. Here are two protagonists who clearly fancy each other much more than they do their respective S/Os  but have yet to figure this out despite all their super-sleuthing powers.

Different is not necessarily better, but neither is it worse. It's just different. I'd be quite nervous to be thrown into the Time Run 'experience' of Career of Evil.

Overall, Galbraith's latest novel is a compelling read. It has it's 'daft' points, as the Guardian said, though I think those parts are what stop it from being overwrought and heavy. It also has it's faintly unpleasant moments (the toe, guys, the toe) but they're not gratuitous - we're not talking gore and grit and horror here.

So with this in mind, I would recommend Career of Evil to any crime fan, but if you're looking for the goofy and sly satirical plot of the previous two novels, that's not what you'll find here.

This is Galbraith at "his" most fiendish and entertaining.

If that entertainment is a little gruesome along the way, so be it.

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

Buy Career of Evil, the third book in the highly acclaimed crime fiction series by J.K. Rowling, writing under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith, at your nearest bookstore - Hardback £20, ebook £10.99 - or check out Wordery.com to order online.

20 Things I'm Learning As A Twenty-Something

In a couple weeks, I won’t be 24 anymore.

I’ll officially be a quarter of a century old. Which is to say, not very old at all. But still a wee bit lot older than I told a barman the other day – he asked for my ID; I was like ‘sheesh I’m eighteen already fool.’ Then corrected myself... ‘I mean, I’m really twenty-twooahuh-four. Twenty-four. ’ And he looked absolutely bewildered. Let’s pretend that’s because he was Australian not because I was talking nonsense.

This past year, I feel like I’ve done an awful lot. I finished my Masters, graduated and left university (finally), interned, moved back south, became employed, started really paying taxes, dated, discovered Crobar, got promoted, dated some more, taken up climbing, taken up boxing, learnt how to make vegan haggis, decided to never date again, lost touch with good friends, reconnected with old friends, made new friends, joined a London music society, and a book group, and a writing group, been lonely, been happy, been excited and mostly just been busier than ever.

And I’m finally in London. London. The city I always knew I needed to live in. The city I love the way a crow loves a murder and a plot loves a twist. The city that I’m sure will churn me up and spit me out like it does most everyone, but where, in the mean time, I’m content to figure myself out.

It’s amazing. It’s scary. And how the hell am I nearly twenty-five?! Anyway, seemed like a good excuse to jot down twenty-four things that I feel I’ve kind of learnt in the last twelve months. Or am learning. Everything these days seems more process than revelation.

At first, it’s all about being independent.

You’re out! You finished. You did the thing! Now there’s a level of independence that didn’t fully exist at university. There you were at least looked over by the system. Now there’s a sense of self-reliance, using your own reason and resources. Sort of. Some of the time. Mostly anyway.

It’s exciting! It’s novel! And still an itsy-bitsy-teeny-tiny bit terrifying in a big way.

YEYYYYY we’re freeeeeeeeeeee. Now we can have adventures! Or not. We have the choice to adventure or not! Also discovering the joys of living in a clean, tidy house with no risk of contracting a disease every time you make food is The Best. There are suddenly really big questions and uncertainties and you think you’re looking for something but most of the time you don’t really know what that something even is.

Which is why it’s really great to be in touch with your family.

Sometimes you just want a hug, or a no-nonsense phone call, or someone to give you £10 for taking the train to visit them. Of course not every family is perfect, for some it’s the family you chose not the family you were born into that fits into this role, but having those reliable people who are always there when it matters – they mean the absolute world.

Because finding your feet takes time.

It can feel like you’re youth in desult. Ok that was actually a silly reference to one of my favourite humans and his blog – which is literally about this EXACT feeling. Do you want to be in business? Do you want to be a tattoo artist? Are you even using anything you learnt in your degree? What on earth are we even doing with our lives? Does anything have any meaning? What's the point?! Was there ever a point?!

And not having everything figured out is ok.

Really, it’s totally fine. There’s no magic shuttle to success and even the folk who look like they’re totally sorted, probably don’t feel that way all the time either.

Even when it comes to finances…

Doing things like figuring out your tax code and translating your pay slip might take a moment or two – especially if you’re going from one tax bracket to another. On the other hand, if you’re like me and you’ve moved from the super-cheap and affordable North to London’s cocktail of failed dreams and extortionate prices, sometimes it’s as simple as realising your weekly shop is no longer £15 that makes your head pulse.

And saving money? No one does that anyway (wait really, is anyone doing this?!)

There’s an option to start putting money into a pension at work. You probably have friends that have them. It sounds very sensible. Put £200/month away for the next few years and you’ll be able to go on at least one and a half cruises to the British Virgin Islands in your 60s. But right now, you’d probably rather use that couple hundred quid for a boozy weekend in Bruge or put it towards buying a new coat for winter.

At least money isn’t as hard as dating.

I go on about it (sorry not sorry) but dating gets weird after university. And not only are there the six lads you’d totally find in a Taylor Swift song to consider, there’s also this whole dating like an adult shindig. It feels like part Darwinism, part job interview. Or if you're in a relationship: people start talking marriage and babies. Pressure much?!

But at least it’s good to see the back of the hanging out vs. hooking up conundrum…

There are definitely days where the simplicity of meeting up with someone in the library or lounging around drinking tea whilst whining about your creepy professors, coursework and other students will be thought of with dreamy nostalgia.

Part of that nostalgia will also be for your friends.

You’ll notice that your friendship group will shift. People you used to see everyday are now people you barely speak to. With others, your interests may change and take you down different paths. You might move to different countries and never see them again. Some people are in your life briefly and some people forever, so be prepared for those changes and don’t worry too much about it – it’s not just you.

Moving city, whether it’s London or anywhere else, can be lonely.

You may be biggest city in the world or a leafy suburb, fact is sometimes being home alone on a Thursday night feels like the end of the world. That the bars are full and you are the only person left all alone, that no one loves you now and never will, that the diary will never have another plan put in it, that your heydays are over and the world will forever turn without you. The best thing to do in this situation is to call someone else. That way you can feel alone together. 

It’s ok to grieve a little.

Things change. You’re turning over a chapter. You’re saying goodbye to parts of your life you never thought you’d lose or leave. So yes, of course it’s ok to go through the many stages of grief. But not too much.

Especially since it’s not like you lose EVERYONE

You might fall out of touch with some people but the friends who go through all this with you, who go through the same or similar experiences, they’re so important. They’re part of the process, weird and wonderful as it may be.

Better yet, not only is making new friends not impossible but you might find yourself reconnecting with old ones.

People will surprise you. Sometimes complete and total strangers will be the ones to stick their neck out for you, or at least be the ones who end up brightening your day. Similarly, you’ll be stunned just how many people you’ve lost touch with would secretly love it if your paths cross again. So if you know one of your old friends from prep school is in the same town or that someone from university is passing through – send them a message, see how they’re doing. You’re finally moving in the same direction again. Plus it’s really fun to play Sherlock with them to find out what happened to everyone else.

Work is still work.

Unless you’re extremely lucky, you’re not in your dream job with the dream salary. You might be en route to that dream job, but you’re probably not famous or CEO of your own independent music label or running an antiquarian bookstore just yet. That’s ok. Work is called work for a reason and whilst there will be bad days where getting up at 6.30am seems too much and people grate on your nerves, there will also be amazing days. And then there’s always the weekends too.

Living for the weekend kinda means you learn to use time wisely.

Buy a diary. Even better: a Filofax. Staying in touch with people means learning to schedule in days when you’re all free. Especially since it’s easier to go to Edinburgh than to figure out the right tubes to Zone 4 half the time.

Although the hangovers genuinely are worse than when you were 20…

The recovery time from drinking, staying up late, or dancing the night away is so much longer. And apparently it only increases with age. Same kind of goes for the weird aches and pains you start experiencing when out running…

Let’s not even discuss work hangovers.

Even though they’re kind of inevitable. Like on a Tuesday after spending a whole night singing Elbow in a pub with four people that used to be strangers.

Which is why there will be days when you’ll not-so-secretly feel pretty smug, all cosied up at 10pm.

Sleep and ‘off time’ is so much more precious than it ever used to be. So whether it’s a good book and a glass of wine, Netflix and tea, or just an early bedtime, don’t worry about appreciating those evenings.

There will be days you are totally unprepared for.

You will never be prepared for everything, especially not the big changes and decisions you have to make. You might become stuck for a while, then have an awesome opportunity drop in your lap. Don’t freak out and panic just because it’s sudden. You might have hell descend. Punch it right back, no one escaped by cowering in the corner.

Days when the real world sucks a lot more than you expected

Once upon a time, you looked forward to being a real adult where you go to a fabulous job from 9-5 and attend events every week where you meet Interesting And Charismatic People who invite you back to their penthouse parties. NO. The real world is a cold, harsh place. And you are just thrown into it blind and completely unprepared.

Days when you really don't like yourself that much.

These days are the worst. You might doubt yourself. Be angry at yourself. Be sad that you've gained a few pounds or upset that your new grown-up hair cut makes you look like the bad guy from that independent film set in Mexico. Fact is, bad days don't stop because you're not a teenager anymore. However, being in your twenties is amazing, so shake it off and remember the longest relationship you're ever going to have is with yourself. So make it a good one. 

Just remember: you are not stuck.

Change is fine. Change is good. Change is what brought you to where you are in the first place. It’s also ok to change your mind. It might not seem possible at the time. It might be hard. But there will be situations that you really find yourself stuck in – so if you have the choice and you’re unhappy and you can change your stars… do it. Some of the best people I know have already done this (in one case repeatedly) and it’s only been for the better.

You're just a twenty-something.

So you don’t have a jaw-dropping job, a wicked salary, your own flat, a relationship, and tons of cash saved. Your life is so far off track it’s basically the Starlight Express. But don’t stress. Just because you had this grand scheme and thought all the keys were ready to slot into place, it’s ok if they don’t all at once. Be patient and trust that things are going to work out as they should. Be weird. Be as far off track as you like. Be a twenty-something.

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 

SCRIBBLER

6 London Lads Hilariously Described by Taylor Swift Songs

The 6 Lads You Meet in London 

As Told by Taylor Swift Songs

Taylor Swift:  queen of the break up ballad, darling of the downhearted, apple of the melancholic's eye. 

Well... sometimes. As one of the powerful women in the world, she's also writer of some of the most upbeat, stick it to the boy, power pop ballads around. 

So having moved back south as a singleton, perhaps it's no wonder that her latest album '1989' has joined all of her others to become the soundtrack of my new London life London Love Life. Therefore, I thought I'd introduce you to some of the guys I've met in the last ten months, all in the songs of the one and only Taylor Swift. 

1. Style

He got that James Dean daydream look in his eye … This guy lives in Dalston, hangs out in Shoreditch. He’s edgy. And he has no need for those hard-rimmed glasses. Absolutely zilch. This is the lad that takes you to a bar where they serve cocktails out of jam jars and serve food in a dog bowl. Also terribly romantic when he wants to be – but only if you think being woken up at midnight after three weeks of silence is romantic, all you want to do is swap meaningful, burning looks in the course of a long cold ride on the Number 55, and you’re quite content to be fed the full menu of his smooth one liners.

What you've heard is true but I / Can't stop thinking about you," and I...

2. I Knew You Were Trouble

Once upon a time, a few mistakes ago… Trouble walked into a bar. Point is, he’s the guy you meet one Friday night after one too many double G&T’s in Camden Barfly. He’s not your usual type but you’re 100% spleened for the evening and he doesn’t care, so you don’t care. Most of the evening comes back in flashes, like a kaleidoscope of memories. In the morning, you’ll crawl onto the sofa with your flatmate and tell them about Irish Snakebites Guy or Band T-Shirt Boy and describe your amazing, unforgettable DFMO with a guy whose name you can’t remember, whose number you’ve drunkenly deleted, and who you’ll obsess over for at least the rest of the weekend.

I knew you were trouble when you walked in…

3. Treacherous

I'd be smart to walk away… But you're quicksand... It all seems fun and games at first with this guy, then you realise that this slope City boy is treacherous. You like it, of course you do. He makes you feel wonderful. He’s a charmer, probably works super long hours in Canary Wharf and wears a delectable suit. However, let’s face it, you swiped right for this cheeky chappy because you almost certainly met him on Tinder. The path is more than a little reckless, but the attention is amazing and you will definitely enjoy your fancy dates to crazy-exclusive, super-expensive cocktail bars in Central London. However, he’s also the guy than on date number two or three you might wonder if it was a mistake. My advice? Give this one time. And don’t let him know where you live too soon.

I will / Follow you, follow you home... / I'll follow you, follow you home... / I'll follow you, follow you home... / I'll follow you, follow you home...

4. The Story of Us

See me nervously pulling at my clothes and trying to look busy, And you're doing your best to avoid me… A born-and-bred Londoner, he isn’t a bad type. However, you’ve tested the waters, gone on a date, and now you’re stuck doing that awkward ‘we’re not sure if we’re speaking’ thing because dating him is a bit like riding the Circle Line at rush hour with neither of you willing to break the Rule of Silence… even though you really want to sit with him… and there’s an empty seat next to him… and all he’s using it for is a giant bag. Gambling on whether he’s going to make space for you in his life is risky. He’ll probably try to avoid eye contact and leave you feeling like a lemon. Or he’ll reluctantly move the bag just enough for you to squeeze in but it’s not real commitment. However, he might look up, see you, move the bag and his pride to the floor, and that can be the beginning of a real story.

This is looking like a contest,  / Of who can act like they care less, / But I liked it better when you were on my side.

5. Bad Blood

Cause, baby, now we got bad blood / You know it used to be mad love … Just your typical geezer who moved into London from somewhere like Stevenage.  He thinks he’s a bit of a Lad. Meet him on a night out and he’s the guy that wolf whistles, calls you a ‘rocket’, then tell his mates he just wants to ‘smash that’. Be warned, for all that he can say the right words and show you some good times, this guy’s a player. Also if you turn him down he’s the King of Ego. Rejection makes him nasty and fickle. Don’t get attached. Shake him off. Enjoy yourself as a strong, awesome, powerful single lady instead because girls, we deserve better.  

Did you think we'd be fine? Still got scars on my back from your knife / So don't think it's in the past, these kinda wounds they last and they last.

6. Begin Again

Walked in expecting you'd be late / But you got here early and you stand and wave … Everything the others weren’t, this guy is polite, makes you laugh and respects you. In all likelihood, very little about him stands out. He lives in Clapham or Wimbledon or Finchley or Acton. He wears a suit but not a tie to work in a job with a nice progression rate. He’s happy eating at The Anchor on Southbank, or splurging at an eatery like Kurobuta in Marble Arch. He’ll happily come with you to the V&A or for a sunlit rummage on Brick Lane. This guy is your guy; relaxed, honest, nice. He might even be a keeper. Sadly, you’re still hung up on the last boy you dated and he’s too close to the friendzone. Likely to be the buffer between you and the next Treacherous mistake, but at least he reminds you not to give up.

I've been spending the last eight months / Thinking all love ever does is break and burn and end / But on a Wednesday in a cafe I watched it begin again

7. Shake It Off

I go on too many dates [chuckle] But I can't make them stay… This one isn’t about the guys. It’s about us single, twenty-something London women. Right now, we’re kissing frogs instead of princes, as Lauren would say. Don’t worry about this. We’re allowed to make mistakes. We’re allowed to have fun with people we know are bad for us and to pass over the good ones because we’re not really ready to settle down. People might comment. They might gossip. You might sometimes feel like everyone is judging and laughing. But remember: the only person whose opinion matters is yours. So shake off the mess other people make. Judge yourself. Laugh at yourself. Love yourself. It’s the longest relationship you’re going to have.

Just think while you've been getting down and out about the liars and the dirty, dirty cheats of the world, You could've been getting down to this sick beat.

Thank you, Taylor Swift

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

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Trains & Boats & Planes

A Very Merry English Christmas

And the Many Things that Followed

Good Evening Readers (or it could be morning... afternoon...),

Once again, its been a while since I updated, which seems to happen a lot. The last thing I really posted was back in very early November. So for those weirdos who actually enjoy the random little updates into my life/world/head/city/adventures, I apologise. I promise I have plenty of those to tell now that I really am adding something new. 

Holidays are the strangest time of year. They begin, everything is exciting and you're so glad for a break, even if you're only doing four hours of classes a week and your usual day composed of sitting in a cafe reading books and drinking tea. All you want is that 'well-deserved' break.Yet by the time you're meant to return to daily life, be it school or university (or work? I'm not sure yet.) it's almost like you need a holiday from your holiday. 

Or maybe it's just me. I turned up at home and slept for ages, turning my light out almost four hours earlier than I had been here in bonnie Scotland. I flew back here after a weekend with Aony and her demon tiger cat and suddenly the first week of university is all about early nights and catching up on sleep. 

Christmas was wonderful this year - we had a visitor from Australia, we met the Tenth Family (the massive assortment of second(?) cousins on my uncle's side of the family, we sang plenty of carols in and out of tune, drank far too much over four days, saw my godmother in Wiltshire and had granny to stay for four days. In my case, I also read twelve non-compulsory novels and wrote another 13,000 words for Festival, which now sits at a comfortable 64K and is probably nearing first-draft completion. I also reconnected with Kate, a brilliant friend who certainly knows some tasty places to eat and WAY too many statistics about Carnaby Street. Plus there was coming back up to Edinburgh for a second awesome Hogmanay, completed by good company and an unprecedented clamber up Arthur's Seat to peer over shoulders at the fireworks. And that's before we even mention my spontaneous delivery of chocolate poptarts to Paris to satisfy Alex's craving for non-French foodstuffs. 

All this chatter is to make up for last year, when I promised an add about the 'Very English Christmas' after my 'Very American Thanksgiving' ... only I never actually wrote the post. I did start it but I thought that what's quite nice now is that I'm actually "re-acclimating" to the British Isles. Yes, you've read all about reverse culture shock, I won't bore you with it again. BUT - and that but really did need capitals - I think what Christmas really demonstrated was how everything is sort of synthesising. For one, the endless conversations about America and how it was are slowly petering out, which is strange and satisfying at the same time because it reminds me that it's over but also allows me to finally find that point where Second-Year-Me and Third-Year-Me become Fourth-Year-Me. Does that make sense? Probably not. 

Whether you quite figured out what that gibberish was about or not - let me offer some examples of how the two are coming together:

1.We had sweet potato and marshmallow mash with Christmas Dinner. As first demonstrated by the wonderful Hart family, those sweet sweet potatoes were scrumptious alongside our roast this year (admittedly the macaroni cheese hasn't quite made it but let's not ponder why).

2. I no longer have a tan but I do have better hair and people notice that instead. 

3. Americans are everywhere and now I tune into their accents the way I did with British ones in Chapel Hill. 

4. I love home and I love my family and I love my bed but a year later and yes, I think I'm quite happy to come back to university after the holidays without the sensation that made it so difficult to board the flight taking me back to Carolina (and no I don't mean sobriety in the face of an aeroplane).

5. I called American and English phone numbers on New Years. Thank Apple for FaceTime. 

6. I no longer want to put the warning (Year Abroad Not For Everyone) before telling people about my time at UNC. And I'm happy to talk to people about the differences between the UK and US without too much bias on either side.

7. Airmiles have become my lifeline. Despite a long-lived fear (read: phobia) of flying, the jetset life is probably going to kill us. My itchy feet have taken me back and forth from London and Edinburgh, to little towns with and without universities, to Paris and I have a feeling the trend will continue. Travel More is certainly big on my list of New Years Resolutions. 

Anyway, now I'm home, New Years has passed. It is officially 2013. We survived the latest vision of the apocalypse and the next one is predicted for sometime next year when the moon is meant to explode. It's hit off to a great start too with Mineta visiting us all from Paris and Jessica's fabulous 21st giving all of us excuses to dress up as pretty as peaches.

And so here is my conclusion - just to keep me writing (and to keep me doing something somewhat useful with my awesome procrastination abilities), I thought I'd do the THIRTY DAY SONG CHALLENGE - day by day, putting up a song and maybe a short post to go with it. There's no real reason why you should follow or bother reading - most of you probably have a tonne of stuff to do too. But if your bored you might find a new song you like, or find out something about me, or realise I'm referencing you, or you might just stare and go 'HUH?' - but I hope it at least it'll waste your time enjoyably. 

Here's DAY ONE: a song that makes you happy.

HUEY (PIANO) SMITH & The Clowns - Don't You Just Know It (as heard in Snatch because it's the only non-gravelled version I could find)...

Je serai poète et toi poésie,

SCRIBBLER

London, Travels and Other Stories

Probably, in all likelihood, any of you who so kindly followed me through the first nine days of my great big bus trek across America are still wondering what on earth happened next. And whilst following up on the whereabouts of my diary notes is still at the forefront of my mind, there's too much that's gone on in the months since I touched down in Heathrow Airport (after a decidedly uncomfortable and terrifyingly turbulent bump over the big blue Atlantic). Be warned - the following contains references to cats, internships, travelling and the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. All of these will probably be expanded upon if I have time.

London was cold when I arrived, grey and cool and as my sleepy mother and father drove home, both of whom had just arrived back from France a few hours before, the wonderful dense green of the Chilterns overwhelmed every sense of nostalgia and for maybe a second or two, I thought - okay, George Eliot, you had a point. Then I thought about the wonderful cup of tea that could only be found in a Twinnings teabag and the shiny new kettle in the kitchen and couldn't stop smiling after that. The happy return could only last so long. Relieved and tired and more than a little groggy from the quantity of sleeping pills I'd taken to calm myself during the flight, I popped on the kettle, dropped Bag One upstairs and then asked after Scampy. Scampy is my cat. Not my sister's or my brother's. Mine. He's a grumpy, black-haired moggy that likes to pretend he's Master of the House. The only problem is that all of those present tense verbs should be past tense. As soon as I ask where the cat is my sister's face falls into a placating frown and starts to say the horrible truth. My sixteen year old hissing-spitting hunter, my purring hug, has died. RIP Scampy - you scary ass mouse murderer. Two days later mum had decided on a new kitten who's so adorable and affectionate I actually miss her as I'm writing this. She's called Squeaky because she squeaks.

Jobs are all the rage when you're 21 and about to enter your fourth year of university. They're very in vogue, every one wants one, especially if they don't pay you and you're able to call yourself and intern. Luckily, I managed to attain one of these excitingly fashionable titles and spent two weeks buzzing with the hum of London life, bustling through the underground, commenting on the people, watching stranger play on the piano in Paternoster Square. 'Luther' was the lovely company to give me that opportunity and I have to say it was brilliant. Of course, there were things that were slow at times or too fast - sometimes time likes to play tricks on your mind, but as a PR Consultancy, the people are vibrant and interesting and the job itself is full of cryptic undercurrents and wonderful little quirks. It's busy and exciting and I hope to at least keep in touch with them all. 

It was at this point that the jetset life came back to haunt me. Restlessness became overwhelming in the wake  of all this rhythm. Unlike the year prior, familiar things surrounded me at all times, homey comforts and smells that both delighted me and drove me insane. I applied for another job, a different kind of job, a job back in the beautiful and much missed City Of My Soul: Edinburgh. The Fringe Festival called to me. I've wanted to  do the Fringe for as long as I can remember, plus I told myself I'd work there every year since I started university. It was settled rather quickly. Applications were filled in, deadlines met, opportunity after opportunity analysed and usually applied for. 

The Space UK and Fringe Guru responded. If you follow the links you'll see two quite different jobs had selected me. The SpaceUK is a company that essentially rents out theatre spaces, techs and staffs box offices and generally helps with back and front of house theatre events. Fringe Guru is a festival review site, a site for those who want to read up on what's on etc. I was going to be a Box Office Girl and an Official Reviewer. I couldn't be happier. 

But before Edinburgh I had two more stops: Dubrovnik and Paris. 

Dubrovnik was a whim. This summer in the UK, the summer sort of lost its way and buggered off somewhere that only it knows. Those long, eternally blue days where the bees come out and the flowers all burst into colour were no where to be found. Any flowers that dared to bloom quickly shrivelled up and died in their waterlogged pots and all the bees spent time cowering under any of the bigger leave that survived. So my mum was fed up. I was fed up. My sister had already gone off on her own adventure around Europe with her best friend Emma so her twin was feeling left out and my dad really just wanted to go somewhere that no one would complain about. So five days before take-off we're booked onto an easyjet flight to the beautiful Croatian city of Dubrovnik. 

Paris, on the other hand, was for my beloved Shmoo's 21st birthday. Between the two of us, I'd managed to book a month late, but it meant I had her all to myself which was perfect. With a whole year apart, I needed some best friend time and what a time we had. Descending into the corkscrew clouds that piled up like the towers of Versailles, nerves jittered about within me and the clinging, sticky heat was cloying. 

"I'm not much of a Paris person," I thought (and I said as much to Alex later), "I hate this Orlybus and this horrible sweaty heat and this gibberish language." 

Admittedly, I felt quite vulnerable not being able to understand or speak to anyone, but I think a lot of it was just post-flight anxiety and tiredness. I scribbled away with my pen on the subway though and by the time I was with Alex, I was ready to roll out in pink jeans and shirt. 

I think I saw a whole new side of Paris that weekend. Away from the tourist traps that most of us non-speakers would end up in, Paris is exquisite. Ambling to the canal, we ordered pizza from a hole-in-the-wall cafe that then gave us a pink balloon with instructions to sit on the river bank. The cool, rushing air funnelled through the wide watery space and freshened everything with a smile. The thrum of local life, the numbers of people huddled in groups on the banks, the awesomeness of that pizza made me reconsider all of those misgivings. Here was a Paris that, even though I didn't understand it, made sense. 

Cheers Alex, ma petite meuf, for such a wonderful time. 

NEXT COMES EDINBURGH. And you know what. I think that deserves a whole new post dedicated to it. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 

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