I like to be upbeat and praising wherever I can, whether it’s art, dance, opera or any form of creativity that I’m reviewing. Sometimes it’s difficult. Sometimes it’s impossible.
At long last I’ve read this blog turned paperback, having chosen it for holiday reading in the summer (what summer) but then sidelined it in favour of others higher up the list. The author is a journalist but you wouldn’t guess it from her writing style, which is heavy, staccato, unflowing. It’s so unflowing as to be constipated and most of this is to do with her refusal to use apostrophes. She could have but she did not. Do not, does not, did not, will not, would not, have not, that is, it is, I am, you are, we are: all of these and many more never get close to an apostrophe. Ouch. It’s just so very hard going.
The subject of her blook is a move from her beloved London to rural, coastal Northumberland and it’s a shift that she doesn’t want. Her unhappiness and invective is aimed four-square at her husband, then at her new local community, the weather, the lack of Oxford Streets, whatever. She hates it and escapes to the city of her dreams whenever she can. And that’s all there is. An awkward writing style describing an upheaval in her domestic circumstances, with which she struggles to come to terms. Big deal. She alienates her new ‘friends’, her readers and everyone except her long-suffering husband. The book cover comes with a sticker which announces: ‘Funny, poignant and beautifully written.’ My advice would be ‘beware of book covers’.
Apparently there’s been a fair amount of criticism coming her way. She fights back online with a crude piece (September 15th) which would make anyone say “Who is this monster?” But hey, I would only comment that sometimes you make mistakes and that one of mine was to look forward to reading this tale. I would also suggest another mistake, made by the Northumberland Tourism Office, who are now advertising luxury holidays in Wife in the North Country. Surely not, I hear you say. I wonder whether there are brown heritage road signs already.
Judith O’Reilly has been in therapy. She admits it. It doesn’t seem to have had much of an effect on her and she yearns yet for the artificial environment of city life. Reading the blook, I came to wish that she would cut and run, back to where life is fast, furious, dirty and expensive. Two things: Isn’t it time to give up the continuing blog? Also, somebody should tell her that having a best-seller on your hands doesn’t mean that it’s worthy, still less literature. The project has made her a lot of money and I most definitely regret my own contribution. London needs her and, I suspect, so do the therapists.
