Reading Ottoline and the yellow cat by Chris Riddell

Listening to Ólafur Arnalds: Late Night Tales

Today was slightly more hectic than usual. This was partly due to last night’s prosecco. But also because my diary just exploded with things to book and write and do, and lists to make. Exciting, but it’s never just one thing for more than ten minutes.

So to lunch, 30 minutes of reading (and listening), today I chose another children’s book. I think it’s going to be kids’ books for me so that I can finish them in one sitting. Although, you know, The Brothers Karamazov is on my list too. I read this book ‘Reads like a novel’ about 10 years ago by Daniel Pennac, who was once a teacher. He taught me that reading a book was a choice and after the demands of the education system it was a battle to believe that. This was probably down to hefty neuroscience textbooks rather than slim novellas. Nevertheless I stopped reading and part of my belief about my reading habit was that I’m not a good reader. The reading spell got broken somewhere along the way, but I’m hoping I can get into books again. For a long time I’ve been better at buying books (to the point of obsession). So as the weeks go by perhaps I’ll try something that doesn’t have pictures. We’ll see.

So to Ottoline – Riddell drew on pre-occupations of a precocious child to lead us through the story. Her Mother and Father parented her from a distance, whilst they travelled the world. She periodically received postcards which as well as telling of their adventures, also relates snippets of advice. Their house is full of their collection of objects from travelling the globe. So how do you relate to an over-privileged lead character? Through eccentricity. Riddell’s imagination leads us through a crime story and his illustrations once again carry you  through urban spaces and across oceans. He made a visit to the washing machines brim with charm and gently poked fun at the parent’s collections of paintings and masks. It also crossed my mind that Ottoline was alone, except for Mr Munroe a small hairy creature. Perhaps as a kid it’s a dream to be left to your own devices, but it also made her a little vulnerable. Mother hen that I am.

I was stunned by the music of Ólafur Arnalds’ Late night tales, which fizzed, beat and sung whilst I read.