Start Making Sense.

When I was young, my grandmother used to read a magazine called The People's Friend. First published in 1869, it's still in existence. It contained recipes and knitting patterns and anecdotes from readers about their grandchildren, but is mostly famous for its short stories.  But the one thing I always remember from reading this magazine when I visited my grandmother is the cover art.

At the time, and through the eyes of a child, I thought the artwork was basic and not particularly skillful. I also thought the colours were wrong, that they were too primary. And since the artist, J. Campbell Kerr, produced a new cover each week, that perhaps they were churned out to meet the need.

I recently recalled Campbell-Kerr's name, and was surprised to learn she or he didn't exist. It was merely a pseudonym for a team of four watercolour artists who took turns to produce the covers. But during this moment of research, the main thing I finally understood after all these years is why I knew the colours were wrong. They weren't Australian colours.

The Australian landscape is quite different to the British landscape. The colours are different, the trees are a different range of greens, and on a beautiful spring day the grass, flowers and sky are more primary than the drier, harsher hues of the Australian experience. This is something I knew intellectually, of course, and have been aware of for many years, but when I finally connected this with Campbell Kerr's artwork it really hit home.  This art works in Britain.

But that's not all. As I explore the British countryside I am constantly amazed at how much of my reading experience now makes more sense. Even going back to The Famous Five novels, some of my favourite books when I was a kid, smugglers, secret panels, small islands, copses and coves feel at home in this landscape. Even the work of Tolkien and other British writers now gives me different images and interpretations to the ones I had growing up.

I expect this is completely true in reverse. When I read a story set in the Australian bush I can easily picture the sight, the sounds and the smells, whereas an overseas reader would overlay the text with their own understanding of a woodland.

Context and experience. Live and read widely.

Just Like A Good Casserole.

Last week someone asked me about my influences. I know there are certain writers whose work has consciously influenced me, but there are many more who must sit in the deeper recesses of my mind. But just for interest I thought I'd list a few whose writings have meant something to me along the way. I  haven't read many of them for years. Sometimes it's best not to go back.

Enid Blyton. You might laugh at this one, but as a young child I was hooked on the Famous Five adventures and The Faraway Tree. None of her other writings worked for me, but the sheer adventure and mystery of the five, plus the darker fantastical elements of the tree resonated within me.

Capt. W.E. Johns. I don't know how young I was when I first encountered Biggles, but I know I read his stories for years. Great characters and exciting adventures in wonderfully exotic settings. There's even a biography of Biggles, as though he was a real pilot.

John F.C. Westerman.  Until a few years ago, I'd only ever read one book by him. My grandfather gave me Bringing Down The Air Pirates. A SF novel, although the adventure side was similar to Biggles. I finally re-read it a year or two ago, and still enjoyed it. I discovered there was a sequel. It wasn't as good.

Ed McBain. The pen name of Evan Hunter. My uncle introduced me to the 87th Precinct series when I was a teen. I loved them. Excellent police procedurals. And characters that I recall connecting with.

Giovanni Guareschi. An Italian writer from the 30s and 40s who wrote wonderful little short stories, almost vignettes, set in a small town in Italy, and highlighting the ongoing battles between the catholic priest and the communist mayor. My father had a couple of Don Camillo books and I devoured them as a young teenager. I've recently introduced his work to a good friend, who absolutely loves it.

Ngaio Marsh. A New Zealand writer who wrote murder mysteries - and for my money they were much better than Agatha Christie. I recently read a biography on this remarkable woman. I might actually delve back into some of these,, when I find time.

Isaac Asimov. The first of the real SF writers I can recall encountering as a teenager. I think it was the Foundation series - and that's not a bad place to start. Perhaps not the best writer, but full of original and intelligent ideas. Plus the 70s Panther editions had those wonderful Chris Foss covers.

Robert Silverberg. The second real SF writer I read. Tower of Glass I think it was. And then I kept buying and reading his work. I love his short fiction also, and in the 80s I was thrilled when I started on the Majipoor series. I met him at Worldcon, told him he'd been a huge influence and shook his hand.

Philip K. Dick. I don't remember when I bought my first PKD book, but I'm pretty sure it was Time Out of Joint. He quickly became my favourite, and I think I own everything by him. And I love introducing him to others.

Jonathan Carroll. Dark weirdness with elements of magic realism. I picked up two of his works in the late 80s. I needed something to read, the covers intrigued me and they were in the discount bin outside a newsagents. I was hooked.

Haruki Murakami. When living in Japan, a friend bought me one of his books as a Christmas present. Shortly after I rushed out and bought everything else that had been translated. Many years later and that friend is now my wife. She has such good taste.

Katherine Mansfield. Another New Zealander who died far too young and left us far too few short stories. And yet every single one is an absolute work of art. I was introduced to her in University, and I read and re-read her works every year or so.

And then, throughout the 70s and 80s, there was a string of SF writers whose work I read over and over and absolutely loved. Perhaps the only reason they're not listed in the main section is that I just happened to pick up Asimov and Silverberg first. But I need to include the works of Michael G. Coney, Christopher Priest, Christopher Stasheff and Douglas Adams. Followed closely by Robert Sheckley, Bob Shaw, Ian Watson, Jack. L Chalker, C.S. Lewis, Julian May, Stephen Donaldson, and....  well, there are just too many. And I know tomorrow I'll kick myself for leaving someone off the list. Somewhere along the way all these writers, and many others, have infused my mind.

Who do you acknowledge?

Take A Long Line...

Einstein knew what he was talking about. Not many of the rest of us do, though.

On the one hand this genius gave us a new insight into the workings of the quantum world, on the other he messed with our minds to the extent that we now have to try and understand superstring theory. The Elegant Universe, by Brian Greene, is a well written, fascinating approach to complex (some might say 'heavy') science. And, as one of Enid Blyton's characters may have said, it's a "jolly good read".

Simply put (by Einstein himself, no less), "Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT'S relativity."

We all know the feeling. You plan a vacation, and the anticipation and journey feel like it takes forever, while the actual time there and the journey home pass quickly. But some things do take forever. Or at least thirty years.

I feel like a character from Lord of the Rings at the end of a quest. Three times in the past week thirty year 'waits' have come to an end.

In 1978 or so, at high school, (yes, I am that old), a teacher read us a short story that I loved at the time and have always recalled. As a 15 year old I never bothered to get the author or the title. I've spent some of the last thirty years trying to obtain these details, with a more serious attempt at detective work over the past six months. It's actually very difficult to locate this kind of information with only vague memories of what the story us about, but persistence pays off and I'd like to thank the editor who responded to my email immediately. He'd recognised the synopsis from his own schooldays. It's great to finally have a copy of this story.

Around the same time in high school I decided I wanted to fly remote control aircraft. I looked into it, but it seemed very expensive. I went to a meeting or two but realised that the whole thing was way out of a student's price range. I never really looked into it again, believing that it was still an expensive hobby.

But last month, after a chance meeting with a couple of flyboys while walking the wonderdog, I learned that as a hobby it was much more affordable these days. And so my lovely wife bought me a trainer. My friend bought one too and yesterday we had our first successful crashes.

But before gravity proved its existence in spectacular fashion, they did fly around and respond to my controls and made half decent landings once or twice. I even looked like I was in control a couple of times.

And then to top the week off we bought tickets to see the newly reformed Angels. I had two favourite albums in those days, Screaming Targets by Jo Jo Zep and the Falcons, and Face to Face by The Angels. Both these albums (on vinyl) were played regularly during much of the time I was meant to be studying. Now on CD they are still often heard in my house.

But the Angels of the 80s and 90s never excited me as much as the Angels of the four big albums. Even though I still liked their later releases, Face to Face, No Exit, Darkroom and Night Attack had something, an edge, a rawness, that was missing from later incarnations of the band. Unfortunately I never saw them live at all.

Then Doc Neeson had his falling out with the other guys, ran off with Jim Hilburn and formed Red Phoenix, a second rate Angels wannabe. This evolved into Doc Neeson's Angels which released the spectacular, but relatively unknown, Acoustic Sessions album. Meanwhile the rest of the original boys reunited as The Angels, and then The Angels Band due to legal threats by Doc.

I had the complete joy of seeing them live last year. It was a truly sublime moment that I had waited for so long and although they were brilliant they lacked the Doc's menacing vocals, the vocals that suggest he is on the verge of madness.

But they've resolved something (although the Doc claims its not permanent) and are touring shortly - the original five. Just when I thought I was never going to see their faces again, I have tickets for next month.

Do good things come to those who wait? It's taken thirty years, and it is interesting the three events converged on this week, my birthday week.

Who knows what's in store for 2038.