Review

 
"White Teeth" by Zadie Smith was not at all what I expected. It was published in 2000 to much acclaim and soon scored a handful of book awards - including The Whitbread Prize. The author grew up in a multi-racial corner of London and though she was not born with a silver spoon in her mouth, she made it to Cambridge University to study English Literature. She wrote "White Teeth" before she was twenty five years old.

I expected the book to be quite preachy and somewhat resentful of the white host community that people of colour had to get along with when they arrived in England and began to carve niches for themselves in our green and pleasant land. However, it was not like that.

It was essentially a funtime novel - filled with humour and warmth about the very business of living. Though white characters are often caricatures, Zadie Smith is just as likely to poke fun at Jamaicans or Bangladeshi characters. There is a lot of mockery and silliness within the 540 pages.

She is a proper storyteller and that is what she gives you - rather like a latter day Charles Dickens. There are autobiographical ingredients too.  Smith grew up in the Willesden district of London which is also the novel's main stage and I am sure that she saw a lot of herself in a character called Irie Jones who is also of mixed British-Jamaican heritage.

There's a general lightness of touch about this novel. It does not take itself too seriously. Even so, it does have its thoughtful moments in which readers are expected to reflect upon the processes of immigration and assimilation. Here's one of the lead characters - Samad who served with the British army in World War II:-

"I sometimes wonder why I bother," said Samad bitterly, betraying the English inflections of twenty years in the country, "I really do. These days, it feels to me like you make a devil's pact when you walk into this country. You hand over your passport at the check-in, you get stamped, you want to make a little money, get yourself started... but you mean to go back! Who would want to stay? Cold, wet, miserable; terrible food, dreadful newspapers—who would want to stay? In a place where you are never welcomed, only tolerated. Just tolerated. Like you are an animal finally housebroken. Who would want to stay? But you have made a devil's pact... it drags you in and suddenly you are unsuitable to return, your children are unrecognizable, you belong nowhere."

By the way, Samad is prone to over-dramatization and self-pity.

"White Teeth" was an enjoyable romp of a novel but for me the ending was a kind of fizzling out rather than a splendid denouement . It was as if it did not quite know where it had been heading. It's a book in which pretty much all of the characters are both loved and laughed at. In the end, life must of course go on - whether you are black, white, brown or of mixed race The journey continues.
Zadie Smith


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One Is Fun



 Back in the 1980s my mother, thinking she was kind, bought me a copy of Delia Smith’s One is Fun cookbook.
I was mortified .
She might as well have accused me of being the last spinster in the parish 
How sad I felt.

Tonight I decided to support the village pub with their takeaway initiative and ordered myself a minted lamb burger with a side of macaroni cheese. 
“ Is that the order in full?” I was asked professionally 
“ Yes it’s just me “ I replied suddenly feeling like a right sad sack 
A singleton of the parish.
Do you remember that episode of Sex And The City when single Miranda felt judged by the Chinese takeaway lady? 
I was reminded of that today

The meal was expensive for a treat for one, but it was a treat and I’ve got enough macaroni for supper tomorrow .


The food was bloody delicious 
But I did feel a bit like a sad sack 



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Pray

 Having trouble 

With control

I want it

So bad

And can’t have

It at all




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Schlepping

Looking west from Stanage Edge to Lose Hill and Win Hill - near High Neb

Yesterday I promised myself a walk and that is what happened. My trusty South Korean steed - Sir Clint - carried me out of the city to Redmires Reservoirs . Long term readers of this humble blog will have been there with me before. It's only three miles west of our house.

Stanage Pole

With boots and fingerless gloves on I schlepped* up to Stanage Pole - a lonesome landmark on the moors. Then along an ancient track to Stanage Edge itself. There I turned north because I was heading for the triangulation pillar on High Neb. I could see it white and tiny on the horizon over a mile away. 

But there was something else before it  in the moorland vegetation - another flash of whiteness. What could it be? I have been up there many times before and I did not recall another white feature. Whatever it was I resolved to take a picture of it.

However, as I drew closer I realised it was a human being. A black man in white robes looking east. There was nobody else within half a mile of us. I wanted to get closer but I was apprehensive. You see, he was spouting forth the word of The Lord. It was a mish-mash of angry words and biblical references pouring out of him in a torrent. 

He was unaware of my presence nearby. Perhaps I should have got closer but the one-sided conversation he was having with The Lord seemed fiery, filled with desperation and anger. It was bloody cold up there. Surely he could have been having his chat with The Lord in a nice warm room. Mind you, the neighbours would probably have been banging on the dividing wall yelling, "Why can't you whisper to The Lord?"

I would have said to him: "There's no point imagining that The Lord will hear you better if you just shout louder because he isn't there. In spite of your so-called 'faith', he never was. It was all just a story. And that's the way it is my friend. Sorry to break it to you."

I lingered by the white pillar for a little while and then turned back, reaching Clint two hours after I had set off. He was snoring in his parking place and some small children in bobble hats were pointing at him and laughing.

Last night, I slept soundly then just before nine o'clock I threw back the bedroom curtains to see this unexpected scene:-

*schlepped  -   If you schlep somewhere you go there with a lot of difficulty or effort.  I thank Steve at "Shadows and Light" for introducing me to the word.



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