* A different perspective on Arab women – their military roles.

*Staying in that part of the world, a sensible, nuanced short account of the wonderful Lady Hester Stanhope, although unfortunately it is not much impressed by the biography it reviews.

*On wonderful female characters, the ODNB today highlights Elizabeth (Betsy) Davis another 19th-century traveller, but an unusual one, at least of those we know about, in being from a humble background. The daughter of a Welsh smallholder, she only learnt English as a teenager. Her catchphrase seems to have become “I must see more of the world”, and that’s just what she kept doing.

* My knowledge of American history is scanty, so I was interested in this brief history (with extensive links) of the annexation of Hawaii, which involved the overthrow of the native monarchy. Women were prominent in the local resistance.

* Moving into the present, a short bibliography on Women in development and IT.

* Finally, a bit of inspired madness. Jacob Berendes is making a stuffed toy each day for a year. And you won’t find any cute bunnies here.

Since I’ve finally got my scanner working again after the move (and I hope the printer, although I haven’t been game to try that yet), and having just stumbled across more Aleppo pictures (an earlier set was posted here and here), I thought I’d share some of my pics from the wonderful bazaar in the city. (And that adjective is being applied by a person who hates “normal” shopping.)

But shopping in London is never like this ….

It was in a shop like the last that I bought one of my favourite pieces of jewelry, a necklace containing an Australian 50 cent coin of the Queen’s silver jubilee (1977). There’s nothing special about the coin in Australia – you might easily get it in change some time, but in Aleppo it must have seemed something special, and was set in a very fancy silver setting, with a heavy chain. I had to bargain very hard indeed to get it down to a price I was prepared to pay.

* This is also the first time I’ve used the new Blogger photo tool. I’d appreciate a quick note on how this displays on your browser.

NB: If you are thinking of using these, or any other pictures on the site, please note the terms of the Creative Commons Licence, at the bottom of the blogroll.

Well it wasn’t how I was going to spend the day, but after Amazon’s delivery man (or rather Royal Mail’s) had stuffed a card through more door and ran away early today, I went to pick up Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince from the parcel office, and thought “what the hell”. It was a gorgeous day for sitting in the sunshine in a pub garden with a Pimms (tried it today, once was enough) enjoying an unchallenging but entertaining read.

Furthermore, it is wonderful to think that tens of thousands of people, of all ages, all around the world, were doing the same today. The hype does get a bit wearing, but the fact that the world is getting this excited about a book can only be a good thing.

On most levels, The Half-Blood Prince is more of the same old Potter. The standard of writing is as before: simple and a bit clunky – how you’d love to get in as an editor to tighten it up and straighten it out; the story lines are getting a bit repetitive in their twists and turns – one lot of magic seems much like another.

But the story has moved on with the age of its characters. It does end with a funeral, with the emotions of those watching fully described (no don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you who is interned), although there seems to be less gory action than in The Order of the Phoenix.

Boy-girl relationships too are a large part of the story (which is I fear certainly going to put off boy readers). These are, however, curious. In their depiction of early teen, confused, messy, lasting days or weeks, the form seems accurate, but they are curiously bloodless and passionless. That might, from a charitable view, be a deliberate attempt not to lose the younger readers, but I’m not sure it will work.

What is very different this time is a distinctly political tint. Most younger readers are going to be puzzled by the opening scene, not Privet Drive and the unlovely but entertaining Dursleys, but what looks very much like No 10 Downing Street, where the Prime Minister is waiting anxiously after a terrible week. Then he’s interrupted by his “magic” (and of course more powerful) compatriot, the Minister for Magic, or rather the former one, who’s just fallen in a political coup:

“Fudge was looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder, and greyer, and his face had a crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in politicians before, and it never boded well.”

That sounds very like descriptions of Tony Blair during his recent bad patches, and the Prime Minister waiting hopelessly in No 10 while waiting for a more powerful government to tell him what is going on and what he should do – well the comparisons are obvious.

That continues even when we finally get to Privet Drive, where a purple leaflet lies on the floor of Harry’s room, titled “Protecting Your Home and Family Against Dark Forces”. It suggests a collection of obvious or ridiculous safety measures, much like the ones the British Government sent thudding through our letterboxes after 9/11.

It is gently mocked soon after by Dumbledore:

“I received one myself,” said Dumbledore, still smiling. “Did you find it useful?”
“Not really.”
“No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favourite flavour of jam to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore, and not an imposter.”
“I didn’t …,” Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or not.
“For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry … although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam-preferences before impersonating myself.”

The political references continue, on a lower key, through the rest of the book; the new Minister for Magic, effectively the magic world’s prime minister or president, keeps trying to enlist, by devious means that Harry immediately sees through, his support to shore up the government’s position. It is suggested that he might just be seen going in and out of the ministry a couple of times, in a classically Alastair Campbell-style piece of spin.

Harry is even showing a nascent political sensibility. When tackled by the minister to become his instrument of spin he keeps returning to Stan Stunpike, the Night Bus conductor, who’s been imprisoned for months even though everyone is sure his links to the dark forces were pure adolescent boasting. Almost the last action of the book is a confrontation between the minister and Harry:

“So,” said Scrimgeour, his voice cold now, “the request I made of you at Christmas -”
“What request? Oh yeah … the one where I tell the world what a great job you’re doing in exchange for -”
“-for raising everyone’s morale!” snapped Scrimgeour.
Harry considered him for a moment.
“Released Stan Stunpike yet?”
Scrimgeour turned a nasty purple colour highly reminiscent of Uncle Vernon.
“I see you are -”
“Dumbledore’s man through and through,” said Harry. “That’s right.”

This is a new J.K. Rowling, and an interesting one: a satirical novel for grown-ups from her might be an interesting read. Having reached the penultimate book in the planned series, it is possible to start to imagine a writing life for Rowling after Harry Potter. There are just faint hints in this novel that if she can branch out, break away from the boy wizard’s spell, the results might be worth waiting for.

I’m reading a fascinating book about the evolution of human consciousness at present (more on that soon), but I did have to wonder about its curious pathways.

After lighting a candle last night I stood holding a match, wondering if it was OK to put in my new wormery. Nice to know how your brain can come up with the oddest of formulations.

On the wormery, I splashed out, after having the “garbage-bin” sort, which worked fine, but required a very messy process to dig out the compost from the bottom, with a flash tray sort, which I bought from the Green Gardener. (No I don’t get commission.)

So now I’ve got lots of fat, happy-looking worms on the balcony munching away on celery leaves.

But does anyone know about matches?

To a talk last night on Bleeding Heart Yard (a small shared courtyard off Greville St in Clerkenwell). It is at the edge of the area known as Hatton Garden, for it was the yard of the palace of the Bishops of Ely, planted to make an earthly model of the Garden of Eden. At least it was the bishops’, until Kit (later Sir Christopher) Hatton, one of the many favourites of Queen Elizabeth I, persuaded her to ensure he got possession of half of the palace and most of the garden.

There’s a picture here if you scroll down)of what it looks like today, but the talk focused on the Victorians’ view of it. They were typically excited by its name, but had already forgotten the earlier legends that were attached to it.

Some thought that it was named for a plant, known as bleeding heart vine that had grown profusely in this part of the Hattons’ garden; others that there’d been a pre-Reformation pub on the site with a sign showing the Holy Virgin’s heart pierced by five swords (not something that would make me go into a pub personally) still others that a young maiden had been locked away from her lover here until she had pined away for want of him.

But the real origin of the tale seems to have been an account (wholly fictitious) of the death of Lady Hatton, the wife of the second Sir Christopher Hatton to own the house (he’d been adopted by his uncle and taken the name). This was rediscovered by “Thomas Ingoldsby” (the pen name of Rev. Richard H. Barham), a friend of Dickins, whose Fireside Family stories were rollicking versions of traditional tales.

This has Lady Hatton making a pact with the devil to win her husband’s hand, with the inevitable ending seven years later ….

Of poor Lady Hatton, it’s needless to say,
No traces have ever been found to this day,
Or the terrible dancer who whisk’d her away;
But out in the court-yard — and just in that part
Where the pump stands — lay bleeding a LARGE HUMAN HEART!
And sundry large stains
Of blood and of brains,
Which had not been wash’d off notwithstanding the rains,
Appear’d on the wood, and the handle, and chains,
As if somebody’s head with a very hard thump,
Had been recently knock’d on the top of the pump.

(An alternative version of this tale blames the Spanish ambassador – in English terms then more or less the same as the devil.)

The poem is here and there’s a couple more of the Ingoldsby Legends here.

You might wonder why Lady Hatton, who actually died peacefully in her bed, was the subject of this tale; well she was a strong-minded woman who lived for decades in a state of public war with her husband – perfect material for a bit of witch-slander.

If that seems a depressing note to end on, well think of a more cheerful Victorian tale for the Yard; some Italian street musicians who lived there were looking for an easier life, so they trained animals and boys to work together, then leased the animals to the boys for “busking/begging” on the streets.

The price list (per day):
Porcupine 4 shillings
Monkey 2 shillings
Monkey in uniform 3 shillings
Dog and money 3 shillings (the monkey rode on the dog’s back)
It is said that some boys made the princely sum of 6 or 7 shillings a day – although whether this was clear profit or before expenses is not clear.

More on this series of walks/talks can be found here.